Page 11 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter nine

Blackwell

A fter a call with our doctor, he insisted that I bring her into his office for X-rays, claiming it sounded like a fracture.

The moment we arrived, I got pulled into a call that couldn’t wait, so I begrudgingly sent her in without me. They’re closed inside the room longer than I like. My phone call was ten minutes long, and I feel like I’ve been waiting even longer.

They finally emerge, and Sinclair is moving slowly with this hazy, dazed grin. “Doc gave me the good stuff,” she lazily drawls.

I snort despite myself, then turn my attention to the doctor.

“Ms. Ortiz has a significant fracture. It’ll require surgery for it to heal correctly.

” His eyes linger on Sinclair with a sympathetic look that puts me on edge.

My fingers flex at my sides. “May I have a private word with you?” he asks cautiously.

I glance back down at Sinclair as she sits there, eyes glazed and smiling at nothing in particular. With a sign, I nod and signal to Hawk to stay with her. He, like Scout—sharp, loyal, unshakable —is one of the only ones I would trust with keeping an eye on her while off the estate.

The doctor takes us to his office down the hall and shuts us inside. I drop into a chair as he takes his seat behind the desk with a large manila envelope. “Do you have access to Ms. Ortiz’s medical history?”

“I haven’t gotten to that yet.”

He looks hesitant before sliding the folder towards me.

I pick it up and open it to several radiographs of what I assume is Sinclair’s.

He’s quiet as I flip through them one by one.

Rods, pins, scar tissue, and abnormalities in the bone.

Arms, legs, ribs. Most aren’t fully healed, and hardly anything is untouched.

My face scorches with anger, and my hands begin to shake by the time I’m finished. Slamming the folder shut, the edges crumble under my coiled fists. “Did you ask her about any of this?” I grind out the words.

He rigorously shakes his head with wide eyes. “No, sir. I know it isn’t my place. But it would help if I could have some insight into her past surgeries.”

“Help with what, exactly?” I ask defensively.

“Well, for one, the surgery on her hand,” he explains carefully.

“But beyond that, it’s clear several of these injuries were either ignored or handled by someone who did not know what they were doing.

It’s not just damage. It’s damage layered over damage.

” He pauses and lowers his voice. “This is evidence of long-term trauma. She’s likely been living with chronic pain for years. ”

I study him hard, searching for any sign of deception, but I see none. Only concern. “When does she need the surgery?”

“Once the swelling goes down some, I can fit her in.”

“I’ll get what I can on her medical history and let you know when we’re ready for surgery.”

I stand with the folder, the weight of it heavier than I expected. It begins to burn my hand as if I can feel every break, every tear through it.

I haven’t said a word since we left the office, but Sinclair easily fills the silence on the car ride.

She’s humming some aimless tune, and drums her fingers on her thigh as if there’s a song playing only she can hear.

Her body is slouched against the window, and all I can think is how human she seems right now.

“Blackwell?” she says my name on a long, contented sigh.

“Yes?”

“Do you love me?”

My head snaps to the side to gawk at her as she rolls her head in my direction, eyes barely focused. “What?” I practically splutter.

She sleepily grins. “Just checking.” I narrow my eyes on her wondering what the fuck she’s going on about when she bursts out in giggles like it’s the funniest thing. “The look on your face,” she mutters, then starts messing with the hem of her shirt, so easily distracted.

The heaviness of the folder in my lap is too much to bear. I put it in the space between us and run my hand down my face with a sigh.

She gasps, causing me to jolt upright, searching for the danger. “Can we stop there?” she asks with childlike enthusiasm, her face nearly smashed against the glass.

Once my heart jumps back down from my throat, I frown and look around. “Where?”

“There!” she points to some fast-food joint now behind us.

“For what?”

She looks at me and tries to roll her eyes, but they only flutter. “For food, duh .” I let out yet another sigh. “I’ve never had fast food before,” she pouts.

I frown at her. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” She giggles at her own joke, making me snort under my breath. “I wasn’t allowed,” she says lightly.

With that small confession, I can’t say no to her. I tell Hawk to turn us around and take us to the fast-food place. “You sure about this?” I mutter.

“I heard it tastes like shame and regret. I want it.”

I stare at her, and a part of me needs to know what it was that I saw in her folder. Demand to know about every single scar on her. But the other part of me knows to stay quiet. She’s so stupidly soft and innocent right now, I need to let her bleed herself all over the car.

We pull up to the window, and I ask her what she wants. Her reply, “Everything.”

“You’re going to throw up.”

“Worth it,” she responds with a full-on grin.

My head is pounding by the time we walk through the front doors. But Sinclair is still high on painkillers and sugar, floating on whatever is keeping her like this.

The second she spots my brothers, she gasps and makes a beeline for them. “Oh my God, Harlan!” He raises an amused brow and lets her throw herself on him as if they’ve been friends for years. “I had a cheeseburger!” she proudly announces, slightly swaying on her feet. “From a fast-food place.”

