Page 12 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter ten

Blackwell

I sit there, jaw tight, nerves fraying, while stewing in silence, waiting for her to come around.

Two goddamn days since the doctor gave me that folder full of her past no one has had the decency to care about. For two days, the questions have been rotting me from the inside like poison.

She begins to stir, her lashes fluttering as her face softens, dazed and delicate.

I move to alert the nurse. She and the doctor sweep in to check her vitals, murmuring updates, and making notes.

I step back, out of their way, but not out of reach.

Keeping a close eye on everything they do.

Every beep from the monitors, every flick of their pen, every touch to Sinclair.

I’ve sat in silence. Bit my tongue. Swallowed my questions like broken glass. But time has not dulled the fury. And I won’t know peace until I get some answers. She’s out of surgery and lucid enough. And I am done waiting.

As soon as the room is once again cleared, I take the chair next to her, and we’re both quiet.

I clear my throat. “How are you feeling?”

She turns her head with this dreamy look on her face as if she had no idea I was here. “Hi,” she whispers with a slow grin.

My eyebrows twitch. “How are you feeling?” I repeat.

“Oh, I’m good.” Her speech is slowed. “Like real good.”

My lips twitch. “Well, surgery went well.” She giggles in response. “But I’m sure you’re used to this,” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

Her smile remains as she faces forward and shrugs her shoulders. “Had a few.”

I lean forward. There’s a part of me that wants to leave her be. That maybe I should give her some more time, but perhaps this is the only time. Now, when she’s too raw to perform, too tired to lie through her teeth.

“Tell me about them.”

“Which one?” Her head lolls to the side, eyes heavy-lidded as they find mine. She’s still groggy, but so effortlessly beautiful that the steam inside me slightly cools.

“Start with the rod in your arm.”

She squints with a distant look. “I can’t remember. They kind of all blend together.”

My jaw flexes. “Then tell me who caused it.”

She lets out a quiet yet bitter laugh, staring off at nothing. “They all blend together, too.”

Her aloofness, her indifference, it grates against my skin like razors. But she’s talking, so I push forward. “Fine. Then tell me what you do remember. Who hurt you?”

She chuckles, and I can’t understand it. “Everyone has hurt me,” she says softly.

“Who, Sinclair? Your brothers? Your father?”

“It was nice not being on the receiving end for once. To be the one spilling blood.”

I frown. “Who?”

“Your goons,” she exacerbates. “Your beefy goons that were too scared to hit back. It wasn’t exactly a fair fight, but it felt good pounding on someone,” she mutters.

“Is that how it happened? The break?”

“How what happened?” she yawns dramatically.

“Your injuries,” I drag out through my teeth.

“Sparring,” she trails off as if she’s fading on me.

“Sinclair,” I say, demanding her attention.

She looks at me once again and smiles. A real smile. One where there’s warmth in her eyes and no malice in her grin. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

I try to hide the heat in my face and wipe away my smile with a hand. “You’re pretty cute like this,” I mutter.

“Like what?”

“Vulnerable. Sweet.”

Her eyes widen like I slapped her. “Sweet? I don’t think anyone has ever called me sweet .”

“Well, no one has ever called me cute .”

She giggles and fuck me if it doesn’t jab at something in my chest. “It’s fun pressing your buttons.”

I shake my head. “And you have quickly adapted to them.”

“I learned from the best.”

The levity drains from the room, and I inch closer. “Tell me,” I say as gently as I’m capable of.

“It was only a small fracture,” she shrugs with glazed eyes and a smile on her porcelain face. “I should’ve stayed out of their way.” She flops her head side to side. “But I’m a glutton for punishment.”

Her deluded answer has me reeling with frustration. “What was only a fracture?”

“My arm, duh .” She sighs.

“Okay, so how did you end up needing a rod in your arm?”

She groans like a child not getting their way. “I told you,” she whines. “I had a broken arm and didn’t stay out of their way. I still fought them.”

“They let you fight with a broken arm.”

She snorts, looking away again. “ Let me? They were chomping at the bit, seeing any weakness from me, and they went rabid.” She flexes her hand on the topic of conversation—her arm. “They made sure to turn that fracture into mutilation.”

I hold my breath. “Your brothers.” She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t deny it. “And your father. He let them?”

“ Let them,” she echoes, her voice trailing off. “He encouraged them.”

“What about your sister?”

She stares up at the ceiling. “She kept her head down . Stayed out of their way ,” she says as if mocking someone. I’m guessing her sister. “She took everything.”

I frown. “Took what?”

“Anything. Everything. She just…took it. I thought she liked it.” Her blinks are too long as she’s quickly fading now. “Guess not.”

She’s struggling to remain conscious, but I need more. “Tell me about Royce.”

She doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, the chill in her voice is worse than her silence. “Someone should really put that dog down. He’s sick.”

I lean in even closer, my tone careful. “What did he do to you, Sinclair?”

The light in her eyes flickers as she yawns again, slow and heavy. Her eyelids droop, and I know my time with this docile version of Sinclair has ended. “Rest, Clair. We’ll talk more later.”

She flutters her lashes at me, and I can make out all the colors that make up her hazel eyes. “No one has ever called me Clair before.”

That hits hard, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I squeeze at the back of my neck where the tension is building. “I don’t know where it came from,” I murmur.

“You have to have friends to have a nickname. I wasn’t allowed friends. Only a list of approved acquaintances. I hated all of them.” Her words are meant to be sharp, but they come out slurred.

I snort. “Yeah, I heard how you scared them all off.”

“It was certainly entertaining. Until it wasn’t.” She sighs. “I met your cousin Kamea once before our engagement party. Don’t tell her this, but I didn’t hate her.” Her lips are slightly curved, but her blinks grow slower.

“Wouldn’t want anyone to know there’s a heart in there.”

She stares back at me. “I could say the same for you. You don’t have to be here.”

“You’re my fiancée and my responsibility,” I say robotically.

She gives up the last of her energy to smile. “I fucking love your lies,” she slurs.

“Why?” I ask instead of what.

“Because it’s easy to see the truth beneath them.”

I’m silent as her eyes finally succumb to the fatigue, and her breathing has already evened out. But as soon as it’s quiet, I go back to plotting.

The only other thing I can seem to think about other than Sinclair lately is the sweet revenge I will have on her family. Plotting, fantasizing, mapping out their extermination.