Page 1 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Sinclair

I glance around at my family, cloaked in black, their faces taut with pretense as they gather around my sister’s coffin.

All dry eyes. Not a tear in sight, except for my mother’s. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cry, but I know better than to mistake it for grief. That would require a heart, and I’ve finally determined she does not have one.

I used to believe otherwise. Used to beg for signs of softness. But hope is a fragile thing, and mine died the moment she forgot my thirteenth birthday.

And that was only months ago.

Since then, I’ve accepted the truth. I am nothing to her. I am nothing to any of them. My mother is no different than the men who torment me—my brothers, my father. Blood ties don’t mean love in this family. They mean power, silence, and obedience.

When I let go of that last ember of hope, I felt…free. Liberated. As if the invisible tethers binding my heart to theirs finally snapped. I was no longer a prisoner to the idea of family. My heart now beats to a dark rhythm, one that doesn’t belong to humanity. One that belongs to survival.

But even untethered, just as they are, I’m still an outcast.

So, my mother’s tears aren’t for my sister.

They’re for the idea of her. For losing the perfect daughter.

The paragon of one. She was the oldest of us four siblings.

Not only was the nine-year age gap a significant separation, but she and I could not be more different.

She was everything they wanted. Obedient, docile, blank.

A vessel for legacy, for marriage contracts, for silence.

Gwendolyn was never my enemy, but she was never my shield either. And once upon a time, I was her shadow. Her wide-eyed little sister, trailing after her like she hung the stars. But that innocence quickly died.

She never joined in on the cruelty, but when the abuse escalated, I waited for her protection. It never came. She stood on the sidelines, quiet, composed, pretending not to see. Then later when the bruises bloomed and the blood dried, she’d patch my wounds in secret.

One month ago…

“When will you ever learn, Sinclair?” she muttered as she wiped the blood from my lip, a slight shake to her hand as she started in on my knuckles. “Keep your head down and stay out of their way. As soon as they get the smallest rise out of you, they become rabid. Like two dogs with a bone.”

“I refuse to be submissive.” I couldn’t keep the accusation out of my tone.

Her eyes darted to the floor in shame, and I almost felt bad. “It’s how you survive.”

She didn’t survive.

My sister’s death doesn’t bring me sorrow. It brings fire, an unforgiving blaze that’s been smoldering in me for years, now erupting into something untamable. It doesn’t destroy me, it reforges me into something sharp, unyielding, and nothing like what my family ever intended.

There are no warm memories here. Extended family and people I’ve never met approach me with their monotone condolences. None of them offered comfort or embraced me. It would almost be weird if anyone did. I’m not even sure if I ever remember being hugged.

After the funeral, we return to the estate to host the usual round of mourners and snakes in tailored suits. I want to disappear, to crawl into bed and vanish into silence. But voices from my father’s office have me switching routes.

I turn toward the west wing instead, where I know I can eavesdrop. There’s a vent in a bathroom directly above his office. I discovered it last year after watching a movie. Turns out, it actually works.

I enter the empty guest room and close the door behind me. Then, going into the bathroom, I lie down beside the vent and press my ear to the grate. Telling from the subject of discussion, it’s the Golzars.

My stomach coils. My sister’s death has obviously thrown a wrench in the arrangement with Blackwell Golzar, their oldest son. He was supposed to marry Gwen, sealed in blood and money.

My father’s voice, that stings like a blade, cuts through the vent. “I still have another daughter.”

My blood runs cold.

“No,” another male’s voice snaps. “I will not marry a child.”

Blackwell Golzar, I presume. The voice didn’t sound so cruel in nature, but disgusted. Furious even.

Though I am no child, I take no offense. I only feel relief.

Then one of my brothers opens his foul mouth. I brace for the usual toxic chorus, but something unexpected happens. Blackwell uses his booming voice to shut him down, and the room falls silent for a beat. I’ve never heard anyone talk to my brothers that way, and live to tell the tale.

I’m sure I will regret my choice later, but I have to see him. Blackwell. I’ve seen him only in passing, but I never really looked. He was just another man in a suit then. Another predator-in-waiting. But not now.

I bolt down the hallway, forcing myself to slow before I hit the stairs. I descend casually, trying not to look like my heart is hammering out of my chest.

I stop and post up outside of the office and begin to pace, pretending to be lost in thought. Despite every internal warning, I wait with anxiety and excitement.

The door swings open, and he comes rolling out like a storm. Shoulders tense, eyes ablaze. He stops the second he sees me. I stand there like a deer in headlights as he stares back.

My eyes break from his to study the rest of him, knowing I only have a second or two to do so. Dark eyes, nearly black, framed by thick lashes. His hair almost as dark, and rich skin from his Persian roots on his father’s side.

He’s handsome, objectively. But more than that. He’s formidable. A grown man, and I’m barely a teenager.

His gaze rakes over me with something like contempt, or maybe horror, scowling before turning away without a word. Only a thunderous silence and the slam of the front door echoing in his wake.

But for a single second, he looked at me. Really looked at me as if I weren’t invisible. And for the first time in my life, someone saw me.

I didn’t mean to end up in the kitchen. I just needed to get away. From the murmuring guests, the cold stares. My feet carried me on autopilot until I found myself standing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights and the scent of roasting meat.

The clatter of pans and rhythmic shuffle of prep work came to a halt the moment they noticed me. They stopped and stared.

Then, like someone had hit the play button, they turned away. Back to their chopping and stirring, murmuring to each other in voices too low for me to hear. Pretending as if I weren’t even there. Which I appreciate right now. I don’t want eyes on me. It’s why I wandered in here in the first place.

I drift further in, hands behind my back. I peek into a simmering pot, pass a tray of neatly cut vegetables. Floating through until I end up next to a man who drew me to him.

He’s tall, but not like the men I’m used to seeing.

Older than my father, but not yet greying.

The only one who hadn’t looked at me like the others when I entered the room.

Not with suspicion, as if I were here to make trouble.

Not with pity for the girl being raised by animals.

He looked at me with calm, quiet curiosity.

I feel his eyes on me, and I learned long ago to never back down to a stare down. So, I meet his eyes with mine, unwavering. But I almost lose the contest when he gives me a small, but warm, smile. It’s not something I’m used to.

“You hungry, little shadow?” he asks. Simply asks . Doesn’t lash or bark.

My breath catches in my throat. I don’t verbally respond. Only nod my head once.

“My name’s Baxter.”