Page 143 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Every time it replays in my head, something in me seizes, like my body forgets how to move, how to breathe, how to be normal around it.

But when I look at him.

At the way he handles Blue like she’s not new, not fragile, not something he has to think about.

My fear recedes.

Because he doesn’t look like a man imagining a family. He looks like one who already has it.

Atelia’s fingers snap right in my line of sight.

“Earth to Christine,” she calls out, already halfway to standing. “Come help me pick another bottle.”

I blink again, the room sliding back into place around me.

“I can…” Enzo starts, pushing himself up like he’s been waiting for an excuse to escape the cartoon.

“No,” Atelia cuts in without even looking at him, one hand lifting in a stop gesture. “Sit.”

“Why?” He pauses mid-rise.

“Because,” she shrugs, glancing over her shoulder now, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of her mouth, “This is ladies’ stuff.”

“Piking wine?” Enzo looks personally offended. “Since when?”

“Since now,” she replies easily, already moving toward the kitchen.

Blue perks up immediately.

“I’m a lady,” she announces, wriggling slightly in Robert’s hold. “I want to come.”

Atelia slows just enough to glance back, her eyes flicking over Blue with a small, assessing smile.

“Grown-up ladies’ stuff,” she amends.

Blue gasps softly, scandalized.

“I’m almost grown,” she argues.

“Almost is not enough,” Atelia shoots back.

“Tell her.” Blue turns to Robert like he’s the final authority.

I don’t hear what he says because I’m already moving, a small smile slipping out, and something lighter dallying briefly in my chest as I follow Atelia toward the kitchen.

Behind me, Blue’s voice carries, still negotiating her way into a world she’s not allowed into yet.

We enter the luxurious kitchen, and the noise from the living room is softer here

Atelia doesn’t give me time to absorb the scenery. She moves straight to the built-in wine wall, already reaching for a bottle.

“Come,” she beckons warmly, like we’ve done this before. “Help me decide what we’re drinking next.”

I walk over, my arms folding loosely like I need something to hold onto.

She pulls one bottle out, tilts it, and examines it.

“Since you’re about to become a permanent fixture,” she adds casually, like she’s talking about furniture, “I might as well get to know your taste.”