Page 88 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“It’s not denial either.”

We hold that for a second. Two. Three.

And then, footsteps coming up the terrace stairs break the tension.

Enzo’s head turns first. Mine follows a second after.

The footsteps don’t hesitate or slow down at the top of the stairs.

Soon enough, Atelia steps onto the terrace, her presence cutting through the space without needing to announce itself.

She’s already dressed for the day, composed, not a detail out of place. Two cups of something balanced in her hands, the steam curling lazily into the morning air.

Her eyes find me first. Then they drag to Enzo briefly.

“Hmm.” She dismisses him. She struts straight toward us. “Morning,” she throws, handing me one of the cups without breaking stride.

I take it, my nose crinkling at the green, slimy content.

Enzo reaches out for the other one, not even pretending to ask. But she doesn’t give it to him or even look at him.

She instead lifts it to her lips and takes a slow sip while Enzo’s hand stays suspended in the air for a second.

“You never change.” He scoffs, dropping his hand.

She lowers the cup, finally acknowledging him, one brow lifting slightly.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fiesty.”

“Yes,” she replies simply.

“What brings you out here?”

“It’s Monday morning, I know you will be on the rooftop working out.” She shrugs, taking another sip. “So I came.”

“Typical.” Enzo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he steps back.

“On brand,” she counters.

The exchange drops just as quickly as it started.

She turns back to me, her gaze lingering a second longer this time, not just looking but reading. Taking in what’s not being said, what’s simmering just beneath the surface.

“You left the reception early,” she starts.

“I had what I needed,” I reply, bringing the cup to my lips.

“On a Saturday night?” Her eyes narrow slightly. “You haven't had one of those in years.”

She tilts her head, considering me, then steps closer, closing the distance just enough to make the conversation private without making it obvious.

“Does this have anything to do with a certain Christine?” She pokes, her voice lower now.

“Let it go,” Enzo mutters from behind, but she ignores him completely.

“Does it?” Her focus stays on me. “Heard she was the planner,” she continues, watching for a reaction that doesn’t come. “And I was told you seemed rather… occupied.”