Page 38 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
To what? Beg? Plead? Fall to my knees and explain that Myca means nothing, that the limo was business, that I’ve been slowly losing my mind without her?
That I can’t breathe when she looks at me like that?
That I don’t know how to exist in a world where Sienah doesn’t love me?
Fear eats me alive as I imagine for the first time what it truly means to live without my wife.
And I realize it’s a life I’m incapable of surviving.
Eight Years Ago
ANOTHER 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.”
*****
