Page 99 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

“Story?” I almost choke the words out.

I know what that means. It’s routine. Familiarity. A place I haven’t been in years.

She leans in slightly, pressing closer.

“You will read for me, Robert?” She adds, quieter now, like she’s negotiating. Then she turns again to Christine with that same lowering of eyes and conspiratorial tone from earlier slipping into her voice. “Can he?”

The room holds its breath for a second.

Aisha looks at Christine. Christine looks at me. I look at the… Nothing.

Christine hesitates enough for it to be noticed, then exhales.

“Yes.” She nods, waving a hand dismissively.

“Yes!” Blue beams.

I rise with her, her weight both nothing and everything.

Her head drops against my shoulder as we move, the energy that filled her a second ago draining just as quickly, her grip loosening slightly against my shirt.

By the time we step out of the sitting room, her breathing has already changed to something slower and deeper.

I glance down.

Her lashes are resting against her cheeks, her mouth slightly parted, her body completely surrendered to sleep like the walk from the couch to her room was all it took.

I smile, carrying her the rest of the way while Christine leads.

Her room is different. Everything is smaller, lighter, built for her. The air holds that faint scent of powder and something sweet, something that doesn’t belong anywhere in my world.

I step inside carefully like the space demands it.

Christine is already beside me, moving without needing to be told, her presence slipping in close as I lower Blue onto the bed.

Blue doesn’t stir, even when her head leaves my shoulder. Not even when the mattress dips under her weight.

I take a second longer than necessary before I let go.

Christine steps in immediately, pulling the blanket up over her, smoothing it down with practiced hands, tucking the edges just enough to keep her in place without disturbing her sleep.

Her fingers brush gently over Blue’s hair. She leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, baby,” she whispers.

It’s quiet, but it fills the room. And it fills something in me, like oil slipping through cracks, mending them.

I’ve seen this before. I’ve lived it. But in a different room and with a different woman.

My wife was standing where Christine stands now, softer than anything the world outside ever allowed her to be, her voicecarrying the same warmth as she tucked our son, Ariel, night after night.

I used to stand like this. Right here. Watching. Thinking I could have both. That I could build something dangerous out there and come back to something safe here.

That the two worlds wouldn’t collide.

My heart folds as the memory comes back to haunt me.

Because I know how that ended. I know what it cost.