Page 11 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“There’s always a first time.” I take my seat on the desk.

She studies me a second too long.

Not obvious about it or curious in any harmless way. It’s intenser than that. Like she’s peeling back layers I haven’t offered, looking for something that slipped.

She won’t find it.

She never does.

“What changed?” She asks, finally. Her voice is smooth, but there’s weight behind it. Intent.

“Nothing changed.” My answer comes easily.

Too easy.

“What is it about her?” She presses, stepping closer, like proximity might make me more honest.

It won’t.

“You didn’t come here to talk about her, did you?” I cut in, redirecting without raising my voice.

She pauses. She doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze stays on me, knowing.

She takes a sip and adjusts.

We move into business after that. Numbers. Shipments. Expansions. The pulse of operations that run through everything I own, everything I control.

Yet, there’s a thread of distraction woven through it.

A face. A reaction. A woman who should have been forgettable, but isn’t.

A knock interrupts us.

This one is more urgent.

“That will be all.” I round it up.

She doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she lifts her glass, takes a slow sip like whoever is on the other side can wait, her eyes still on me over the rim.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The knock comes again. Slightly firmer this time.

She exhales through her nose, setting the glass down with a soft click.

“Persistent,” she huffs, just this side of dramatic.

That’s Atelia.

Bratty when she wants to be. Intelligent when she needs to be. She’s been in my life long enough to forget where the line is and bold enough not to care. One of the few people who doesn’t adjust herself around me.

I’ve never asked her to.

Wouldn’t.

She’s… constant.

And I don’t part with what’s mine.