Page 177 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Christine

Robert’s coastal estate feels different in the morning.

It feels less intimidating but it’s still massive. Still absurdly expensive in the way billionaire homes always are.

But I love to see it under the soft brush of sunlight. See the ocean endlessly drift beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows in silver-blue beneath the morning haze, with waves crashing far below the cliffs with the same rhythm I’ve been waking up to for over two weeks now.

Two weeks.

That’s how long we’ve been here.

Long enough for my stitches to stop pulling every time I move too fast. Long enough for the bruises blooming across my ribs and thighs to fade from violent purples into weak yellows. Long enough for the nightmares to become less frequent.

I sigh, standing near the archway leading into one of the sitting rooms, coffee warming my palms while Blue’s tutor sits across from her with enough patience to qualify for sainthood.

“What’s seven plus four?” The woman asks gently.

Blue gasps dramatically like she’s just been asked to solve world hunger.

“That’s too many numbers,” she complains immediately.

I bite back a laugh into my mug.

“You think?” The tutor somehow manages to keep a straight face. “I think you can do it.”

“I don’t think so.” Blue narrows her eyes suspiciously at the paper in front of her.

The nanny nearby coughs to hide her laugh.

I turn slightly, pretending to admire the absurdly high ceilings instead because if Blue catches me smiling, she’ll perform harder.

That’s another thing healing gave her back.

Her chaos.

The first few days after she woke up, she barely spoke above a whisper. Every tiny sound startled me awake. Every cough made my chest seize.

Now she’s back to arguing with everyone, and even asking security guards deeply invasive questions.

My gaze drifts back toward her anyway.

She’s sitting cross-legged now, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration while she writes the answer down with painful slowness.

She writes eleven backward with full confidence, and something about it warms my chest.

Because there was a moment I thought I’d never see this again.

There was a moment I was scared shitless that I’ll never hear her voice again or watch her exist so carelessly inside a room.

The thought still sneaks up on me sometimes, like a broken glass hidden beneath water.

My fingers cramp slightly around the mug, then ease when I hear footsteps echo through the hall.

They’re fast, purposeful, and several at once.

I turn to Robert and Enzo rounding the corner mid-conversation, both dressed in dark suits, phones in hand, and security trailing several feet behind them.