Page 11 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
Aivan
“YOUR CARDIOVASCULARefficiency is off the charts, your reaction time is faster than it was five years ago, and your body fat percentage would make men half your age weep with envy.”
I shut my laptop as Coach Luigi finishes rattling off my latest performance metrics. The man’s been with me since I turned pro fifteen years ago, and he still gets as excited about peak physical condition as a kid discovering his first racing video game.
Luigi’s perched on the edge of his desk like some Renaissance gargoyle, compact and weathered, built like the boxer he used to be before he discovered he had a gift for turning ordinary drivers into legends. His gym takes up the entire top floor of a converted warehouse in Monaco’s Port Hercule, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Mediterranean that most people would kill for.
I don’t notice views. I notice that my resting heart rate dropped another two beats per minute.
“It’s what’s expected,” I say, reaching for my jacket. Black today. Zegna, because their cuts accommodate shoulder movement without bunching.
Luigi throws a towel at my head. “Madonna mia, you sound like a machine.”
“Machines don’t win championships. Discipline does.” I catch the towel before it can mess up my hair.
“Bah!”Luigi waves a dismissive hand, gold wedding band catching the light. “You know what your problem is? You think too much like a—”
“Like a winner.”
“Stronzo.” But he’s grinning when he says it. Luigi’s one of the few people who can call me an asshole and get away with it.
“I need to cut our session short today.” My phone screen shows nothing new. No messages from Sienah, but then she never texts during training. Never interrupts. The perfect wife who understands boundaries.
Luigi’s weathered face brightens. “Ah, perfetto!Please extend my thanks to Sienah. She was a miracle worker last month with George.”
I pause in the middle of buttoning my jacket. “Who’s George?”
Luigi’s hands still on his gym bag. He turns to look at me with an expression I recognize from the track. The one that means someone’s about to tell you your rear wing’s been illegal all season. “George? My cat? Been with my family eight years?” His voice rises with each word. “Your wife flew him to that specialist in Switzerland when the local vets gave up?”
Switzerland?
My mind races through Sienah’s schedule like I’m checking sector times.
When the hell did she go to Switzerland?
“The orange tabby,” Luigi continues, pulling out his phone. “My Elena was destroyed. Crying every night. Then your wife shows up like some kind of angel, arranges everything. Private jet for a cat! Can you imagine?”
