Page 124 of The Wrong Vintage
“Alessia Alighieri,” he says warmly, as though we’re old friends. “What a pleasure.”
I force a polite smile. “Davide.”
I introduce him to Alba but before I can move on to the others, he decides to kiss her ass.
“Alba, I have heard a lot about you and your work. Your tasting rooms and restaurants have won awards.”
“Thanks,” she says flatly and goes back to her dessert. She doesn’t like Fontana. No surprise there. Alba doesn’t like pretentious people.
He inclines his head to Toni, then—finally—his eyes flick to Nico and Renzo with great satisfaction.
“We meet again,” he says, glancing meaningfully at Nico. “You were so kind to take the time to speak with me this afternoon.”
I feel it before I fully understand it—the subtle tightening in my chest, the way the room seems to tilt just afraction off-center, like a chair with one leg shorter than the others.
And then, slowly, as Fontana’s oily confidence spreads across the table, it clicks.
The meeting this afternoon was with Fontana. And I can imagine very well what it was about and why it was hush-hush.
“Of course,” Nico says tightly. “But we can talk again later. We’re having a family dinner now.”
He’s a private man. He doesn’t like public scenes, and he definitely doesn’t like that Davide Fontana has crossed the restaurant to intrude on something personal. He also doesn’t like—can’t like—that I now know what he’s been hiding.
“Ah, yes, you’re married to Alessia here.” Fontana is completely oblivious to the tension that’s rippling across the table like a sudden chill. The man cannot read a room.
Renzo pushes back his chair and rises smoothly, already moving to intercept him. That’s his role, isn’t it? Nico’s right hand.
Nico, the CEO, is interviewing winemakers to succeed Matteo, who is obviously retiring. That much is clear.
But Matteo didn’t tell me, and that is a blow.
Neither did Nico, and that hurts worse.
Why didn’t he? Did he think I’d blame him for hiring a new winemaker? If he hires this idiot, I absolutely will—but that isn’t the point, is it?
The truth is simpler and crueler.
Despite what Matteo wants, despite my years in the vines, despite my results, Papà will never install me as Head Winemaker of the House of Alighieri.
It’s a dream, yes—but not one I believe can exist in my father’s lifetime.
Not because I’m not good enough—I am. But because myfather is a patriarchal crone who would rather burn the house down than hand its future to his daughter.
I turn to see Alba, who is looking at me with regret.
She knows.
And suddenly, sitting here with wine in my glass and a stranger smiling too close, I understand exactly how alone I’ve been in this all along.
“Cara,” Nico’s voice seems far away, like it’s coming from outer space and it’s not quite clear, not with the ringing in my ears.
Fontana makes a tut-tut sound. “I know it’s hard for the family…what with Matteo not being well.”
"What?” Toni squeaks.
“Davide, may I walk you back to your table,” Renzo keeps his tone neutral but I think he wants to beat the living daylights out of the man.
The famed winemaker glares at Renzo. “Scusi?”
