Page 88 of The Wrong Wife

"Me, too," Alessia agrees on a laugh.

As we get to work, Chiara starts to irritate everyone, especially my wife, because she's out with her phone.

She circles us slowly, snapping photos.

Renzo scowling. Me holding a bin.

"This is excellent social media content," Chiara chirps brightly.

Alessia's jaw tightens. "I'd prefer it if we don't document this."

Chiara ignores her and looks at me with wide eyes. "This is the kind of thing that humanizes you, Nico. Shows you're approachable."

"We're working," Lucia snaps.

Chiara smiles, unbothered. "Exactly. It's authentic."

I know why Alessia is reticent. This is a private moment for her. Her first harvest with me. I get it.

I put my hand up. "No photos, Chiara."

Chiara looks at me, surprised. "I'm just doing my job."

"And I'm setting a boundary,” I say coolly.

There's a beat.

Alessia doesn't look at me—but I can feel how angry she still is, how much she hates Chiara's presence here, like a contaminant she can't rinse away.

Renzo reads the room…or the vineyard, as the case is, precisely.

"Chiara"—he slings an arm around her shoulders—"why don't you come back to Florence with me? You've done enough humanizing for one day."

She bristles. "I'm not finished. "

"Yes, you are," he tells her firmly and pleasantly. "Helicopter's waiting.”

She looks at me, searching for backup.

I don't give it.

"When will you be back in Florence?" she demands.

I can all but hear Alessia's teeth grinding.

"I have no idea," I say casually.

"We have meetings," she says petulantly.

"We have Wi-Fi," Alessia quips.

I wave a hand at Renzo, asking him to get her the fuck out of here, now, before someone gets physically hurt, probably Chiara.

Ten minutes later, they're gone.

The vineyard exhales.

Alessia turns to me slowly. "Why on earth did you bring her?"