Page 154 of The Wrong Vintage
Not hell. Not heaven. Just the long, difficult climb in between.
Very apropos.
“No, I haven’t talked to Costa.”
“Why?”
“Because my wife’s close friend—and mine…and yours—just died. I haven’t had the time to deal with it.” My words aren’t loud, almost hushed, and yet they carry in the high-ceilinged room. “May I remind you that we are at Matteo’s funeral reception?”
He turns now and faces me, unperturbed by my bluntness. “Matteo was very good at his job.”
“You know who else is very good at their job?”
He sneers, his eyes narrowing. “You think I don’t know why you’re stalling? You think I don’t know what Matteo wanted? Boy, I’ve been playing political games since before you were in diapers.” His voice is the scrape of metal on stone.
“I don’t know, Cesare, what it is that you think you know?” I ask languidly, not letting him intimidate me.
He’s spoiled. Gotten too used to everyone kissing his ass, me included, even if I didn’t ever pucker up properly or quickly enough. Still, I’m done being his whipping boy, waiting for the right time to gently push him out of his place of power.
“I know that we cannot afford a gap,” he replies briskly. “The market is already jittery. Distributors are calling. The board will demand answers. We need to announce a successor.”
I draw a slow breath, tasting the faint scent of roses from a bouquet on the ornate center table. “Not today, we don’t.”
His gray eyes, Alessia’s eyes, go sharp and flinty. “Scusi?”
I take a long swallow of my drink. “I’m not rushing this.”
“What does that mean?” The threat in his voice is like asharpened knife. But I’m out of fucks, so he can do whatever he wants.
“I’m going to take my time, Cesare, out of respect for Matteo and out of good business sense. Davide is a fucking clown and would be a terrible choice. So, no, I’m not going to rush.”
“Respect doesn’t run a company,” he shouts. “We are not a monastery. We are a business.”
“We are a wine house,” I correct gently, “and we just lost its steward.”
His jaw clenches, the muscles beneath his skin taut as bowstrings. “Which is precisely why sentimentality is dangerous.”
I lace my fingers in front of me to still their tremor. Beyond the window, crows wheel over the rooftops. “Alessia will step in.”
That’s my other plan—Plan B, as they call it in America. She takes over now in an interim capacity and then stays in the job forever.
Cesare lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“She already has taken over, whether you like it or not,” I remark. “In practice, she’s been running Pietra Alta for years—overseeing the harvest, tending the vinification vats, supervising every coop and barrel. The wines speak for themselves. And since Matteo fell ill, she’s been working with other winemakers. Ask Renzo.”
“I don’t need to ask Renzo aboutmybusiness,” he crows and then waves a dismissive hand. “Alessia is the wrong decision. She’s too idealistic. Too feminine.”
I lift my chin. “She’s disciplined. More qualified than any outsider you’re courting.”
He steps forward, his Ferragamo shoes whisperingagainst the marble floor. “Davide Fontana is internationally respected.”
“So is Alessia,” I reply. “The difference is she doesn’t need a public announcement to prove her worth.”
His gaze narrows. “You are confusing marriage with management.”
“No. I’m not.” I set my now-empty glass down right next to Dante’s book about his climb up the Mount of Purgatory. “Youare confusing her gender with competence.”
Cesare comes closer, towering over me. It’s an old power play old white men like him still employ and think it works.
