Page 7 of The Sicilian Billionaire’s Neglected Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

T HE TERRACE DOOR CLOSES with a click that might as well be a gunshot.

I pour myself three fingers of scotch and settle back into my chair, watching the candles she lit flicker in the Mediterranean breeze. The wax drips steady as a heartbeat onto the white linen, each drop marking another second of her theatrical exit.

One hour.

That’s all it takes for a woman to realize she’s overreacted. One hour of walking around Monaco in those heels she insists on wearing despite my repeated suggestions to choose comfort over fashion. One hour of the night air cooling her temper, of rational thought replacing emotional hysteria.

The Patek Philippe on my wrist reads 9:47.

By 10:47, she’ll walk through that door with tears in her eyes and apologies on her lips.

We’ll have the kind of makeup sex that reminds me why I tolerate these periodic emotional outbursts.

Hard and fast against the bedroom wall, her nails raking down my back while she gasps my name.

Then slow and deep in our bed, until she’s boneless and sated and whispering those words in Italian she thinks I don’t understand.

Ti amo. Mio cuore. Sempre tuo.

The memory of her voice, husky and breathless in the dark, sends heat straight to my groin.

I shift in my chair, irritated by my body’s predictable response.

Ten years of marriage and she still affects me like I’m some hormone-driven teenager.

It’s the one variable I’ve never been able to control, this visceral need for her that defies logic and discipline.

9:52.

The champagne sits untouched between two glasses, bubbles rising and dying in endless cycles. Dom Pérignon 1996.

Our wedding vintage.

Of course.

Everything about tonight was orchestrated for maximum emotional impact.

The osso buco that takes her four hours to prepare, timed to finish exactly when I walked through the door.

The candles arranged in perfect symmetry, ivory pillars she special-orders from some boutique in Paris.

Even the roses scattered across the table, Sterlings from our garden because she knows they’re my grandmother’s favorite variety.

No .

Were.

Were her favorite variety.

The manipulation of it all. As if romantic staging could somehow conjure emotions that don’t exist. As if I could be maneuvered into declarations like some lovesick fool in one of those novels she hides behind her economic journals.

My phone vibrates. Luigi confirming tomorrow’s session.

Not her.

She knows better than to interrupt my evening routine. Ten years of training have taught her that much. Even in her dramatic exit, she maintains protocol. The perfect wife to the end.

10:15.

The candles have burned halfway down. One gutters in the wind, fighting to stay lit. I watch it struggle, the flame dancing wildly before finally succumbing. Smoke curls up in a thin gray ribbon, dissipating into nothing.

Like her little tantrum will. They always do.

She used to light candles every night when we first married. The first time she did it, I told her the scent was too strong, and the next night they were gone. Replaced with unscented pillars that gave light without intrusion.

She learned fast. I’ll give her that.

10:47.

She’s late.

Not that it matters. Let her walk off her anger. Let her realize how ridiculous she’s being. Three words. She’s destroying ten years over three words I never promised to say.

I pour another scotch, the bottle clinking against crystal. Below, Monaco glitters with its usual display of excess. Somewhere down there, my wife is learning what it means to walk away from Aivan Cannizzaro.

She’ll be back.

They always come back.

11:23.

Except she doesn’t.

The irritation starts as a low burn in my chest. She’s pushing it now. Testing boundaries that shouldn’t be tested. We have rules, unspoken but understood. She doesn’t make scenes. She doesn’t storm off. She certainly doesn’t stay out past midnight like some teenager making a point.

I move inside, bringing the scotch with me. The penthouse feels different without her in it. Too quiet, but I refuse to call it empty. It’s peaceful. No humming from the kitchen. No clicking heels on marble. No vanilla-scented ghost trailing through my space.

Maybe this is better.

The thought surprises me. But why not? No more carefully orchestrated dinners I didn’t ask for. No more wounded looks when I work late. No more silent expectations hanging in the air like smog.

11:45.

In our bedroom—no, fuck, my bedroom—her nightgown lies across the chair. Pale blue silk that makes her skin glow like pearl.

“It’s comfortable,”* she’d explained once. *“Helps me sleep better.”

Always choosing comfort over style. Another disappointment in a growing list.

The shower still smells like her shampoo. Honey and flowers, something she special-orders from Provence. The bottle is nearly empty. She’ll need to order more soon.

Or not.

Maybe this is her play. Stay away long enough that I come begging. Make me realize what I’m “missing.”

She doesn’t know me at all if she thinks that’s how this works.

2:17 AM.

Sleep eludes me, but it’s the principle of the thing, not her absence. I’ve moved to my office, laptop open to track telemetry data. The numbers blur together. My concentration is off, but that’s anger, not concern. How dare she disrupt my routine with her dramatics?

Her touches are everywhere in this room. The ergonomic chair she insisted I needed. The coasters she bought because she couldn’t stand water rings on rosewood. The photo from our honeymoon in Capri tucked beside my monitors.

She’s smiling in that photo, wind in her hair, arms around me from behind. I look annoyed at the interruption, but my hand covers hers. A moment of weakness the photographer caught.

I turn the photo face down.

3:45 AM.

The coffee maker starts its programmed cycle. 5:47 AM. She calculated exactly how long it takes me to shower and dress before I want that first cup. Always awake before it brews, padding downstairs to add one sugar cube.

“You don’t have to get up,” I’d tell her.

“I know,” she’d answer. “Want to.”

Five thousand mornings. Five thousand times she chose to wake at ungodly hours just for twenty minutes together. Five thousand kisses goodbye at the door.

The dedication should be touching.

Instead, it’s suffocating.

All that effort. All that need. All for what? So I’ll say three words that died with my mother?

