Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Just looking at them makes me wonder if there were times when Sienah was the one who needed comforting.
But not once was I there for her.
Not once.
“I think it’s time we cut to the chase.”
I tense in my seat at the grimness of my father’s tone.
“Selena and I have discussed several options about what’s best for Sienah.”
What the hell does he mean by options, and why is my father talking about my wife like our marriage is truly done and over with? Does he really think I’d just roll over and let him—
“In the event that we see no evidence of you turning a new leaf, we will arrange to have your marriage annulled—”
Has my father gone mad?
“In fact, we already have someone lined up for her—”
Un-fucking-believable.
“And this time, we’ve made sure he’s your complete opposite.”
“Then you’ve just chosen a man who’ll bore her to death—”
“Better that,” Miguel retorts, “than someone who cheats.”
“I never cheated—”
“There are many ways to betray someone,” Miguel says. “You may not have touched another woman, but you let them think you might. Let Sienah think she wasn’t enough to hold your attention. Do you have any idea what that does to a woman? To watch her husband entertain the flirtations of others while she stands there, invisible?”
Invisible.
The word Sienah used that last night.
I’ve been invisible for ten years.
The restaurant spins. Or maybe that’s just me, lost without my fixed point, the constant I never knew I was navigating by until she was gone.
“Please.” The word scrapes out of me, raw and desperate. “Just let me see her. Let me explain—”
“I’m sorry, son.” The gentleness of my father’s voice is worse than his anger, with how it makes me feel like I’ve lost all hope of getting my wife back. “She was yours for ten years. But you threw her away. What happens now is out of your hands, and you only have yourself to blame.”
I sit in that restaurant until the sun sets, and the waiters start stacking chairs, and someone gently suggests I might be more comfortable elsewhere.
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 ENGAGEMENTS force 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.
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.
DAY 3.
Old Signora Mineza 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.”