And because the universe has a sense of humor, Chile chooses that week to remind me that seismic risk is not theoretical.
A minor earthquake. No injuries. Some damage to the vines and cellars, which is enough to halt production and send our insurers into a spiral.
Three continents.
Four time zones.
Endless calls.
It's a PR nightmare, which means Chiara and her team are surgically attached to Renzo and me.
We freeze price increases for eighteen months, absorb the margin hit, and sell it to the board as long-term brand protection.
I personally call distributors in the United States and Europe, reassure them, and give them something better than an email—a voice, a plan, and accountability.
In Loire, I oversee the restructuring of allocations, spread the pain evenly, absorb the penalties rather than letting our partners drown.
In Chile, I greenlight emergency inspections and personally sign off on the restart.
It's exhausting—but this is the kind of pressure I thrive in; it's what I've been hired to do.
Between my responsibilities and hers, Alessia and I manage one nightly call—ten minutes, fifteen if she's still upright. No matter how hectic things have been for me, a winemaker during harvest isn't just busy; their time is rarer than a '69 Romanée-Conti.
My wife is deep in harvest now, running on caffeine andinstinct. Her voice is bright but tight, like a violin string pulled too far.
So, I don't tell her about the crises or board politics or journalists sharpening knives. She doesn't need my chaos added to hers.
She needs sleep.
By the end of the week, I'm done pretending Florence is where I need to be. For my mental health and sanity, I need to be with my wife.
I find Renzo in my office, jacket off, tie abandoned, staring at a screen with the kind of concentration that makes him good at his job.
"I'm going to Bolgheri," I tell him.
He looks up instantly. "Finally."
"I'm taking the helicopter. You're coming with me. We'll work from the estate."
He nods and continues to type.
"Renzo?"
"Si. Si." He irritably picks up his laptop and walks with me, his eyes on the screen.
We're halfway to the lift when Chiara steps in front of me. I groan out loud. "If I have to talk to another journalist, Chiara, I'm going to commit murder."
A flicker of impatience crosses her face. "We need to sort out the planning for your strategy presentation—we have only a week, and we haven't even started."
Oh yes, the post-harvest strategy presentation that's going to become the bane of my existence until it's done. It's a House of Alighieri tradition. We invite everyone we work with to Florence—we throw a big party at the Palazzo, and I tell the wine world what's coming from the company for the next year.
Our marketing teams have been working with me to finalize the strategy for the following year, and Chiara's teamhas been converting it into glossy slides and handouts to be presented to our distributors and partners at theVendemmiaGala, alongside some of our finest vintages.
"Let's talk tomorrow," I tell her calmly, in a tone that usually tells people who know me I'm not in the mood for an argument. "I'm going to Pietra Alta."
"But—"
Renzo glances up. "Chiara, give the man a breather, okay?"
