“I understand and respect that,” I parrot and then add, “Doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it.”
She lets out a short laugh. It’s a happy sound. “Niccolò Alarico, I love you, hairy balls and all.”
I rest my hands on her waist, pull her close. “Did you say that because you mean it or because you know nothing diffuses me faster than hearing you say those words.”
“Both.”
I let out a long shaky breath. “I am sorry about what?—"
“The past is done,” she tells me right before she puts her lips to mine.
A dozen apologies clamor on my tongue, gratitude so vast it would echo like a cathedral, pride that could bruise.
I slide my tongue between her lips. She makes a small sound as she touches the tip of her tongue against mine, tasting me, delicately, hungrily.
When I raise my head, more than a little breathless, I see a pulse beating visibly in her throat.
“I’m not going to apologize again. You don’t need more remorse. You need something else.”
Her brow arches delicately. “Which is?”
I want to make a joke about sex or something else but I can’t. This moment is precious.
“Teach me,” I plead, my voice rough with hope. “Teach me how to stand beside you—not in front, not behind, but beside.”
Tears fill her eyes and she puts her hands on my face. “That,caro, is something we will have to teach each other.”
My wife always says the right things—in just the right way. Her perfection amazes me.
“I can’t wait to get started,mia cara moglie, my dear wife.”
She beams at me, bubbling with excitement. “Me, too.”
We stay in that night. She cooks. I clean. It’s almost absurdly domestic.
After dinner, she calls her sisters to tell them what happened, and I debrief with Renzo. Back to business—just as seamlessly.
After, I start a fire and she pours Amaro for us as a nightcap. A faint curl of citrus and herbs rises from the glass as she hands it to me.
We sit close, knees brushing. Our closeness feels deliberate now—wanting, intimate in a way that is both emotional and physical, no longer tentative or restrained.
The fire crackles softly, sending warmth across the room.
Flames lick at the hearth, and firelight dances across shelves bowed with leather-bound tomes, gilding their spines, softening the sharp lines of the space.
The scent of burning wood mingles with the bittersweet edge of the Amaro, grounding me completely in the moment.
She’s been here a moment, and my life, even my apartment, is forever changed. It’s no longer a sterile place I simply sleep in, but a living space—warmed, claimed, and finally awakened to truth.
We make plans as husband and wife first, and then CEO and head winemaker.
“But you love Pietra Alta,” I protest when she says we should live at the Palazzo.
“And we can go back whenever we want,” she assures me. “But for now, we need to be here, both of us. I always dreamed of having this job, and now that it’s mine, I’m going to be honest, Nico, I’m more than a little intimidated.”
I kiss her then because her honesty is refreshing. “When I took over Cantina Alarico and gave Renzo his job, we were both scared, sure that we were going to mess it up. Even now, so many times, when we deal with a problem, some sobig I’m sure the company will collapse, we are anxious as fuck.”
“But you make it work?” she prompts.
