“And?” I ask, though the answer simmers beneath my ribs.
He waits a heartbeat. “Cesare will announce it tomorrow at the board meeting. You remain CEO. Alessia is being appointed Head Winemaker across all estates.”
Nothing moves inside me; my thoughts have frozen like frost on a windowpane.
He continues, “The press release will call it strategic succession and modernization. First female winemaker for a large winehouse, blah blah. Renzo will have to brief Chiara.”
Or fucking fire her!
“When…when did she do this?”
“Yesterday.”
This is why she insisted on leaving me in Florence. “I…I’m speechless,” I admit.
“I want you to know that you would not have lost your job tomorrow. I was not going to side with Cesare on this.”
I smile at that. “You can’t take credit for things youmayhave done. I owe you no favors…yet.”
Rio lets out a bark of laughter. “Congratulazioni, Nico, on marrying well.”
“You can say that again.”
When I hang up, the city hums beyond my window.
Vespas buzz like busy bees, church bells toll in the distance, and voices drift up from cobbled streets—Florence alive with its own rhythms, reminding me how often I mistook proximity to power for power itself.
I leave the boxes where they are and with a pep in my step walk up to Renzo’s office.
“Don’t pack,” I warn him.
He looks up from his computer, puzzled. “What? Why?”
“And you need to brief Chiara on getting a press release out.”
Renzo frowns and then as it clicks for him, his face unfolds into a smile. “How the fuck did this happen?”
“According to Rio, it’s because I married well.”
Renzo leans back in his office chair and laughs. “What did she?—”
“I’ll have to tell you another time because right now I need to go see my wife.”
Renzo nods. “Got it, boss.”
I all but run to my apartment with an exuberance I haven’t experienced in years.
I find her in our living room, backlit by the golden glow of lanterns outside. She stands before a tall arched window, its iron tracery a dark lace against the dying light. Her hair tumbles loose over her shoulders, catching every ray like copper threads. A half-empty glass of white wine rests on the sill, condensation beading on the cool stone.
I wrap my arms around her and rest my head in the crook of her neck.
“You didn’t tell me,” I whisper, each word gentle as dusk.
She leans into me. “I needed to do this on my own.”
The quiet sting of that truth presses against my chest. “I would’ve supported you.”
She turns to face me, puts her hands on my chest. “Ineeded to this on my own,” she repeats. “Tell me you understand and respect that.”
