Page 51 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
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DAY 2.
The Cartier necklace costs sixty thousand euros. Diamonds and sapphires arranged like stars, because Sienah used to trace constellations on my back after we made love, whispering the names she’d learned from her grandmother’s astronomy books.
Cassiopeia. Andromeda. Orion.
All the stories of love written in light.
I leave it on the doorstep without ringing the bell. No note. No demands. Just starlight in a blue box for the woman who taught me that some things are more beautiful when they’re not possessed.
An hour later, I watch from my car as Lynette emerges with a garbage bag. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even look inside the box. Just drops it in the bin like it’s contaminated, and the finality of that lid closing hits harder than any racing crash I’ve survived.
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DAY 3.
OldSignoraMineza recognizes me immediately when I walk into her cafe. “Aivan.” Not Mr. Cannizzaro. Not champion. Just the name she called me when I was eight and stealing pastries from her kitchen. “Heard you’re having trouble.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Hmm.” She pours espresso without being asked, dark and bitter as her expression. “That sweet Posada girl. Always wondered when you’d break her heart.”
The accusation sits between us like spilled wine on white linen.
“She left me.”
“Smart girl.” Mineza slides the cup across scarred wood. “My husband, rest his soul, he had the same problem. Thought love was ownership. Took twenty years and a heart attack to learn better.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Some lessons can’t be taught. Only learned.” She turns away, dismissing me. “Through pain.”
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DAY 4.
The money transfer bounces back within minutes. Fifty thousand euros to the Posada account, refused as quickly as I sent it.
The text comes from Lynette’s phone:We are not merchandise. Neither is she.
I throw my phone at the motel wall. The screen spiders but doesn’t shatter.
Like my life. Damaged but somehow still functioning.
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DAY 5.
I recognize Eusebio before he sees me. He’s sitting in the same cafe where Mineza served me humble pie, reading a newspaper and pretending he’s not watching the Posada house three blocks away.
My father’s eyes on the island.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, sliding into the chair across from him.
He doesn’t look up from his paper. “Beautiful day for surveillance.”
At least he’s honest.
