Page 176 of The Wrong Vintage
I hold his gaze with a winemaker’s patience and a judge’s certainty. “I would preserve the House of Alighieri. There is a difference.”
He lifts his chin.
But I’m not here to negotiate in good faith—so I lay out my terms with the precision of a contract.
“You retain Nico as CEO. You name me Head Winemaker of the House of Alighieri. You herald it as the first woman in our lineage to command the barrels and the vines, position it as you being progressive, visionary, and historic.” I pause, letting him take the time to recognize the knife I sharpen.
He clenches his jaw. “I don’t respond well to?—"
I speak over him. “Or my sisters and I will revoke our proxy votes, publicly, at once. We’ll let the press feast on the schism in the family, let analysts sniff out the rot beneath the stones, let investors question what other skeletons lurk in the cellars of the House of Alighieri.”
“You dare?—"
“You survive, Papà, and rule,” I cut him off without hesitation. “Or you become irrelevant.”
For the first time, I see fear—or perhaps mortality—flash across his face.
He studies me, grief and calculation warring in his gaze.
“You think you can win against me?”
I look into his eyes, let him see that I’m not fucking around. “Yes, I can, with my sisters. And you know it.”
A long silence settles.
“He cheats on you, and you fight for him?” he grits out.
I smile. “Papà, that kind of mendacity is beneath you.”
He looks away as if annoyed with himself. “You’re right. I have no idea if he’s been…wandering.” He throws his hands up in the air in a gesture that is intensely him. “But I do know that he loves you. At least he says he does.”
I tilt my head. “He is ready to step down as CEO. In fact, I think he’s packing up his office right now in preparation for the meeting this Friday, where he thinks he knows what you’re going to do.”
Papà looks at the papers in front of him. I don’t know what they are, and I don’t bother to find out.
He looks up at me. “I can make a case that he’s incompetent.”
“I know the data you have. I will counter it with ease.” I lean back in the leather chair and add lazily, "In the press.”
Fury flashes in his eyes. “You’d drag the House of Alighieri through the tabloid mud?’
“If you hurt my husband, yes.”
“Does the family name mean so little to you?”
“The Alighieri name will recover.” I give him a pointed look. “Youwon’t.”
In families like ours—monied, entrenched in legacy—there comes a moment when one generation understands itstime is over, and the future, impatient and relentless, is already snapping at its heels.
For Papà, this is that moment.
He lets out a snort and looks out of the mullioned windows for a moment. Then, as if he’s made a decision, he turns back to me. “How will I spin this as a victory?”
I suppress a smile. Duca Alighieri is, at the end of the day, a survivor and, as Matteo would say, “A reasonable businessman.”
“By calling it continuity.”
He raises an eyebrow.
