Page 13 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter eleven

Sinclair

I conceal the cans, the bowl, and bottled water beneath my jacket like I’m smuggling drugs.

The hedge maze has become my refuge. I spent an entire day mapping it out. Now, it’s where I go to ditch my stalkers Blackwell still assigns to tail me most days. Dumbasses with pecs for brains. I’d hide behind hedges and watch in amusement as they wandered like overgrown toddlers.

Today, for whatever reason, I don’t have anyone following me.

No shadows. No footsteps behind me. No one to lose as I breeze through the maze like I’ve done it a thousand times.

There’s a bench deep inside, tucked in the heart of the greenery.

It’s where the world feels far away, and I can pretend for five minutes I’m free.

It’s also where I met Blender. A cat who looks like she got tossed into a blender and barely survived. She’s mangy and may have the appearance only a mother could love, but she’s sweet and friendly, despite whatever she’s been through.

I say her because I get a survivor vibe from her. Not a masochistic entitled asshole one.

She’s living proof of what people are capable of when there are no consequences. No accident could’ve carved wounds like hers. I would know. Her scars are forged with malice and intention.

Clicking my tongue and whistling softly, I call her name. She appears only seconds later, leaping from the undergrowth like a purring phantom. Hopping right up onto the bench, and to me, rubbing her dirty, skeletal body all over my legs.

I smile and hide the cringe when I run my hand along her spine, where I can feel every vertebra. “Hey, Blender,” I say softly. She keeps rubbing against me aggressively, purring. “Got a surprise for you.”

I pull out a can of wet food and she loses her shit. Circling, meowing, tripping over herself, trying to climb into my lap. I peel the can open and she barely lets me set the can down before diving in face-first.

“Whoa, whoa—slow down,” I say gently, trying to ease the can back. I did some research and learned that I shouldn’t feed her too much too soon. To give her a little at a time.

I vigilantly watch her as I open the bottle of water and pour some into a bowl.

Once she devours half of the can, I take it away and try to slide the water to her.

She protests immediately, clawing at my jacket sleeve, trying to scale me like a tree.

“I know, Blender. I’d be pissed too. Go ahead and claw my eyes out.

” She continues her tantrum. “I’m sorry, but no,” I say firmly, and raise the can over my head.

She doesn’t give up, and for the first time in my life, I do. “Jesus, alright!” I set the can back down. “Have at it. Eat yourself into a coma. Just trying to help,” I mutter. She attaches herself to it instantly. I tuck her with the food, and the bowl of water under the bench.

“Enjoy. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I pet down her bony back. “Try not to die on me, okay?”

I stash the extra food cans and bottled waters in the shrubbery before rising.

Then I whip around when I feel the shift in the air.

Like I’m not alone. There’s no sign of anyone, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t eyes on me.

Just to be safe, I take the long way out of the maze.

At a swift pace, no one would be able to keep up and remain unobscured.

I can make out the house up ahead as I near the exit. I throw a glance over my shoulder to confirm I’m not being followed when—“Sinclair.” Blackwell’s voice, though familiar, still has my heart lurching. He’s standing just outside the hedges, smooth and collected. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” I say defensively.

“Of course not,” he says dryly, unimpressed. “We’re going out tonight.”

I blink. “Out where?”

“Dinner. Then the casino. Be ready by eight.”

“Got it. I’ll see you then.”

I brush past him and head right upstairs, pretending I don’t feel him behind me, watching. As soon as the pressure of his eyes fades, the nerves begin souring my stomach. There’s an anxious twist in my gut I cannot rationalize.

Why does he affect me like this?

Yes, it’s dinner, but it’s not like a real date. It’s a staged outing. A PR campaign for our alignment. I’m just there as a prop. Not his fiancée or lover. His chess piece on display.

Still, I don’t stall. I don’t drag my feet to needle him like I usually do. I can’t sit still long enough to kill time anyway. I’m spiraling, and I fucking hate it.

