Page 129 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Chapter Twenty-One

Christine

I hate myself for being this weak.

The thought loops in my head like a torture circle, sitting at the back of my throat like something bitter I can’t spit out or swallow, as I push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is dim in that soft, lived-in way. It has the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just… rested.

I hear the sound of a cartoon drifting from the living room, luminous voices dulled by distance.

I close the door behind me carefully, like noise might break something fragile.

My body feels off.

It's dulled in places that shouldn’t be. Lit up in places that should be dulled out. Like something in me got rearranged and didn’t bother putting itself back properly.

I drop my bag by the door without looking, my fingers lingering on the strap a second too long before I let it go.

I should feel tired from work, if I did any.

From the day, if it was my usual kind of day.

From running around, thinking, planning, pretending everything is normal.

But I did none of that.

After I gave Robert an ultimatum he didn’t take, he ordered something from his restaurant and made sure I ate before I left to attend to work problems.

I stayed in that van for hours, too tired to go back to work, too raw to come home.

I exhale slowly, struggling to push it out of my system.

It doesn’t go.

And it hurts in places my hands cannot reach to soothe.

The burn is in my chest, dragging lower, right where it meets my stomach like something is hooked into my insides, pulling at my organs, while my heart refuses to let go.

It's a cruel joke.

Out of everyone, it had to be him. I had to fall for the one man who comes with darkness. With history. With things I don’t understand but can already feel colliding with my life.

The one man I can’t seem to control myself around.

I drag a hand down my face, shuffling my mood before I step further in.

The living room comes into view.

And everything inside me… pauses.

Aisha is curled into the corner of the couch, swallowed halfway by a duvet she clearly didn’t bother fixing properly. Her head is tilted at an angle that’s going to hurt when she wakes up, one arm tucked under it, the other draped lazily over Blue.

Blue is folded into her. One leg thrown across Aisha’s lap, her face buried into her chest, her fingers curled in the fabric like she fell asleep holding on.

I stand there looking.

Because this is what makes sense. This is what I know how to hold.