I give him a wan smile. "I was summoned by my father." I gesture vaguely toward the gardens. "But I find he's not here tonight."
He exhales, short. "Cesare was never going to attend."
I still.
The realization settles slowly, like sediment in a glass leftuntouched—I'm irrelevant to my father's actual plans. He wanted me here for appearance, not presence.
I don't let any of that reach my face.
"I should go," I say instead.
He watches me closely now, as if trying to decide whether I'm retreating or regrouping.
"I'll come to Bolgheri," he says and then adds, "when I can."
"That would be nice," I reply softly, and I mean it. "Good night, Nico."
He inclines his head, accepting the distance I'm offering because it costs him nothing to do so.
As I walk away, I tell myself—again—that this is how marriages like ours work, that patience is not weakness, and that time will do what pressure cannot. And that tomorrow, the vines will still need me even if my husband doesn't.
6
NICO
I drift in and out of sleep, replaying the conversation with my wife until the words lose their edge and still somehow keep cutting. By dawn, I give up. I lace my shoes and leave the palazzo while Florence is still half-asleep.
Running, physically, has always been how I think—and emotionally, how I deal with situations that upend the balance of my life as I have planned it.
The streets are cool, stone holding the night longer than the air. I cut across Piazza della Signoria, past statues that have watched men like me justify themselves for centuries. The city smells like espresso and damp marble and yesterday's heat.
I cross the Arno at the Ponte Vecchio, the river dark and steady below, moving without apology.
Florence looks indifferent to me this early—unimpressed by power, lineage, or money.
The city is different in daylight—less theatrical and more honest.
My breathing settles into a rhythm, shoes striking stone, body working while my mind refuses to let go.
I was an asshole to her. Deliberately.
I slow as I run along the Lungarno, the river opening up beside me, the city stretching awake.
Alessia's face rises unbidden—composed, polite, trying so hard not to ask for more than she's already been denied.
I resent her.
Present tense?
Or the past?
But as ugly as that is, it is my truth.
I didn't want to marry her. Not because she did anything wrong—but because she was chosen for me. Because Cesare decided that she was the acceptable Alighieri daughter. The quieter one. The dull one. The one who wouldn't push back. The one who would make the transaction easier.
The lesser sister.
The thought makes my stomach turn now, but at the time, I clung to it. Used it to justify my treatment of her.
