Page 73 of The Wrong Vintage
The Palazzo Alighieri closes around me the way it always has, marble and history pressing in, reminding me where power lives and how it’s exercised.
I spend two nights here now, sometimes three, before escaping to Bolgheri, where mornings begin with sun and soil and…my wife.
There’s a knock on my office door, and it opens when I assent to the intrusion. It’s my executive assistant.
“TheDucawants you in his office.”
I frown. I just had a meeting with Cesare yesterday, and we don’t have anything on the books.
“He says it’s urgent,” she insists. “Ah…and he wants you there as well,SignorVitale.”
Renzo stands up. “Well, the Duke summons, so we’d better get going.”
Cesare is at his desk, and I’m struck once again by how he carries himself so differently from Alessia. He’s arrogant and has a very high opinion of himself. Most people who meet him don’t like him much. Alessia is the exact opposite.
He gestures for us to take a seat, and we do in the two comfortable leather guest chairs across from him.
“I have just…I have just received a call from Matteo Rinaldi.” His voice shakes a little. I’ve never heard that before.
We both wait.
He looks away from us and at the city of Florence that shines outside the large windows of his office. “He’s dying.”
Fuck!
Alessia will be heartbroken is my first thought. She thinks of Matteo as a father, and from what I've seen, he’s been more of that to her than Cesare ever has.
“Matteo and I…we’ve known each other for over thirty years.” Cesare turns now to look at me, and there’s pain etched on his face. “He’s my brother in every way other than blood.”
It’s incongruous to see a man like Cesare so emotional.
“What’s wrong?” Renzo asks.
Cesare takes a deep breath. “Pancreatic cancer. He…they found out two months ago and…they don’t recommend treatment. It’s spread. Treatment will…it’s too late.”
His hands are clenched.
“Alessia knows?” I ask because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. If she did, she’d have called me.
He shakes his head. “He hasn’t told anyone but me.” He bangs his hand hard on the table. “Accidenti! Damn it!”
“Madonna santa,” Renzo mutters. “Holy mother of God!”
“His wife passed away from breast cancer three years ago. It crushed him. At least”—he pauses as if it’s too hard to speak—“she isn’t there to see him…wither away.”
“Cesare, I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “So very sorry.”
There’s a stretch of silence, and as if something snaps in him, Cesare sits up and clears his throat. “He’s going to reduce his hours. We’ve talked about it. He will wait a month or so and tell others.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Is Alessia now an “other” to Matteo? No, I don’t believe it. If he isn’t telling her, it’s because he loves her and doesn’t want to burden her. I decide then and there that I’ll convince him to talk to her. Alessia will be heartbroken if she finds out later, and I can’t tell her, not until Matteo gives me permission to do so.
“How can we help him?” I ask.
Cesare shakes his head. There’s a hollow ache in his eyes when he looks at me. “Not even God can help him. The House of Alighieri needs help. We need a plan.”
“For his replacement,” Renzo deduces, as do I.
