“You keep that bitch away from me and mine, got it?” she snarls.
“Renzo’s handling it. She reports to him now.”
“Why does she still work here when she tried to mess with us?” she demands, punctuating each word with another poke.
I catch her finger, lift her hand, and press a kiss to her knuckle. “I love you,cara, but I can’t fire every woman who wants me. If I did that, we’d have hardly any employees left at the House of Alighieri.”
Behind me, I hear Alba snort and Toni mutter, “Merda, he’s in so much trouble.”
“You have some big, hairy balls, Niccolò.” Alessia steps back, eyes blazing,butshe’s fighting a smile.
Good. She needs a little light after the hell of the past weeks.
“Big, yes,” I agree solemnly. “But hairy? No.”
“He manscapes?” Toni asks brightly.
And just like that, heat floods my face.
Me. Nico Alarico. Blushing.
What has the world come to!
“Maybe he’ll drop his pants, and you can see for yourself,” Alessia says sweetly—then turns on her heel and saunters away.
“She’s something when she’s angry,” Alba remarks, sliding her hand through the crook of my right arm.
“Not often,” Toni adds, looping her arm through my left. “But when she is? It’s a full production.”
I look down at my two sisters-in-law hanging off me.
“Ladies, can I get you a drink?” I offer.
“Absolutely,” Toni replies pertly. “And then you can tell us all about your manscaping regimen.”
They walk me away, laughing, while I attempt—and fail—to form a coherent reply.
36
ALESSIA
It’s Toni who tells us.
Of course, it is because she’s canoodling with Renzo, but she won’t admit it.
Am I worried? Hell, yes.
Renzo is like how Nico used to be. He’s always withsomewoman. He’s experienced. Ten years older than Toni. My baby sister is all bluster and fire, but she’s an innocent.
Butshe’s also twenty-three, and I’m not her mother, no matter how much I feel like I am. I have to believe I raised her right, that she knows who she is and who Renzo is, and that she will make the right choices.
She arrives in Pietra Alta, driving her Maserati. I don’t ask her how many tickets she gets because I know she does. In Italy, they take pictures—it’s not somepoliziottostopping you on the motorway asking for your driver’s license and registration.
She walks in aroundaperitivo,her eyes glowing with a secret thrill.
Alba and I are sitting out in the courtyard, two heat lamps lit, wrapped in our coats and a blanket each, drinking grappa.Not a tradition aperitif, but we’re honoring Matteo. This is his Grappa di Chianti made from Sangiovese grown at the House of Alighieri’s Castello di Monteserra estate.
Toni’s dark hair is whipped into loose tangles by the wind, because it may be early November, but our girl drives with the top down and the heat on full blast.