4:30 AM.

Curiosity drives me to her closet. When did she accumulate so much? Racks of designer dresses for team events. Shelves of bags organized by color. Shoes arranged like a boutique.

But it’s the back corner that stops me.

Hidden behind evening gowns, a cardboard box. Inside, remnants of the girl I married. A faded university sweatshirt. Her old employee ID. Photos of friends I’ve never met.

At the bottom, a journal.

Day 1: Mrs. Aivan Cannizzaro. I can’t believe it’s real. He chose me. ME. I’m going to be the best wife he could ever want. Going to make him so happy he’ll never regret it.

The entries chronicle her transformation. Learning to cook my grandmother’s recipes. Memorizing sponsor names. Practicing her smile for photographers. Each entry more desperate than the last to be “perfect.”

The last entry: Three words. I can’t believe it. He’s finally going to tell me...that.

I close the journal with a snap. This is what she’s been doing? Documenting every moment, analyzing every gesture, waiting for something I never promised?

The anger burns hotter.

She knew what this was. A business arrangement that happened to include good sex. I never lied. Never pretended. Never gave her false hope.

Did I?

5:47 AM.

The coffee maker beeps. No barefoot steps on the stairs. No sleepy smile. No sugar cube dropped in with trembling fingers.

Fine .

I drink it black. The way I did before her. The way I will after.

Day Two.

Still nothing. No calls, no texts. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. The silence should be peaceful. Instead, it grates like an unbalanced tire at high speed.

She’s making a point.

I skip training. Not because of her. The telemetry data needs analysis. The new wing design requires approval. I have work that doesn’t involve chasing after a woman having a tantrum.

Luigi texts asking if I’m sick.

I don’t respond.

By evening, the anger has evolved into something colder. She’s not at any hotel in Monaco. Her car remains in the garage. Her passport in the safe.

Someone is helping her. Hiding her.

From me.

The audacity of it sets my teeth on edge.

Day Three.

I break first. The admission tastes like bile, but I need information.

“What do you want?” Luigi’s voice holds none of its usual warmth.

“Is she with you?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play games with me, old man.”

A pause. “No. She’s not with me. But if she was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

He hangs up.

On me.

Luigi, who I’ve made rich with bonuses, hangs up like I’m nobody.

The disrespect spreads like a disease. My assistant avoids eye contact. The housekeeper cleans with aggressive efficiency, slamming drawers. Even the doorman’s greeting sounds forced.

She’s turned them all against me. Somehow made me the villain in her little drama.

The fury builds like pressure in an overheated engine.

Day Four.

I call Eusebio, and I’m not surprised that the older man answers like he’s been expecting my call.

“ Signor.. .”

“Where is she?”

“Safe.”

One word. Like I’m some kind of threat she needs protection from.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Your father instructed me to monitor the situation. Family orders.”

My father. Of course. Even now, pulling strings, interfering where he has no business.

“She’s my wife—”

“Who left, signore. Of her own free will.”

The implication hangs between us. That I drove her away. That this is my fault.

“Where. Is. She.”

A long pause. “With Adriano. Your lawyer friend. His wife is taking care of her.”

Ah.

I trust Adriano and Shayla. She really is safe then. But why doesn’t that feel enough?

“How long has she been there?”

“Since that first night, signore . She needed somewhere safe to go.”

Because I threw her out.

I end the call without another word.

Day Five.

The investigator I hire confirms it. She’s been at Adriano’s villa this entire time. Playing victim. Turning my friends against me. Making me look like some kind of monster who drove his perfect wife away.

The narrative writes itself. Poor Sienah, married to the heartless champion who wouldn’t say he loved her. Such a tragedy. Such a waste.

I bet she cries pretty tears on Shayla’s shoulder. I bet she tells them how hard she tried, how long she waited, how much she gave up.

Does she mention the cars? The jewels? The life of luxury I provided?

Does she mention ten years of fidelity when I could have anyone?

Does she mention the hours I spent between her thighs, making her scream my name?

Of course not. That doesn’t fit her victim narrative.

The rage builds with each passing hour. She wants to paint me as the villain? She wants to destroy what we built over three words?

So be it.

Day Six.

I see it clearly now. The manipulation. The emotional blackmail. Ten years of playing the perfect wife, all building to this moment. This ultimatum.

Say you love me or lose me.

She overplayed her hand.

I don’t respond to ultimatums. I don’t negotiate with emotional terrorists. And I certainly don’t chase after women who think they can control me with theatrical exits.

If she wants to leave, let her leave.

If she wants to play victim, let her play.

But she’ll learn what it means to cross me. What it means to humiliate me in front of my city, my friends, my family.

Day Seven.

A week.

One week of this farce. One week of her hiding at Adriano’s, playing the wounded dove while I’m painted as the monster.

No more.

I’ve let this go on long enough. Let her have her moment of drama. Let her think she’s won something.

Time to remind her who she’s dealing with.

The papers are drawn up within hours. Every detail carefully crafted. Every clause designed for maximum impact. She wants to walk away? Fine. But she’ll walk away with nothing.

Just like she came to me with nothing.

The scotch goes down smooth now. No burn. No ache. Just cold clarity.

She thinks she knows loss? She’s about to learn what it means to challenge a man who’s never lost a race he was determined to win.

Let her cry on Adriano’s shoulder.

Let her play victim to anyone who’ll listen.

Let her think she’s safe in her little rebellion.

Tomorrow, she’ll learn what I do to people who betray me.

Tomorrow, she’ll understand the price of those three words she wanted so badly.

The contracts are signed. The calls are made. The machinery set in motion.

She wanted to play games?

Game on.