Page 11 of The Sicilian Billionaire’s Neglected Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

A NOTHER CHAMPIONSHIP . Another trophy. Another blonde reporter with too much lipstick and not enough clothes.

“That was quite a finish, Aivan.” She leaned forward, making sure the camera caught her assets along with his face. “How does it feel to dominate the track so...thoroughly?”

He forced the smile he’d perfected for these moments.

The one that made sponsors write checks and fans scream his name.

Behind her, the paddock buzzed with celebration, champagne foam still sticky on his racing suit, the acrid smell of burnt rubber mixing with motor oil and victory. “It feels like victory should feel.”

“And will you be celebrating tonight?” Her hand brushed his arm, fingernails painted the same red as the Ferrari logo, leaving brief crescents in his firesuit. “Perhaps I could get an...exclusive?”

“My wife and I have plans.”

Where the hell was Sienah? She usually appeared right about now, some excuse on her lips to extract him from these situations. Two years married and she’d perfected the art of the rescue.

He scanned the paddock over the reporter’s shoulder. Mechanics wheeled tired cars back to the garage, journalists clustered like vultures around other drivers, but still no sign of her dark hair, her quiet presence that somehow made all this noise bearable.

“Your wife is a lucky woman.” The reporter’s smile turned seductive. “Though I wonder if she knows just how lucky. Maybe you need someone who understands what a champion really needs—”

“Interview’s over.”

He walked away without another word, pulling out his phone. The device was slick with champagne residue, making his fingers slip on the screen. Sienah wasn’t answering. Not like her. She always answered.

Eusebio materialized at his elbow, bringing the familiar scent of cigarettes and gunpowder he never quite washed off. “Problem, signore ?”

“Find my wife.”

*****

T HE ROOM WOULDN’T STOP spinning.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. She’d had one drink. Just one, because the crew member had insisted —“It’s non-alcoholic champagne, Mrs. Cannizzaro! For the victory toast!” —and she hadn’t wanted to seem rude during Aivan’s moment of triumph.

But it wasn’t non-alcoholic. Or something else was in it. The chemical sweetness under the bubbles should have warned her, but by then it was too late.

The bar’s neon lights hurt her eyes, bleeding colors that shouldn’t exist. Bass from the music thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through her unstable heels and making her stomach lurch. Everything smelled like spilled beer and designer cologne and her own fear-sweat.

“You okay, beautiful?”

A man slid onto the barstool beside her. Dark hair slicked with too much product, suit that screamed new money, predator eyes that made her skin crawl even through the fog.

“I’m married.” She held up her ring, except her hand wouldn’t stay still. The diamond caught the bar lights, fracturing them into tiny rainbows that made her dizzy. “Super married. Tremendously married. To a champion.”

“Is that so?” His smile made her want to run, but her legs were made of water. “Where’s this champion husband of yours?”

“With some...some blonde person. Being interviewed.” The words came out slurred, her tongue too thick for her mouth. “She had very big interviews. Two of them. Right in his face.”

The man laughed, moving closer. His breath smelled like mint trying to cover something sour. “Sounds like you need better company.”

“Yes!” The word came out too loud. Several people turned to stare. “Yes, I need a new man. A faithful one. Are you faithful?”

“Absolutely.”

“Liar.” She tried to point at him but missed, her finger landing somewhere near his ear.

“All men are liars. My father was a liar. Told my mama he loved her then ran off with his secretary. Got himself killed trying to impress her with stolen money. Mama cried every night after. Her pillow smelled like tears and the vanilla extract she used to hide the wine on her breath.”

“That’s very sad.” His hand landed on her thigh, hot through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Very sad,” she agreed, then frowned at his hand. “Why are you touching me? I need to find a faithful man. Not you. Someone else. Someone who tells his wife he loves her every single day.”

She pushed off the barstool, swaying dangerously. The floor tilted like a ship in storm, but she had a mission now. Find a faithful man. Prove they existed.

She approached a man at the bar. “Excuse me, sir. Are you faithful to your wife?”

He blinked at her. “I’m not married.”

“Oh.” She patted his arm consolingly. “That’s probably for the best. My husband is very handsome. Wins races. Never says he loves me though.” She swayed closer, squinting at him. “You look trustworthy. Would you tell your wife you loved her? If you had one?”

