Page 139 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“No, you said snowman.”

“Same thing.” She warns with her small finger.

Atelia loses it completely, laughing outright now, doubling slightly where she stands.

“Oh, I like her,” she huffs out between laughs. “She sees truth.”

“Traitor,” Enzo mutters, shooting her a look. “And he has all white.” He points at me but Blue ignores it.

“Do you melt?” Blue grins, completely unbothered.

That does it.

I laugh, the sound pulling out of me, melting whatever tension was clogged in my chest a second ago.

Enzo looks between all of us like he’s deciding whether to be offended or impressed.

“I don’t melt,” He answers finally, crouching slightly so he’s more at her level. “But I might reconsider my hairstyle after this.”

“You shouldn’t,” Blue chips immediately. “It’s funny.”

“Brutal.” Atelia claps once.

Christine exhales softly from where she stands, shaking her head just slightly, but there’s a curve at the edge of her mouth she’s trying not to show.

I see it even when she looks away and it does something to my heart.

I feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

“Come on.” I offer my hand, glancing back at the grill before it becomes a casualty of this moment. “Before I burn everything and ruin your first impression.”

“You already ruined it,” Enzo mutters under his breath.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

Blue giggles between us, already slipping her hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And I let her.

By the time the food is ready, the sky has started to soften. It’s not dark yet, but it’s starting to dim at the edges, the sun slipping lower like it’s taking its time leaving.

The table we finally decided to use based on Blue’s request, is by the pool.

There’s too much food. Too many plates. And it’s exactly how I planned it.

Blue is in my arms, with one arm looped around my neck.

Across from me, Christine is rearranging things that don’t need rearranging, trying to keep herself busy. She shifts a plate, then another. Next, she turns a fork, then straightens it again.

I watch it for a second longer than I should, then look away before it turns into something else.

Atelia and Enzo are by the wine, both of them holding bottles like it’s a debate that requires legal representation.

“This one,” Enzo offers, lifting it slightly.

“No,” Atelia counters immediately. “That one is too dry.”