Page 4 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

The lights feel harsher now, less magical, more… glaring. Like they’re exposing something I’ve been trying not to look at too closely.

I exhale slowly, pushing past a group gathered around a roulette table, past a woman in a glittering dress who laughs like she’s a hyena.

The bar comes into view, dimmer than the rest of the casino, a place where the noise dulls just enough to think.

I slide onto a stool, smoothing my dress automatically, grounding myself in small, controlled movements.

The bartender approaches, moving like she’s done this a thousand times tonight alone.

There’s an ease to her, the kind that comes from knowing exactly how much attention to give and when to pull back.

Up close, she’s a contradiction.

Ink winds along her arms, disappearing beneath the sleeve of her black shirt like secrets she doesn’t bother explaining.

A small ring glints through her septum. Another catches the light at her brow. Studs trace one ear, climbing up the cartilage in a neat line.

Her expression stays neutral, but not cold. Just… contained. Professional in a way that keeps a clear line between herself and everyone else in the room.

“Drink?” She asks, her voice even, already reaching for the glass she knows she’ll need.

“Yes.” I nod, clearing my throat.

“What can I get you?”

I open my mouth to answer, then pause. To my right, a glass catches my attention.

It’s… simple, at first glance. Lowball, clear. But the liquid inside glows faintly amber under the light, a twist of citrus curled perfectly along the rim, ice cut so clean it looks sculpted rather than dropped in.

It doesn’t belong to the chaos of this place.

It looks intentional.

I glance up.

And the owner of the drink is already looking at me.

And not in the casual, passing way most men do here, their attention slipping the moment something brighter comes along.

His gaze is pinned. Unhurried. Like he noticed me long before I noticed him and decided to wait.

It’s… disarming.

There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t belong here, the kind that makes the room feel like it’s overcompensating. Lights flashing harder, laughter a little too loud, everything trying and failing to compete with the way he simply… exists.

Dark suit sits on him like it understands the assignment. And then there’s his hair. Silver, like winter chose a favorite and stayed. Swept back with every strand in place.

And his eyes are Hazel, but threaded with gold that catches just enough light to feel alive. Not warm or inviting.

They’re assessing.

Holding.

Keeping.

They don’t move off me like he’s already chosen what matters.

And unfortunately for me… It’s me.