I look at him puzzled for half a second and then laughter splutters out of me. “And you’re calling me a love sick fool?”
“I have work,” he replies and walks away brusquely, slamming the door of my office on his way out.
I wonder how Alessia will feel about Renzo and Toni in a relationship.
Are they sleeping together?
Am I supposed to do something because Toni’s like a sister to me, too?
I wish I could talk to Alessia about this. She’d know what to do. But when I call her she doesn’t pick up and the rejection cuts straight to the bone, each and every time.
Since I have no wife to talk to or spend time with these days, after work I wander through Florence without aim.
The city’s walls glow as streetlamps blink on. I smell warm bread from nearby ovens, centuries of history seeping from every crack in the pavement. Tourists linger by the Ponte Vecchio where an amateur violinist struggles throughO Sole Mio, each bow-stroke cringing against the river’s gentle lapping.
I should drink it in, bad music and all, instead, my heart is in Bolgheri where red earth clings beneath boots, gnarled vines reach for the sky without a whisper of apology, caring only for sunshine and patience, and my wife stands strong, unbowed, never asking me to rescue her but expecting me to stand with her, which I didn’t.
My phone rings. I answer immediately when I see it’s Matteo.
“How are you doing?” I say in greeting.
“Circling the drain.”
“Cristo, Matteo!” I choke out a laugh.
“She called you yet?” I ask because I warned him that motherfucking Davide Fontana decided to show off in frontof the Alighieri sisters, spilling the beans about Matteo’s health.
“No. She’s probably very angry.”
“You called her?”
“No.”
“Why?” I ask perplexed.
“She’s probably very angry. It’s better to give her time.”
I sigh. “Matteo, you’re dying, you don’t have time.”
He chuckles, his voice laced with fatigue and wry pride. “I know. And now she knows. She’ll call me. I think in a day or two. She only found out a couple of days ago. And I’m not dying for a while.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“She’s hurt.”
“I know,” I whisper.
We veer away from the difficult and move onto the wine talk and trade notes on fermentation curves, maceration times, the gamble of a warm autumn.
But ultimately, we come back to Alessia because she’s what tethers us to one another.
“I should’ve fought harder for her.” He sighs deep enough to stir dust in my chest.
I stop in the middle of the street. “With Cesare?”
“Yes.” His laugh has no humor. “Cesare is my closest friend, and yet I can’t sway him, not on this. I told myself patience was a strategy—wait for Cesare to loosen his grip. But I’ll have to wait until he dies, and I’m running out of time.”
My jaw clenches. “Why do you fear him?”
