Chiara stands. "Nico, we still have?—"
“I know what we have," I cut her off.
Chiara looks like someone pissed in her wine.
“Of course.” Her tone is professional. Her eyes are anything but. “I’ll—” She waves her phone. “I need to take a call.”
As she walks away, Renzo lets out a quiet chuckle. "If looks could ferment, Alessia,cara,you'd be vinegar by now."
"I'm made of sturdier stuff," my wife replies haughtily.
I huff out a laugh.
Alessia tilts her head, studying me.
“Are you alright?” she asks, meaning:Are you okay with what just unfolded?
"I am now that you're here," I tease, eyes glinting.
And that's the truth of it, because whatever battles are waiting, boards, fathers, betrayals, I know this much with absolute clarity, there is no version of my life where Alessia isn't with me.
"So…what's next?" Chiara asks tersely.
Alessia stiffens. She pulls back, eyes flashing—not hurt, not uncertain, but royally, unmistakably annoyed.
"Next? Harvest. Harvest. And…hey, guess what, harvest," she retorts.
Chiara cocks an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be too busy for"—she waves a hand to indicate us, still in each other's holds—"this."
I'm about to tell her to mind her own business and remind her that she just crossed one of the lines I told her not to cross, when Alessia lets out a breathy laugh.
"I'm never too busy to be with my husband. I don't need to schedule affection with what’s mine."
Talk about staking a claim!
Renzo coughs into his hand to hide a grin.
I give him a pointed look. He shrugs, giving me a look that says this is all too fucking hilarious and my fault in the first place.
"Renzo, didn't you suggest helping with the harvest?" I toss at him.
His eyes light up. "I did. I thought I'd be useful."
"You're wearing a suit," Alessia points out dryly and then looks at me. "So are you."
"I have a change of clothes in our bedroom,cara," I remind her.
The wordbedroommakes her blush, and I find myself absurdly undone by it—by this quiet collision of confidence and shyness, strength softened by something sweetly unguarded.
Twenty minutes later, Renzo is in the vineyard, jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled up, tie gone—and still somehow managing to spill grape juice down the front of his shirt within the first five minutes.
Alessia watches him with folded arms.
"That," she muses mildly, "is why we don't harvest in Italian tailoring."
Renzo lifts his stained hands. "I regret everything."
Unlike Renzo, I have changed. Work boots. Old jeans. A House of Alighieri t-shirt.
