Page 104 of The Wrong Vintage
I let out a dry laugh. “Because he’s beingDucainstead of Papà—not that he’s ever been a warm and cuddly Papà.”
A part of me is nervous—I’ve always hated confrontations with my father, and this one will be no exception, judging by his tone. Another part of me is curious, unsettled by the question of what I could possibly have done wrong.
I consider calling Matteo, hoping he might offer insight so I’m not walking in blind—but I don’t. It would feel like weakness.
I can handle my father.
“I’ll drive you,” Nico informs me.
I wave a dismissive hand. “No, you won’t. I can handle my father.”
“I’m coming with you.” There is steel in his tone I haven’t heard in a long time—not since our engagement, when he told me that if he ever embarrassed me with any of his extra-marital exploits, it would be unintentional.
I don’t want him there when my father dresses me down. It would be embarrassing. “Nico, he didn’t ask for you.”
“He doesn’t need to. If he has a problem with you that’s got to do with the company, then as CEO, I should be present. If this is personal, as your husband, I need to be present.”
I tuck a stray lock of chestnut hair behind my ear. It’s obvious he wants to support me—no one has ever done that. I stood in front of my sisters. I fought every battle alone. Now my husband wants to stand with me. My breath catches in my throat like a trapped butterfly at the thought.
“I don’t want you to witness whatever he…” I finally admit.
“Dolcezza, there is no embarrassment between us, okay?” he whispers, cupping my cheek. “He requests your presence, then?—”
“It’s not a request he’s making, Nico.”
He chuckles. “Neither am I. We go together.”
The drive north pulls us away from the sun-drenched openness of Bolgheri’s rolling vineyards into tighter, more forbidding terrain.
The roads narrow to ribbons as we climb—ancient paths laid centuries before automobiles were imagined—where tour buses can’t pass and two vehicles meet only by tense negotiation.
Weathered limestone walls press close enough to touch. Gnarled cypress roots buckle the crumbling asphalt like arthritic knuckles, the untamed Tuscan land asserting its terms rather than accommodating human intrusion.
Suvereto appears without spectacle, gathered tightly behind medieval walls the color of burnt honey; its terracotta-roofed buildings stack with the quiet confidence of a town that never needed to expand to matter.
Our ancestral house sits just beyond the historic core, one of the meticulously restored structures that once belonged to the Alighieri family, from a time when titles were earned through land and strategic marriages rather than corporate boards and quarterly balance sheets.
The house isn’t a winery. There are no oak barrels, no verdant vines in view—only weathered stone, wrought iron, and palpable history.
Thick limestone walls stand bleached bone-pale by centuries of merciless Mediterranean sun.
Shuttered windows, painted a faded forest green, sit deep in the imposing façade. It’s a place meant to endure wars and plagues, not to charm casual visitors.
Gravel snaps like brittle bones under our tires as we pull into the courtyard. The sound ricochets off the ancient walls.
This is not a place designed for welcome or comfort; it’s a place built for judgment and correction.
Inside, the air is cool and faintly mineral, carrying the scent of old plaster, beeswax polish, and generations of Alighieri pride.
Thesaloneis spare but imposing—high vaulted ceilings crossed with chestnut beams blackened by centuries of hearth smoke, terracotta floors worn smooth and uneven by endless Alighieri footsteps.
The art is curated to highlight how old the family is and how long we have been acquiring original works that would fetch a very pretty penny at auction.
The housekeeper meets us in the entrance hallway and takes our coats, asks if we’d like something to drink or eat.
We decline.
I want to get done with whatever is supposed to happen and go back to the safe and secure embrace of Pietra Alta.
