Page 111 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“It is exactly what this is.” She mimics the gesture.

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees immediately, stepping in front of me just enough to slow me down without blocking me completely. “Because this time, you know better.”

“Which is how I know not to get close enough.”

“Robert, life is…” she gestures loosely, like the situation standing between us “Life is giving you something you lost…”

“Move.” I cut her.

“You have a child, Robert.”

“I have a child!” I lose it, the words hitting her face, but she doesn’t flinch. “Can you not see the fucking problem in that sentence?”

“So your grand solution is to stay away?” Her brows lift slightly.

“You’re coming up to speed.” I exhale through my nose, stepping around her this time.

She follows.

“You don’t get to fund your way out of being a father,” she continues, her voice gaining edge now, firm enough to bite. “You don’t get to throw money at them and miss out on this opportunity.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is exactly what you’re doing.”

“For fuck’s sake, Atelia.” I reach the bathroom and push the door open. “Find something else to worry about.” I step inside.

“So what happens when she grows up?” She keeps going, right behind me now. “You seriously will have no problem not being a part of her life?”

“You want me to braid her hair?” I turn the tap on.

Water rushes out, loud enough to fill the space, but not loud enough to drown her out.

“I want you to allow yourself to be happy again.” She shrieks, stepping closer. “You deserve that.”

I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whitening from the force.

“Robert…”

“That’s it.” I turn and push the door, slamming it between us.

Still, her words hover, lodged somewhere between my ribs and my skull, repeating, reshaping themselves into something I don’t want to hear twice.

I turn the tap higher and water rushes harder, spilling into the tub. I stand there for a second, my hands braced against the sink, my head bowed, breathing through my nose to silence the noise.

Then I straighten, peeling everything away in a rhythm that feels more like shedding than undressing.

I step into the tub, the water already heating up. I lower myself into it anyway and let it take me.

I pull one knee up, my hand slipping under one foot to brush over skin that doesn’t feel as it should.

The skin there is raised, with scars running along my calf, scattered, some thin, some thicker, but all familiar in a way that doesn’t need remembering.

I trace one from start to finish.

Then another, the movement replaying the memory of all the lighters I’ve pressed into my skin. All the times I burned my feet, craving something louder than what was inside my head. Something that could match it. Or drown it.