This house was used for consultants, visiting executives, corporate overflow—no one’s home, really.
When I came here, it stopped being temporary.
It became mine.
It isn’t large by Alighieri standards. In fact, it’s almost modest.
One master bedroom.
Two guest rooms—Alba’s and Toni’s, though neither of them lives here, but I have made space for their visits so they always feel at home with me.
A wide kitchen that opens directly into a dining space. Beyond that, a living room anchored by low furniture and a long window that frames the vines as if they were artwork.
The light here is filtered by stone and linen curtains rather than by the glass and precision that surrounds me in the cellar and the tasting rooms.
Nico slows, and his gaze moves as he assesses my space. Iwonder what he sees and how he lives. What does he put on his walls? I am married to this man, and yet I know so little about him.
I am, however, sharing an important part of me by bringing him home.
“Alessia, I put the suitcase away. I hung his suits in the closet and—” Zoya calls out from inside and freezes when she steps out from the kitchen and sees Nico.
Zoya does the cleaning and maintenance at the tasting room and for me. It includes doing the laundry, cleaning, and apparently, unpacking my husband’s things.
“Zoya, this is Nico Alarico. Nico, this is Zoya. She takes care of things at my place and the tasting room.”
Nico solicitously extends his hand, and Zoya shakes it. She winks at me and makes a “ooh, look at him” face.
My husband doesn’t realize this, but everyone on the estate is curious as hell about the man I married, who also happens to be the new CEO of the House of Alighieri. They’re aware we live apart, which seems incongruous since we just tied the knot, and everyone knows newlyweds are all over each other.
“Thank you for hanging up my suits,” Nico murmurs.
“I also unpacked your clothes, includingunderwear…boxers, not briefs, your shoes and toiletries,” Zoya corrects him with a flutter of her eyelashes. She’s young, in her early twenties, and cheeky.
I see a flush rise up onto Nico’s angular cheekbones. I’ve never seen him uncomfortable. It’s cute.
“Ah…well, thanks for that, too.”
He isn’t sure what to do with her. He usually intimidates people, but Zoya is of a different breed.
“By the way, your cologne smells very nice,” she says almost conspiratorially. “Alright, I’m off, Alessia. I have a hot date.”
She swishes away, and Nico turns to me.
“She’s fun,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I believe that.”
So, boxers and not briefs. Good to know.
“Show me your place,” he orders, and I wonder if he realizes that he doesn’t ask but demands. Maybe, someday, when I’m at ease with him, I’ll teach him the virtue of using words likeplease.
I take him into the living room. He looks around, and I try to see what he does.
The furniture is comfortable, not impressive. The décor is unmistakably mine. Minimal, but not bare. No excess, but no austerity either. Original pieces—quiet contemporary art, a woven Tuscan tapestry that once belonged to my mother, ceramics fired by a local artisan I’ve known since childhood. What’s here is expensive, yes—but only because it’s chosen.
“No television,” he remarks.
I look at him, puzzled. “Ah…no.”
