Page 32 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
How long?
Will you turn your face from me forever?
****
THE WEEK PASSES INa rhythm of work and tears. Days at the office, helping people with actual problems that make my heartbreak seem small. Nights crying into borrowed pillows. No word from Aivan. No word from his family.
By day five, my phone rings. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“SignoraSienah.” The voice is gruff, familiar. Eusebio.
My heart pounds. “Is Aivan—”
“He’s fine.” A pause. “Your father-in-law asked me to call. To make sure you’re...safe.”
The words carry weight beyond their surface meaning. Infamigliaterms, this is significant.
“I’m safe. I’m with friends.”
“Good. That’s good.” He clears his throat. “He wants you to know he’s watching. No plans to interfere...yet.”
Yet. One word that carries both threat and promise.
“I understand.”
“Take care of yourself,signora. These things, they have a way of working out. One way or another.”
He hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, parsing the layers of that conversation. My father-in-law knows where I am. He’s choosing not to act. For now.
“Everything okay?” Shayla asks from the doorway.
I set the phone down with shaking hands. “That was Eusebio.”
“Ah. A mesage from your father-in-law?”
I nod. “Eusebio says Aivan’s father has chosen not to interfere...for now.”
“I see.”
Two simple words, but for someone like Shayla, who makes a living out of using words to save lives and bring justice—
“What exactly do you see?” I ask shakily.
“That God’s asked Miguel Cannizzaro to do the same thing, too, and that’s to wait.”
****
BY DAY SIX, SOMETHINGshifts. The tears don’t come as readily. The ache in my chest becomes manageable background noise rather than overwhelming agony. I’m starting to remember who I was before I became Mrs. Aivan Cannizzaro. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Day seven dawns gray and overcast. I wake feeling different. Lighter somehow, despite the persistent ache in my chest. For the first time in a week, I don’t immediately reach for Aivan’s pillow.
I pad downstairs to find Shayla battling the coffee maker.
“Come on,” she mutters, giving it a tap. “Work with me here.”
“Need help?”
