Page 34 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
Aivan
SHE’S HERE.
The knowledge hits like a fist to my solar plexus the moment I walk into Adriano’s living room. Every nerve ending in my body fires at once, a full-system alert that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the pull that’s defined my existence for ten years. My pulse jumps from sixty to one-twenty in the span of a heartbeat. I can feel it pounding in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes. I don’t need to see her to know. After ten years, my body recognizes hers like a missing piece clicking into place, an awareness that bypasses my brain entirely and goes straight to my bones.
Seven days without her vanilla-and-flowers scent on my sheets. Seven days without her soft breathing beside me in the dark. Seven days of waking up and reaching for warmth that isn’t there.
Dio.
The urge to find her overwhelms every other thought. My hands clench at my sides, knuckles going white. I want to haul her into my arms the second she appears. Want to fist my hands in her hair and kiss her until she stops this nonsense. Until she melts against me the way she always does, whispers those Italian endearments she thinks I don’t understand, comes home where she belongs.
Stop making this so hard, I want to roar.Just come back. Let things be the way they were.
Or maybe I want to beg.
The thought makes fury rise in my throat like acid, burning away the weakness. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Aivan Cannizzaro doesn’t beg. Not for championships, not for contracts, and certainly not for women. Even if that woman is my wife. Even if her absence feels like driving with no brakes, careening toward a wall at two hundred miles an hour.
“Aivan. Thank you for coming.” Adriano rises from his chair, all courtesy and hidden steel.
I force my face into its usual mask, though my skin feels too tight, like it might crack if I move wrong. “Where is she?”
“My wife is showing her the powder room.” His eyes assess me like I’m a hostile witness. Takes in the shadows under my eyes that concealer couldn’t hide, the tension in my jaw that’s become permanent, the way my hands won’t quite stay still. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Something stronger?”
“Just get on with it.”
Myca’s heels click against the marble as she enters behind me, sharp staccato sounds that grate against my already frayed nerves. “Darling, don’t be rude. Adriano’s being very accommodating.” Her hand slides up my arm in a gesture that makes my skin crawl, and I have to fight against the urge to shove her away. “After all, this is a delicate situation.”
I’m carefully disentangling myself from her hold when I hear footsteps in the hall, and my pulse kicks into overdrive, blood roaring in my ears like engines at full throttle. My chest tightens, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Every muscle in my body locks, preparing for impact.
My wife finally appears in the doorway, and everything else fades to static.
Sienah.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. She’s lost weight. In just seven days, her cheekbones cut sharper angles, casting shadows that weren’t there before. The delicate skin under her eyes is bruised purple-black, like she hasn’t slept since she left. She’s wearing a simple black dress I don’t recognize. The fabric hangs loose where it should cling, the hem hitting just below her knees instead of mid-thigh like her usual choices. Probably Shayla’s. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, not styled the way she usually prefers, and I can see her fingers trembling where they clutch the doorframe.
She looks fragile. Breakable. Beautiful.
My hands ache with the need to reach for her. To smooth away those shadows, to feel her warmth under my palms, to verify she’s real and not another dream that’ll leave me gasping awake at 3 AM.