“I...suppose?”

“Promise me.” She gripped his sleeve. “Promise you won’t be like my Aivan. So perfect. So cold. Makes me feel like I’m dying sometimes, wanting three little words he can’t say.”

The man gently extracted himself, looking alarmed. She didn’t notice, already moving to the next target. A businessman in an expensive suit.

“Hello. Quick survey. Do you believe in keeping marriage promises?”

By the time she’d approached her fifth man—asking increasingly personal questions about fidelity and whether he knew how to say “I love you”—the predator from earlier had started following her.

“Let me help you find him upstairs,” he said, his hand sliding around her waist.

He was pulling her toward the elevators, and her legs weren’t working right. The floor kept tilting, the lights kept spinning, and where was Aivan? Why wasn’t he here? Did the blonde reporter take him somewhere?

“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

Aivan’s voice cut through the fog like ice water, each word sharp enough to draw blood.

****

R AGE .

Pure, molten rage poured through his veins as he took in the scene.

Some bastardo with his hands on Sienah, trying to guide her toward the elevators.

His wife, swaying on her feet, glassy-eyed and clearly drugged out of her mind.

Her lipstick was smeared, a pink streak across her cheek like she’d tried to wipe her mouth and missed.

“I said,” his voice dropped to subzero, the same tone that made rival drivers move aside on the track, “get your hands off her.”

The man stepped back, hands raised. Up close, he reeked of knockoff cologne and bad decisions. “Hey, she was asking for company—”

Aivan’s fist clenched, knuckles going white. One hit. That’s all it would take to shatter this bastard’s jaw. His muscles coiled, ready to strike—

“ Signore .” Eusebio’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “Allow us.”

His men appeared like shadows, flanking the predator. The scent of leather holsters and barely leashed violence filled the space.

“Bodily remove this piece of shit. Throw him out. Make sure he understands never to come near her again.”

As they dragged him away, Aivan caught his wife as she swayed toward him. She weighed nothing, bird-bones and designer dress, but she hit his chest like a wrecking ball.

“There you are.” Her words slurred together, breath sweet with champagne and something chemical. “Done with your interview? Did she show you both of them? They were very...prominent.”

His jaw clenched harder. “Eusebio. Report.”

The older man’s face was grim. “She approached several men at the bar, signore. Asking about...fidelity. Looking for someone ‘better’ than her husband.”

Several men. The words echoed in his skull like gunshots. His vision hazed red at the edges. She’d been talking to other men, looking for—

“I need a new husband.” Sienah tried to pull away but nearly fell, her heel catching on nothing. “A faithful one. Do you know any? Someone who won’t leave me for secretaries with big boobs and stolen money?”

What the hell was she talking about? He scooped her into his arms, her head lolling against his chest. She smelled wrong—bar smoke and fear-sweat overlaying her usual vanilla perfume.

“Put me down! I need to find a better man!”

“Like hell.”

His arms tightened around her possessively.

The thought of her talking to other men, advertising herself as available, asking strangers about fidelity while drugged and vulnerable.

It made him want to go back and break every bone in that predator’s body.

Made him want to find every man she’d talked to and make them understand she was taken. Claimed. His.

“You can’t stop me,” she mumbled against his neck. “You’re too busy with Miss Exclusive and her exclusive exclusives.”

He carried her through the lobby, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. The night manager tried to approach, probably about the scene they were causing, but one look from Eusebio sent him scurrying back. She kept muttering against his neck, each word a hot brand on his skin.

“Told that nice man at the bar all about you,” she confided, her lips brushing his throat. “How you collect trophies but can’t say three words. He seemed shocked. Everyone’s shocked when I tell them Aivan Cannizzaro doesn’t know how to say he loves his wife.”

Each word was gasoline on the fire of his fury. She’d been telling strangers about their marriage. About him. Looking for someone else while he’d been—

“Going to find someone faithful,” she continued. “Someone who won’t make my mama cry. Won’t make me cry. Someone who smells like home instead of other women’s perfume.”

The elevator ride to their suite felt endless.

Mirrors on every wall reflected her pale face, his murderous expression, the way she’d curled into him despite her words.

She kept muttering about other men, about being abandoned, about her mother crying into vanilla-scented pillows.

Each word made his hold on her tighten, made the possessive rage burn hotter.