Page 116 of The Wrong Vintage
“Bywe, you mean your sisters and you?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Respect isn’t armor. It’s a courtesy. And Cesare doesn’t play by that rule.”
She looks down at her hands, the light revealing the faintest tremor in her fingers. When she meets my eyes again, her expression softens.
“Protect her,” she pleads, her voice almost a whisper.
“I am. I promise.”
“Not while you’re defending your job,” Alba replies gently. “Protect her the way she protected us.”
Her words strike me silent.
“She didn’t tell you, did she? About our childhood?”
“No.”
She chuckles. “Alessia would think it’s vulgar to talk about what you did for your family, which is your duty.”
I smile at that very correct assessment. “I know she raised you.”
“Yes, she did.” Alba’s eyes moisten with emotion. “Toni was twelve…she wanted to quit piano classes. Papà was against that. A good girl knows how to play the piano, but it clashed with Toni’s football practice.”
“Alessia stood between Cesare and Toni.”
Alba lets out a long exhale. “That’s one way of putting it; the other is how she stood in front of Toni and got yelled at for days, even when Toni wasn’t there.”
This doesn’t surprise me. This is who my wife is. Kind. Loyal. Sweet.
I miss her. So fucking much.
“And me,” Alba adds, “when I chose hospitality over finance. He sneered at frivolity. Alessia took the heat. She was supposed to,” her breath hitches, “take over the Chianti Classico, but she gave it up. He made her. I didn’t know it until…doesn’t matter. By the time I found out it was too late.”
My chest caves like it can’t hold the weight.
He took things away from her.
And now he’s making me do the same.
Fucking Cesare!
Guilt that I’ve neatly packaged and justified unravels in my chest.
“She’s the quiet one.” Alba looks straight at me. “But she’s the strong one. She absorbs so others don’t have to. She always has.”
“What do you want me to do?” I murmur, staring at the linen.
Alba sighs, shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.” Then she straightens, looks me in the eye. “But I know that she deserves a future that isn’t crushed by someone seeking symbolic victory instead of doing the right thing.”
She reaches across the table, brushing my wrist with a gentle firmness—a sister’s plea. “I’ve always wanted her to have someone who loves her—not someone who rescues her, but someone who stays.”
My throat tightens. “I love her,” I admit, then let out a rough, humorless laugh.
“Why do you love her?” Alba demands, her challenge clear.
I don’t hesitate. I know the truth. Hers and mine. “Because she’s the most beautiful, kind, and capable woman I know.”
