Page 10 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter eight

Blackwell

“ B lackwell,” my father’s firm tone cuts through the room.

“Yes?” I look up and realize he’s now standing in front of his desk rather than sitting behind it like he was before.

“I asked how the estate is coming along?”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “It’s nearly done. Possibly a few more months before we can furnish it and move in.”

The words may come out easily enough, but the thought of sharing a home with Sinclair is an idea that still sits strangely in my mind. Like trying to keep a live wire in my pocket, thinking it won’t burn me.

She’s been complacent on the surface, playing along, but I don’t trust it for a second. She’s trying to disarm me like she has done with her security detail.

Every damn day she ditches them, just long enough to stir panic, then resurfaces without apology as if nothing happened. Wearing the same damn expression—boredom mixed with defiance.

She’s not looking for an escape, she’s testing the boundaries. Testing me . It’s all one big game to her. Even if the gate was left wide open, she’d probably stay just to keep everyone trying to figure her out.

It drives me mental never knowing if she’s reaching for her lipstick or a knife.

My father looks down and nods. “Something wrong?” I ask.

He sighs, eyes drifting towards the window. “I have to tell you something.” He pauses and turns his face to me. “It’s about my health.” A knock on the door cuts through the moment. “We can talk about this later.”

“No,” I snap. “Fuck whoever knocked. I want to finish this conversation now.”

He gives a soft laugh as if trying to diffuse the tension. “It’s not that bad. Just some concerns that might have me stepping back more.” The knock persists. “Enter!” I’m left balking at my father as the door opens behind me.

Scout, our head of security, pokes his head inside. “Apologies, sir, but could I have a private word with you, Blackwell?”

My father chuckles as I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. We both know what—or rather, who —this is about. “Excuse me,” I mutter, rising. “I’ll be back later to finish our conversation.”

“Good luck,” my father calls out after me, far too amused.

The woman may not have killed anyone, or made an escape—yet.

But the woman has been a goddamn headache since she step foot through the gates.

Any sane man would have shoved her into the back of a car, sending her right back to where she came from, but I’m a little unhinged myself.

I crave the chaos and what may rise from it.

I join Scout outside of the room, and we put some distance between us and my father’s office before speaking freely. “I hate to bother you with this, again, but it’s become more of a problem,” he says lowly as we walk towards the surveillance room.

I pinch the throbbing at the bridge of my nose, the ache already building. “Just show me.”

It’s no surprise when he leads us to the control room and starts showing me some recent footage of Sinclair in the gym sparring. I’ve already warned her not to turn our men into her chew toys. Clearly, she took that as a challenge.

“And this was yesterday,” Scout says before queuing another clip.

The resentment and anger roll off her in waves. Even through the screen, it’s so palpable and thick enough to taste. Her jaw is locked, her teeth clenched like she’s biting back a scream. Her nostrils flare with every breath, every strike laced with something further than aggression.

She doesn’t spar. She vents. She bleeds through every hit, every kick, every merciless takedown. It’s not discipline. It’s a purge.

Sinclair is undoubtedly lethal. If she weren’t so hell-bent on being a goddamn menace, provoking anyone within a hundred-yard radius, she could channel all that raw skill into something useful. But that would require control, and control is not her style.

The video ends with Sinclair pinning a man to the mat, arm wrenched at an unnatural angle, before snapping it without hesitation. His scream is muted by the recording, but I feel it in my molars. Then she grins. Fucking grins. Flashing those diamond-dusted canines like a trophy.

I swing my gaze to the live feed. There she is, pummeling a punching bag as if it were trying to assault her. Sweat gleaming across her milky skin, tracing the line of her throat down to her chest, glistening as her body moves with fluid, violent rhythm.

“I’ll take care of it,” I mutter and leave.

I make a quick trip to my room to change into some joggers and a T-shirt before heading to our gym. As I enter, there are a few men scattered around the equipment.

“Everyone out,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear without having to yell.

Sinclair pretends not to hear me, her fists still flying as she continues to beat the shit out of the bag as if I’m not even there. I watch as bead after bead of sweat drips down into her skin-tight top, and my jaw clenches.

Her sweat, her fury, her audacity.

It’s maddening.

I’m locked on her as the room clears and I prowl forward, my steps slow and deliberate. Every soft grunt that escapes her each time her fist makes contact ignites something primal in me.

She still refuses to acknowledge me, and it pisses me the fuck off. I want her attention the second I enter the room.

“From now on, when you want to spar, it’s with me.”

“Why?” she says, breathless, unrelenting.

“You know why. We already had this conversation, and you decided to do the exact opposite of what I said.”

She finally drops her arms and turns to me with that signature smile, but I can’t stop watching the sweat trickle down her chest, disappearing between her breasts. Her body isn’t only fit, it’s a masterpiece of muscle and temptation.

She’s built like danger, but disguised as desire.

“How is it my fault your men take it easy on me? If they made it a fair fight, they wouldn’t be walking away bleeding.” She fidgets with her gloves and tape.

“You broke someone’s arm.”

“Shit happens,” she mutters dryly, again avoiding my eyes.

“You bit a chunk out of someone’s chest.”

“I fight dirty.”

“Sinclair,” I say her name sharply, and her eyes slowly roll up to meet mine in defiance. There she is. “From now on, it’s me you spar with.”

One side of her plush lips curls up, and her eyes sparkle in delight. “You want to get in the ring with me, Blackwell?”

“If you want to fight, you fight me,” I repeat.

“Come on,” she purrs. “You’ve been dying to hit me.”

I don’t take the bait. “Not now.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“You’ve been going at this for a while. You’re drained, and I won’t go easy on you. I want you at one hundred percent.”

