Page 9 of The Sicilian Billionaire’s Neglected Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

I still mean to wait, but for now, the distance helps ground me while the hustle of pro bono work keeps the tears at bay.

There’s always so much to do even with all the boundless energy that the volunteers display.

It took me a moment to figure out how I can best help, but where I’m needed gradually becomes clear.

It’s all those little things that people overlook or didn’t think to assign.

Filing documents. Making coffee. Or even just the simple act of greeting walk-ins and letting them know that they, too, like me, are now safe.

By lunch, I’ve almost forgotten that my life is in ruins.

Almost.

Until I see one of the volunteers accidentally leaving their tablet on the reception desk.

Oh no!

I grab hold of it, knowing that Tommy would have need of his tablet for his field work, and that’s when the screen lights up, and I find myself staring at the photo of my husband, post-training, and looking like a Greek god with his sleek muscles, tousled dark hair, and intense gaze.

“CANNIZZARO DOMINATES TESTING AHEAD OF MONACO GP” screams the headline. Below, a photo of him surrounded by team members, a blonde in team colors hanging on his every word.

He looks...good.

Actually, he looks better than good.

He looks like someone who’s at the top of his game...rather than someone whose ten-year marriage has recently come to its end.

I catch my reflection in the tablet screen. Hollow eyes, borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit, hair I haven’t styled in two days.

He’s thriving while I’m drowning. I’m falling apart while he’s soaring higher and higher. And I guess...I guess that says it all, doesn’t it?

Someone grabs the tablet out of my hand, and I only realize it’s Shayla when I hear her call out,“Tommy, you forgot your tablet!”

The younger man comes back with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

I wait until Tommy’s gone again before turning to Shayla. “I didn’t mean to look him up.”

“It’s not wrong if you want to know how your husband is doing.”

“Even if he clearly doesn’t care how I’m doing?”

“I know it may seem that way, but we can’t think that way if we’re not a hundred percent sure.”

I know she has a point, but...

“You saw his photo,” I choke out, “and now look at me and tell me what you see.”

“Oh, Sienah.”

Why, oh why do I always feel like crying every time she says my name like that?

“All I see is one who’s wearing her heart on her sleeve, and another who has yet to really look at his.”

God, oh God.

I remember David’s prayer out of the blue, and oh, I get it now, I really do.

How long, Aivan?

How long?

Will you turn your face from me forever?

****

T HE WEEK PASSES IN a rhythm of work and tears. Days at the office, helping people with actual problems that make my heartbreak seem small. Nights crying into borrowed pillows. No word from Aivan. No word from his family.

By day five, my phone rings. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“ Signora Sienah.” The voice is gruff, familiar. Eusebio.

My heart pounds. “Is Aivan—”

“He’s fine.” A pause. “Your father-in-law asked me to call. To make sure you’re...safe.”

The words carry weight beyond their surface meaning. In famiglia terms, this is significant.

“I’m safe. I’m with friends.”

“Good. That’s good.” He clears his throat. “He wants you to know he’s watching. No plans to interfere...yet.”

Yet. One word that carries both threat and promise.

“I understand.”

“Take care of yourself, signora . These things, they have a way of working out. One way or another.”

He hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, parsing the layers of that conversation. My father-in-law knows where I am. He’s choosing not to act. For now.

“Everything okay?” Shayla asks from the doorway.

I set the phone down with shaking hands. “That was Eusebio.”

“ Ah . A mesage from your father-in-law?”

I nod. “Eusebio says Aivan’s father has chosen not to interfere...for now.”

“I see.”

Two simple words, but for someone like Shayla, who makes a living out of using words to save lives and bring justice—

“What exactly do you see?” I ask shakily.

“That God’s asked Miguel Cannizzaro to do the same thing, too, and that’s to wait.”

****

B Y DAY SIX, SOMETHING shifts. The tears don’t come as readily. The ache in my chest becomes manageable background noise rather than overwhelming agony. I’m starting to remember who I was before I became Mrs. Aivan Cannizzaro. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Day seven dawns gray and overcast. I wake feeling different. Lighter somehow, despite the persistent ache in my chest. For the first time in a week, I don’t immediately reach for Aivan’s pillow.

I pad downstairs to find Shayla battling the coffee maker.

“Come on,” she mutters, giving it a tap. “Work with me here.”

“Need help?”

“No, we have an understanding. It works when it feels like it, and I don’t throw it out the window.” Another tap, and coffee starts brewing. “See? Negotiation.”

I smile, a real one. “You’re good at that. Making difficult things work.”

She hands me a mug. “Years of practice.”

We drink our coffee in companionable silence.

Outside, Monaco begins its daily transformation from sleepy coastal town to playground for the wealthy.

Somewhere out there, Aivan’s probably already at the track, pushing himself and his car to the limit.

Does he think of me at all? Or has he already boxed me away, another completed chapter in his perfectly organized life?

“I keep praying for strength,” I say, surprising myself. “Every night. Asking God to help me understand.”

“And?”

“Still waiting for answers.” I take another sip. “But the waiting feels...different now. Less desperate.”

She nods. “Sometimes that’s the answer. The ability to wait without drowning.”

“I just wish I knew what He wants me to do.”

“Maybe for now, He just wants you to breathe.”

Before I can respond, we hear the front door. Adriano enters the kitchen, already loosening his tie. His expression is grim, and my heart sinks.

He then exchanges a look with Shayla, and I just know.

“Something’s wrong.”

I just know it in my heart.

“I’m sorry, Sienah.”

Whatever this may be, God, please...

“He’s filed for divorce.”

Be with me.

I look at Adriano, and a hysterical laugh escapes me. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

He takes a breath. Shayla reaches for my hand.

“I’m sorry about this, Sienah.” His voice is too gentle. “The lawyer representing him is Myca Villareal.”

No .

The mug I’m holding slips from numb fingers, shattering on the floor, and coffee spreads across the tiles like blood.

No .

I’m vaguely aware of Shayla moving, of hands guiding me away from the broken ceramic, of being settled into another chair. But all I can think is—

No .

Why would he do this?

Was it not enough that he’s divorcing me?

He had to get his ex as his lawyer, too?