Page 140 of The Wrong Wife

“Money is not power, and the CEO of the House of Alighieri, like the head winemaker of the company, has power.”

“So we’re chasing power?”

“Holding on to it,” he drawls. “But you don’t have to make my mistakes. Be braver than I was, Nico.”

“Even if it costs me everything?”

“What’s more important to you? Your wife or your job?”

“Alessia,” I say immediately.

“You have your answer.”

I do, and so the next morning at work, I shift tactics as I plan without fear of losing the job that I thought I sold my family’s company—which I built into a powerhouse—and my own marital freedom for.

I scrutinize approvals.

I stall sign-offs.

In meetings, I ask Cesare—politely, persistently—to explain decisions I once accepted without question.

After a meeting, Renzo confronts me. “What are you doing?”

“Working to dismantle the existing power structure,” I tell him honestly and then add, “If I lose my job or rather when I lose my job, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

He gives me a measured look. “Don’t be an asshole and don’t insult me. If you lose your job, you and I can both book that ticket to Bali and enjoy a month off on the beach.”

I grin.

“Will Toni be joining us?” I ask, amused,

“Vaffanculo,” he swears and walks away.

Cesare is also noticing the changes. “Who’s next if not Fontana?” he presses every time he sees me.

He didn’t like it that I nixed Davide Fontana, but when I told him what the asshole pulled, Cesare didn’t press further. No one, including Cesare, likes a showoff who spills secrets, and Matteo’s health situation was one, told to him only because he was interviewing for an important job and only after he signed a fucking NDA, not that we were going to challenge him and make it a public issue.

Four weeks after the debacle, as I like to call it, I get a message from Alessia.

I’m alone in my apartment, pouring a wine my wife crafted three vintages ago.

Alessia: I’m going to see Matteo this Saturday. Will you come along?

I reply immediately, autocorrect making a mess of my reply, so I have to retype several times before I can send it.

Me: Yes. I’ll come to Pietra Alta on Friday.

Alessia: Come on Saturday morning.

Subtext: You’re not welcome to spend the night here.

Me: I’ll be there.

Alessia: Thank you.

Me: Please don’t thank me, cara, not for this.

And that’s where the conversation ends.