He helps keep her steady while adoringly smiling down at her.

I clench my jaw so tight I can feel it in my ears.

I know their friendship is innocent, at least on his end, but when she grabs hold of his biceps and grins up at him, their proximity and familiarity with one another has me wanting to put them both through a damn wall.

Harlan shoots me a look, silently begging for help. “And how was it? Everything you hoped and dreamed?” He plays along, voice and demeanor light.

She shakes her head like a child, and I can imagine the way her petite nose is scrunched up like she did when she took her first bite of the cheap food.

“That was not meat. But the French fries were okay.” She shrugs, then whips around to face me.

“Can we have tacos for dinner?” she asks, completely unaware of how both my brothers are desperately trying not to laugh.

I rub my aching forehead. “Sure,” I mutter to appease her. “Harlan, will you escort Sinclair to her room?”

“But I’m not tired,” she pouts, bottom lip jutting out.

“You will be.” The meds will have her on her ass soon. “Meet me when you’re done,” I say to Harlan.

I throw myself down onto one of the sitting chairs in an unoccupied room and slap the thick folder down on the coffee table. I feel like I’ve been dragged through hell, blindfolded and barefoot, with that woman lighting a match at every turn.

Dane joins me only a moment later. “What’s going on?” He takes a seat across from me with a curious look.

“She broke her hand. Going to need surgery.” He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me. “We were sparring.”

“Shit happens,” he says casually and unconcerned.

If only it were that simple.

“Pour us a drink, will you?” I utter under my breath.

Dane rises with a grunt and goes to pour for two. We sit silently with our drinks while he scrolls through his phone, and I stare at the envelope like it’s a loaded weapon sitting between us.

My mind continues to picture every pin, every break, every internal scar in print.

Just as Dane grumbles something about going to find Harlan, he steps into the room. “Sorry. Thought it best to remove the alcohol from her room. Had to wait until she was distracted.”

“What was she doing when you left?” I ask.

He chuckles and steals Dane’s drink. “Talking nonsense, high as a kite. Got her into bed, though. Probably passed out by now.”

“So?” Dane starts. “What’s going on?”

I nod at the envelope. “I want the Ortizs gone.”

Dane reaches for the folder and flips it open. His expression shifts instantly as he starts leafing through the scans.

“What’s that?” Harlan asks.

“Radiographs,” Dane mutters, and his eyes cut to me. “These Sinclair’s?”

I nod once. It has Harlan’s curiosity piqued and on his feet. Dane takes a seat as Harlan peers over his shoulder, watching him flip through one after another. The look on his face has me insane.

“Was she in an accident or something?” Harlan asks with genuine concern.

“I don’t know,” I murmur.

Dane’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? What did she tell you?” With Dane distracted, Harlan steals the folder from his hands and takes it with him to sit down.

“I haven’t asked her about it yet,” I say lowly. Harlan only glances up at me, but Dane looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. If only they knew. “You saw the state she was in,” I snap. “Who knows what kind of bullshit she’d come up with?”

The lie is for myself. The truth is, I didn’t trust myself to open that box quite yet. I’m not sure if her lies would infuriate me more than the truth or not. Either answer would have me uncontrollable.

I avoid their stares and sip my drink while the room grows deathly silent.

“Does Baba know?” Dane finally asks.

“Not yet. I wanted to talk with you both first.”

As they flip through the pages of her past, I feel her presence in the back of my mind like a brand. Right now, she’s upstairs, drugged, listless. But all I can think about is her bones snapping and pieced back together, over and over again.

The drinks do nothing for the pressure behind my eyes. Not enough to help dull the weight of what I saw in those scans. The sound of her laughter from earlier—light and drug-laced like it belonged to someone else entirely—still echoes.

Eventually, I leave my brothers behind as I go and take the stairs two at a time. I hesitate for only a second before turning the knob and entering her bedroom without knocking.

I’m instantly overwhelmed by the smell of her. The only light comes from the dim-lit lamp on her side table, like I’ve noticed a few other times. It solidifies my belief that she doesn’t like the dark. She pretends to come from it, but in reality, she hates it. Possibly even afraid of it.

Her limbs are tangled in the sheets as if she tried to fight sleep but lost. My eyes stray down to her bandaged hand clutched to her chest as if even in her sleep, she knows it needs protection.

It almost feels wrong to see her like this. There’s something cruel about the way she looks when she’s unconscious. To witness her so exposed. No armor. No sharp comebacks. No harrowing smirk present. She’s unguarded and peaceful.

She’s simply Sinclair.

And it wrecks me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. As I continue to watch her, my blood continues to boil.

What did they do to you?

How the fuck do I decode every lie and every scar like it’s a goddamn blueprint?