For Chiara Condello, making Le Lucciole is not about striking a pose. It is about listening—to the spungone soils of Predappio, to a parcel barely a hectare in size, to the subtle shifts of vintage and air. Sangiovese has lived in these hills for centuries, and here it carries the memory of that lineage while refusing to be anything but itself.
Le Lucciole comes from a tiny 0.8-hectare vineyard at mid-slope, where the limestone-rich sediments beneath give the grapes a tensile energy all their own. The fruit is harvested by hand and taken into open-top fermenters with indigenous yeasts, then aged patiently in large Slavonian oak for two years before release.
In the glass, this is Sangiovese that feels alive rather than posed. The red fruit is present but not ornamental; there’s a pull of mineral air, a tension between structure and breath that makes the wine feel both exacting and inviting. Tannins are present with purpose, acidity is intact without sharpness, and the finish has a hint of tobacco-leaf spice that lingers without explanation.
This is a Riserva that wants to be with food, with conversation, with moments that don’t require ceremony. It doesn’t shout. It carries its intent quietly, like the flicker of fireflies just after sunset—and, like its name suggests, those fleeting lights are what make the darkness worth entering.
For Chiara Condello, making Le Lucciole is not about striking a pose. It is about listening—to the spungone soils of Predappio, to a parcel barely a hectare in size, to the subtle shifts of vintage and air. Sangiovese has lived in these hills for centuries, and here it carries the memory of that lineage while refusing to be anything but itself.
Le Lucciole comes from a tiny 0.8-hectare vineyard at mid-slope, where the limestone-rich sediments beneath give the grapes a tensile energy all their own. The fruit is harvested by hand and taken into open-top fermenters with indigenous yeasts, then aged patiently in large Slavonian oak for two years before release.
In the glass, this is Sangiovese that feels alive rather than posed. The red fruit is present but not ornamental; there’s a pull of mineral air, a tension between structure and breath that makes the wine feel both exacting and inviting. Tannins are present with purpose, acidity is intact without sharpness, and the finish has a hint of tobacco-leaf spice that lingers without explanation.
This is a Riserva that wants to be with food, with conversation, with moments that don’t require ceremony. It doesn’t shout. It carries its intent quietly, like the flicker of fireflies just after sunset—and, like its name suggests, those fleeting lights are what make the darkness worth entering.
