Page 108 of The Wrong Vintage
“I don’t want to work around my father. I want honesty. I want?—"
“You didn’t marry me for honesty,” Nico cuts me off gently.
The truth of it hurts more than an accusation ever could.
“You married me because that’s how you stayed at Pietra Alta,” he continues. “You know his power. I know it, too. Why would I charge in blind?”
He isn’t wrong, and isn’t that the tragedy?
“I don’t need you to fight for me,” I insist. “But I need to know you’re on my side.”
“I am.” He comes to me, puts his hands on my shoulders. “I am always on your side.”
I nod, because pushing further feels dangerous. Because wanting more feels like asking for something I’m not allowed to have.
Is this my marriage now? A half-life where I keep my mouth shut, as I do with my father?
Will Nico ever step out of the shadows he thinks are keeping me safe?
25
NICO
I am furious with Cesare.
That asshole didn’t summon Alessia because of barrels. I knew it the moment he opened his mouth and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
The audit.
The scolding.
The binder theatrics.
All of it was scaffolding.
What he wanted was simpler, uglier, and far more effective—to show me the consequence of ignoring his calls to hire a new winemaker from his approved list.
I’ve been canceling interviews, dragging my feet, and he finally decided it was time to flex.
To remind me who still has leverage.
To show me that Alessia can be pulled out of her vineyard like a misbehaving child. That her authority is provisional. That her brilliance can be flattened into a line item with the right pressure applied in the right place.
And worse—to showherthat when it comes down to it, Iwill smooth things over instead of standing in front of her and taking the blow.
I replay the moment as we drive away from Suvereto, the narrow road unwinding in my headlights like a quiet accusation.
Guardrails. I said the word like it was neutral, like it wasn’t a leash.
Alessia sits beside me, spine straight, hands folded in her lap—the posture she adopts when she’s hurt but refuses to bleed where anyone can see it. She hasn’t looked at me since we left the house.
I tell myself I did the right thing.
Cesare was already primed for war. If I’d challenged him outright—if I’d defended her the way every instinct in me screamed to—he would have escalated. He would have doubled down. He would have done what he’s been threatening without ever saying it aloud.
He would have forced my hand.
He’s been telling me for months now.
