Page 17 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“But once they taste it, they’ll never want to place another order.”

He nodded, expression grim. “Maturation takes time, and you’ve seen our finances. We need cash now, which means we need to sell this wine now, before it’s ready.”

True. But nor could the vineyard sustain itself long term if its product was inferior. Though the one thing she’d learned about Giovanni Fioravanti in the last twenty-four hours was that he didn’t think long term. His business plan depended on luck more than preparation.

“How long does this wine still need to mature before it becomes drinkable?”

“At least six months to enable the tannins to develop to make it less acidic. It would also help if we could mature the wine in wooden barrels rather than in stainless steel, but that requires capital we don’t currently have.”

Shit. She rubbed the back of her neck. How was she going to break this news to Kevin? He didn’t just need to send in a business manager, but an army of people to replace Giovanni: an accountant, a salesman, a vintner.

But before they could even think of taking on more staff, they needed to go to this Lario show and persuade all the distributors to pay now but only take delivery in six months.

“We need a drink,” Luca suggested. “And not this…” He gestured at the vat, and though he didn’t say the word, she was well able to fill it in for him:swill.

She followed him outside to his car, and didn’t object when, instead of taking her back to the house, he continued on towards the main road and into Montalcino.

Sarah had taken her to visit the hilltop village of Montalcino on her first visit. It had been Christmas time then, and the shops had been decorated with lights and Christmas trees, everyone had been bundled up against the cold, and many of the restaurants had been closed for the season.

There were still fewer tourists than there would be in the summer, but Montalcino on a bright, spring Saturday afternoon was a different place altogether. The restaurants spilled out onto the pavements, children played outdoors, a handful of tourists meandered the narrow, cobbled streets, and locals sat on their front doorsteps, enjoying the sunshine and passing the time of day.

As they climbed the steep streets towards the crest of the hill, where the stark Church of Saint Augustine presided over the narrow Piazza Garibaldi, many of the people they passed greeted Luca by name. He responded with a quick wave and a greeting, but didn’t stop to talk. He led Cleo to a café on the piazza, where a pretty waitress greeted him with a flirty smile and a toss of her long, blonde hair. One of his many conquests?

Though the pavement tables were already full, the owner, who introduced himself as Bruno, brought another table and chairs out and made space for them.

“Are you some sort of local hero, or is this just areallysmall town?” Cleo asked, once they were seated in a prime position on the pavement.

He grinned. “The Fioravanti name is well known and respected in these parts.”

She pressed her lips tight. More proof that Italy was no different from England—or Stellenbosch. As long as you had the right family name and connections, you didn’t need to do anything valuable with your life because everything was handed to you on a platter. While she’d had to go above and beyond to achieve even a place at the table.

Bruno returned with their wine. Once Luca had done the whole ritual of breathing in the bouquet and tasting the wine, Bruno filled their large-bowled glasses. The wine was a local Brunello, which Luca translated as “little dark one”, a rich red wine that was heavier than what Cleo usually drank. She would have preferred a sweeter white wine, preferably served with a generous portion of ice, but she supposed that would be considered sacrilege in Tuscany.

On the plus side, the wine perked up her spirits after the dire news of just how bad the vineyard’s situation was. She pulled a notebook and pen out of her bag. “We need to formulate a long-term business strategy.”

Luca shook his head and leaned back in his seat. “It’s a beautiful afternoon, too beautiful for work.”

“We have less than two weeks until the wine show. By the time we get there we need to be able to show potential buyers that there is a future in Fioravanti wine.”

He grinned. “We?”

She’d walked into that, hadn’t she? “My boss has agreed to let me stay until after the Lario show. But in that time we need to find someone who can run the vineyard until your father has recovered.” Or better yet, someone to stay on permanently, if Giovanni could be persuaded to retire and hand over his precious vineyard to more capable hands.

Luca grinned, as if he’d won a victory. “So, what do you suggest for our business plan?”

“The first step is to cut costs. Not the vineyard’s costs, but the entire estate, since legally and financially they’re one and the same. For example, is it really necessary to keep three full-time gardeners on the payroll?”

“People come from all over to visit our gardens on open days.”

“Unless those open days bring in major revenue, that’s a luxury you can no longer afford. One gardener with a part-time assistant will have to suffice.”

“Fine. But you’re the one who’s going to have to tell my mother.”

“Deal.” Signora Fioravanti didn’t scare her. Much.

“Any other staff you want to fire?”

“No. I think we need to hiremorestaff.”

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