The look in her eyes turns razor-sharp. “I want to spar now .”

I fight the smile itching my lips. “You sure, joon-kharash? ”

Her nostrils twitch. The endearment I’ve claimed for her hits a nerve. Which is all the reason to keep using it.

She steps inside the ring as if it belongs to her, and I follow suit. We begin the dance, circling each other.

It’s she who strikes first, her flurry too rapid for how long she’d been burning through her stamina. Every movement is crisp and calculated.

A fist lands and blood blooms at the corner of my mouth. I grin through the sting, knowing she wouldn’t hold back. But I underestimated her, and she’s wearing a grin like she knew I would.

“Sorry,” she pants, eyes glittering as she watches me wipe away the blood with the back of my hand. “Am I supposed to be going easy on the mafia prince?”

My grin is slow as I mentally remove the gloves.

I lunge, and even though I said I wouldn’t be easy on her, I still refuse to hit her. So, my strategy is simple: wear her down and wrestle her into submission.

Our arms end up locked, and her sweat is slick against my skin. There’s a static jolting between us with the proximity. She gracefully maneuvers out of our entanglement, and I grunt from the shot she took at my ribs. Not from pain, but shock.

We continue for only a little while, and as soon as I see the steam leaving her, I take that moment to take her down. We hit the mat hard, in a tangle of limbs and sweat. She tries to scramble away, but I’m faster.

Grabbing her thighs, I drag her delicate body underneath me and use mine to weigh her down. When I catch her wrists to crank them over her head and slam them to the mat, there’s a sickening and subtle crunch under my grip.

I pause, but she doesn’t. She uses my hesitation to her advantage and wiggles an arm free to jab me in the chest with her elbow, knocking the wind out of me. But not enough to disarm me.

I recover quickly, regaining control and locking her down again. I bare my teeth with frustration simmering under my skin. “Are you done?” I snip vehemently, panting hard.

She’s grinning up at me, taking in shallow breaths. “Now, that was fucking fun.” There’s a sheen of sweat over her face, and blood trickles out of her nose and into her mouth. I gawk at it in fascination, wanting to follow the trail with my tongue. “Not bad for a mafia prince.”

She darts her tongue out to lap up the blood painting her upper lip, and that’s it for me. I crush my mouth over hers and kiss the fuck out of her. Her blood is as sweet as I imagined it would be, yet it leaves a sizzle on my tongue as I inhale her.

It isn’t tenderness. It’s another battle for the upper hand. Our tongues thrashing with dominance and our bodies undulating with sexual frustration as if I were already deeply rooted inside of her.

As if we’ve done this before.

Made to do this.

Made to fight.

Made to fuck.

The kiss deepens, and finally, the line between battle and surrender disappears entirely.

I can’t get her tight shorts down fast enough and she’s just as eager to hold my heavy cock in her hand as she’s pushing my pants down. I hiss when she wraps her small fingers around my length and gives it a firm pull. Just one touch and I’m throbbing.

Her hands snake under my shirt to roam over my torso. I whip my shirt up over my head and practically fumble with my cock to spear her. I’ve never felt so flustered in my life. Never. It’s beginning to fuck with my head, which in turn enrages me.

Growling through gritted teeth, I grip her dainty wrists in my hands and slam them back above her head as my hips meet her thighs when I bottom out. It’s like I can suddenly breathe, and the fog recedes a little so I can take back control of my own body and take ownership of hers.

She stills for a moment, but when the moment becomes too much, she snaps her head up, seizing my mouth like she’s starving for something only I can give her. My body reacts on primal instinct. My hips take over and piston forward, hard and rough. I kiss her with equal brutality.

The heat her pussy wraps my cock with, it’s a burn I feel all the way up my spine. There’s no moaning or groaning. Only grunting and heavy breathing, as we both refuse to submit to whatever it is trying to dominate us both.

My skin is so hot, I wish I could jump out of it. But it doesn’t stop me from punishing her cunt with violent thrusts. She doesn’t let up with her mouth. She grapples my tongue with more effort, hikes her knees up higher, and her pussy gets tighter.

Her breath is shallow, panting out of her parted lips. Her body locks up under me. Knowing Sinclair is about to come all over my cock, has my blood rushing. That tingle at my spine bursts through my tightening balls, and the moment the muscles in her cunt squeezes, I fucking explode inside of her.

I’m slightly trembling with every last thrust, every spurt like another climax in itself. Fucking hell. Every single thing about this woman is already destroying me.

I feel like I’ve already given up some of my dominance to her, but I think she has too.

The air is thick with the heat we burned through. Our clothing still tangled at our feet, and the sweat cooling on our skin. I can’t move. The sex was hard and fast, but I expended every ounce of energy I had left into it.

“Do you mind letting go of my wrists?” The meekness in her tone has me snapping back in.

I blink down at her, and I’m thrown off guard to see how small she suddenly seems. Her face is blank, but I can see something she’s trying to mask behind her eyes.

My mind finally catches up, and I realize I’m still tightly grasping her wrists.

And one of those hands is swollen, the skin already red and angry-looking.

I let go immediately, and she brings her arms in protectively. “Let me see,” I say lowly.

She hesitates but doesn’t stop me when I gently cradle her hand in mine and rotate her wrist. The wince she tries to hide stabs at me. I knew I felt a crack in her hand when we were wrestling. It’s much worse than I thought.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter and force her up to her feet with me. “We need to get that looked at.”

“I just need to put some ice on it, it’s no big deal,” she tries playing it off, but I’m beginning to see under the ruse of her hardened exterior. She might actually be human, with a heartbeat and everything.

“We’re having the doctor take a look at it,” I say with no room for argument.