Page 117 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Tati doesn’t.

“Good morning!” she calls out, all brightness and business as she moves ahead of me, already smoothing down her shirt, already smiling. “Welcome…”

“I’m here for Christine.” Atelia doesn’t break stride.

“Oh.” Tati pauses mid-step, her smile flickering just enough to show she didn’t expect that.

“Hi.” I meet her halfway.

“Hello.” Her gaze lands on me, assessing, not wasting time on anything else.

“It’s alright, Tati,” I glance back briefly. “I’ll take this.”

“Yeah,” Tati nods, stepping back, though her eyes linger a second longer than they should, curiosity sitting right there, barely concealed. “I’ll… be here.”

I turn instead, leading the way toward my office, the familiar path suddenly feeling narrower than it usually does.

Atelia follows, close enough to be felt.

“Welcome.” I push the door open and step inside, moving toward my desk, gesturing lightly toward the chair across from it. “Sit.”

“Thanks.” But she doesn’t sit or even look at it.

She stays by the door for a second, then steps further in, stopping just short of the desk, her gaze fixed on me in a way that feels less like looking and more like measuring.

I hold it, because I’m not about to look away first.

“I don’t get it.” Her head tilts slightly like she’s trying to line something up.

My brows draw together slightly.

“And what exactly don’t you get?” I ask, my voice even, though there’s a thread under it now.

“You.” Her gaze doesn’t falter.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs.

She exhales, like she’s already over her own thought, already done with whatever conclusion she was reaching.

“Never mind,” she waves it off.

And then, finally, she moves.

She crosses the space and sits.

“If you say so.” I stay where I am, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk, waiting.

She watches me for a second more, like she’s recalibrating, like she’s filing away whatever she came in here thinking and replacing it with something more important.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” she starts.

“That’s reassuring,” I reply.

Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stay.

“There’s a cookout this weekend,” she continues. “At Robert’s place.”