Page 25 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife

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.