“The Alighieris paid handsomely for Cantina Alarico,” my father says. “We are all very comfortable now, thanks to what you built. The family name will live on wine labels,even if the wine is made under the aegis of the House of Alighieri.”
I take a deep breath, relieved that I have my parents' support, which is important to me.
“Thank you, Papà.”
“Now,” he says, voice firm, “go do the right thing. Bravery sometimes comes at a cost—but cowardice always exacts a higher one. And the stain lasts longer.”
We talk a little longer. They tell me how my sister and brother-in-law are doing and scold me for not checking in with her. I promise them that I will.
After the call ends I stay by the window. I know what path I must take even if it terrifies me.
There’s a knock on my door and Renzo sticks his head in. “You tell your folks?”
I nod.
He grins. “Good. Now let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”
I walk with him to the glass-walled conference room perched above the slow, muddy Arno, where the board meets. The whole board is not in session today—in fact the only two board members in the room will be Ilario Russo and me.
Renzo nods at Rio and takes a seat across from him, his sleeves rolled.
Rio is not House of Alighieri staff. He’s the trust lawyer—an external sentinel by design, a role created to ensure the House of Alighieri is protected from itself. The law understands what history has proven again and again: too much power concentrated in too few hands has toppled empires. It was Cesare’s father who established the trust and it’s the Alighieri trust that owns everything: the rolling estates, the vines that stretch across the hills like green oceans, as well as the Alighieri name and logo.
The board governs it.
The chairman stewards it.
And I—the CEO—am only an employee.
Italian family trusts exist for one reason: to prevent kings. To ensure that no single patriarch, no charismatic executive, no brilliant tyrant can drive the legacy into the ground. The trust lawyer answers only to the trust—not to the chairman’s whims, not to the board’s shifting moods, not even to centuries of tradition.
I walk up to Rio, and we shake hands. He’s here because I asked him to come. On the calendar, it simply says business update in case one of Cesare’s people wonders about it. I flirted with the idea of meeting Rio somewhere else and nixed it because that would look even more suspicious.
Rio’s gaze flickers over me with the careful patience of a man who has watched powerful families devour themselves.
He took over his father’s law firm last year, a few months before I was made CEO of the House of Alighieri. In a way, we’re both finding our feet in new jobs that feel too big for us. He’s my age—give or take a couple of years. He’s a big man, muscled like someone who spends too much time in the gym, which he probably does, considering he used to be a professional skier. He even competed at the Turin Olympics and won a bronze medal for Italy.
In all honesty, Rio looks more like a mafia underboss in his tailored suit than a lawyer.
“Well, I’m assuming we’re not here for a business update,” he remarks.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
He grins. “Matteo Rinaldi has all but left his job. Renzo is managing the winemakers right now with help, and I use that term loosely, I believe, from Alessia Alighieri.”
“She’s nothelping—she’s running the show.” Renzo leans back in his chair and studies the trust lawyer. “For someonewho has offices on the other side of the Arno, Rio, you know a lot about what’s going on here.”
“I also know that Davide Fontana was here, and since I didn’t hear from HR, I’m assuming he didn’t get the job,” Rio continues.
I guess we’re all establishing a power structure by showing off what knowledge we have.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Well?” Rio spreads a hand over the desk. “Why am I here?”
“I want to hire Alessia Alighieri as the head winemaker. Matteo has always wanted her to be his successor.”
Rio doesn’t look surprised.
