Page 97 of The Wrong Vintage
He looks at me skeptically. “Whatever you say,capo.”
They’ve been calling me “boss” ever since Alessia introduced me as the big boss of the House of Alighieri. No one here gives a damn about my title—if anything, it’s made me fair game. And judging by the way they’re roasting me, the vines clearly outrank the CEO.
Sergiu’s friend, Florin, looks me up and down. He snorts, grabs a crate, and carries it off effortlessly. The man has at least fifteen years on me, and he picks up the crates and bins like they weigh nothing.
Show-off.
Alessia manages the whole process—harvest to cellar—with alacrity, like she was born to do it. She stays with the crew during harvest and then with them in the cellar as they sort and fill the fermenters. Her dedication underscores her skill as a leader.
I’ve worked in vineyards where the workers wonder where the fuck the winemaker is. Not here. They know because she works with them—puts in the backbreaking labor.
I watch as Alessia moves methodically through Block C, pruning shears gleaming in the light. She jerks her head slightly, tasting a berry on the vine, brow furrowed in concentration. When she speaks, her voice is low but carries across the rows.
“Block D needs a longer break—rotate them out in ten. They’re rushing and bruising fruit.”
Lucia, who’s leaning against a wooden post, nods. “Copy that,” she says before speaking into her radio in…Romanian?
Apparently, she speaks Romanian.
I have learned that my wife is adept at several languages—French and Italian, certainly, but also Spanish and Afrikaans, because she spent a summer working in South Africa.
Within minutes, there’s a whisper of movement, and the pickers in D slow down.
Alessia ducks under a vine, snips a cluster with a single decisive cut, and drops it into a bin.
A young man hesitates beside her, fingers hovering over a ripe bunch as if it’s made of glass.
Giorgio, I think is his name.
He’s one of the locals, here to learn. In most vineyards of this caliber, an inexperienced picker would not be allowed in, but Alessia is not mostanything. She’s teamed Giorgio up with a proficient picker so he can learn.
Alessia kneels, guiding his wrist. She demonstrates the slice—quick, fluid.
“You don’t force it,” she instructs. “Let the vine tell you where to cut.”
He tries again. The stems part cleanly. She smiles, a quick upturn of her lips. “Perfetto.”
The boy straightens, his eyes bright with triumph and his cheeks flushed because he has a crush on my wife.
She checks bins for weight, tastes grapes, jots notes on her phone.
She glances up at the stone-walled winery in the distance, then back to the field, asking Edam about barrel temperatures, nodding at Hortensio’s report on ambient cellar heat.
“Water break,” she calls. “Cinque minuti—ten minutes—no exceptions.”
It’s welcome respite, and everyone complies. The last thing we need is someone collapsing from dehydration.
By noon, my shirt clings to me like a second skin, and my arms shake. I set down a crate so hard the grapes bounce. Alessia appears at my side almost instantly.
“You okay?” she asks, worry flickering in her dark eyes.
“Define okay,” I rasp, chest heaving.
Her lips curve. “Better than Renzo was when he tried. He blamed his shoes after twenty minutes.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
She hands me a bottle of water. I take it and revel in the cool relief sliding down my throat.
