Page 50 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
But comfortable is the last thing I deserve to be.
Not when she’s out there somewhere, probably crying herself to sleep the way she must have done so many nights while I worked late or traveled for races or simply failed to come home because the garage was more interesting than dinner with my wife.
My wife.
Two words that used to feel like ownership.
Now they just feel like the obituary for everything I was too stupid to value while I had it.
Aivan
PREVIOUS ENGAGEMENTSforce me to fly back to Monaco for a couple of days, and when I return to Sicily, it’s to find out that Miguel has officially declared war, and of course all the locals are on my side.
Not.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Cannizzaro.” The five-star hotel manager won’t meet my eyes as he slides my black card back across the marble counter. “We’re completely booked.”
I don’t ask him to check again or threaten to call corporate. There’s no point throwing my name around like currency because I know exactly whose name carries more weight on this island.
“How much did he pay you?”
The manager’s face doesn’t change, but his fingers tap once against the counter. Answer enough.
“The Comfort Inn by the highway has availability,” he offers, almost gently.
Of course it does.
I drive past three more hotels on my way out of the city. Each one suddenly, mysteriously full. My father’s reach has always been long, but I’d forgotten how deep his roots go in Sicilian soil.
Room 23 of the Comfort Inn smells like industrial cleaner and crushed dreams. The bedspread is the color of old mustard. There’s a water stain on the ceiling shaped like a broken heart. Fitting really, since that’s exactly what this island is doing to me.
But I don’t fight it.
Miguel Cannizzaro wants me uncomfortable? Wants me to understand what it feels like to have nothing? Fine. I’ll play his game.
For now.
