Page 114 of The Wrong Wife

Inside, candlelight dances along frescoed walls; the air is cool, scented with polished marble and old wood.

No printed menus wait on the table—only crisp white linens, polished silverware arranged like soldiers at attention, and a hushed staff gliding between tables.

The head waiter comes all but running. “Signorina Alighieri. It’s a pleasure.”

They do the air kissing business, and I’m not surprised Alba knows everyone here as well—especially since she heads all hospitality, including this restaurant, for the House of Alighieri.

We are barely seated when the chef—he’s got two Michelin stars and manages the kitchens at both Da Noi and the flagship Ristorante Palazzo Alighieri—all but falls over himself to reach Alba.

“Chef Prospero. Come stai?”

Prospero Perez—whose reputation for tyranny in the kitchen is legendary, a man who worships hierarchy and legacy as if they were endangered species—steps forward and hugs her.

“Alba, bambina mia, how wonderful to see you! ”

I’m not surprised any longer at how everyone, man and woman, is captivated by Alba. It’s her bubbly energy and authenticity that draw people to her, and her integrity keeps them with her.

He tells us that we’re having crudo di ricciola with spiced fennel juice and traditional sweet-and-sour sardines for an appetizer, and fagottello pasta with Morlacco cheese, grilled eel, and Mantuan pumpkin for the main course. He will, of course, make sure Alba is served her favorite dessert, which I learn is red-wine-poached pears with zabagione.

When we’re alone, we talk about the company—the usual business small talk. How is that project? And how did that problem get solved?

Then we fall silent for a while as we eat, enjoying the amazing food companionably, the only sound the occasional clink of porcelain.

Alba has a rare gift of making stillness feel purposeful, not strained.

She lets out a moan after taking her first bite of the dessert, which I eschewed for a double espresso.

Prospero doesn’t give two shits about me, even though I am the CEO of the company, and doesn’t care if I didn’t eat the dessert he made with his own hands. But I think if Alba had refused him, he’d have declared war on the entire House of Alighieri.

After a moment, she sets her fork down, the tines catching the candlelight.

“So,” she begins, voice smoothing over the tablecloth. “You’ve been talking to several winemakers.”

The question hangs between us like a suspended note.

Cazzo! How does she know?

“I sit on committees you don’t,” she continues evenly. “And I read between lines you pretend aren’t there. ”

I draw in a slow breath. “What else have you read…ah…between the lines?”

Her brow knits, sharp as carved marble. “Matteo is retiring. He’s been threatening to do so for a couple of years now. But he’s been holding off until he can establish Alessia to succeed him. She’s been running Pietra Alta for years, even if he’s had the title of winemaker there. Now, it’s officially hers.”

“Your father⁠—”

“Will most definitely burn the vineyard to the ground before he hands Alessia authority he doesn’t control,” she finishes.

I pause, taken aback by her bluntness. Alessia would never phrase an opinion so nakedly, so close to the bone. Alba has no such restraint. Where her sister edits, Alba delivers with a hammer blow.

I choose each word of my response, aware of their weight. “So, you understand why I need to interview winemakers.”

“I do.”

Relief lasts but a few seconds because she adds, “And so will Alessia, but she has no clue about any of it, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t.” But neither does Alba know about Matteo’s health. That is a closely-guarded secret, known only by Cesare, Renzo, and me.

She leans back, her hands resting on the velvet-covered armrests of her chair. “What exactly are you afraid of?”