I refuse to spend any special time on getting ready. I don’t fuss over my hair. I let the purple fade, and I part the platinum down the middle, sleek and cold. But my makeup is all bite. Sharp wings, smoke-smudged lids, lips painted in a bruised wine.

And just to be petty, I wear something that is a middle finger to every mob wife aesthetic they expect of me.

A relaxed fit animal print skirt starting from high up on my waist down to my calves and exposing one leg.

Black leather stiletto boots come up past my knees.

And over my patterned black sheer top covering my arms and up to my throat, I have a black leather top that is a cross between a corset and a moto jacket.

Before I can talk myself into changing, I grab a coat and leave the room in hopes of grabbing a drink before it’s time to leave.

My legs slightly quake as I hit the top of the stairs. I don’t want to do this. I should refuse. Cause a scene. Become insufferable so he gives up and goes alone.

No. I have never shied from anything that rattles me. Fear is a dare. And I’m the kind of girl that bares her teeth and runs headfirst into the fire.

As soon as I hit the landing, I find him coming from around the corner, head down, focused on his phone. I cross my arms, trying to remain stolid when I’m still shaking inside.

He takes notice of my punctual arrival and stops cold. His eyes rake me from head to toe, most likely inwardly insulting my appearance.

Okay, maybe I did dress for him . For him to hate it. For him to be so vexed by my attire, he demands that I go back upstairs and change. Any second now, he’ll tell me I look like hell on heels.

In three, two…

“You’re on time,” he states blandly, pocketing his phone. The handsome devil is in one of his bespoke suits—all black, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m hungry,” I give him the lame excuse for not making him wait.

His eyes roam the length of my body again, and I don’t flinch. “Good. Shall we?”

I’m a little disappointed when he doesn’t verbalize his disdain for my outfit. Either he’s becoming more tolerant of me, or I am becoming less intolerable.

I almost laugh at that thought.

On the drive, I cross one leg over the other, letting my foot lazily sway while I pretend to be engrossed in my phone. He’s glued to his own phone, the silence thick and humming with consuming thoughts.

Usually, I thrive in silence, but tonight, it claws at me. I feel like every breath I take is rehearsed. Every inch of my posture is calculated. And I catch myself wondering if he’s stealing glances at me.

It’s not until the car slows that I look up. I see the glowing letters of the restaurant’s name. Piccionini . I know the place, and I’m even more uncomfortable since he told me we were going to dinner. It’s intimate, elegant, and romantic.

Without waiting, I open my own door and step out, not missing the subtle, vexed exhale behind me. Chauvinist ass. His need to open my door isn’t out of chivalry, it’s out of pompous superiority.

I meet him around on the other side of the vehicle, ignoring the heat of his gaze as he buttons his jacket. His hand finds the small of my back as if it has a right to be there, and we move together.

Flanked by two meat suits behind and one in front of us, we walk into the most old-money Italian restaurant in the state.

The owner greets us personally and escorts us to a secluded table in the back.

The lights dim with every step we take, the air heavy with wine and pleasant aromas.

It’s a setup for lovers, not for power plays.

Blackwell exchanges pleasantries with the owner in perfect Italian, and I swear I’m not impressed. I’m not. In addition to English and Farsi, he also speaks Italian. It's just useful information to me.

He pulls out my chair for me, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes before sinking into it. I look around and it’s exactly as I remember it, though wrapped in an uglier lie. Feels a lot like my old bedroom. Dark and deceptively safe.

Red wine is poured, and I don’t hesitate to reach for the glass. Anything to avoid speaking. I lean back and sip, trying to let the sweetness of the wine give me the ease I’m becoming desperate for.

“So, who are you meeting with at the casino?” I ask, finally making eye contact with him, and I find him already staring at me.

He takes a drawn-out moment before answering me. “No one from the inner circle, but those close to it,” he murmurs.

“Will your father or your brothers be there?”

“Dane will.”

“Not your father?” I raise the wine glass to my lips to drain the rest of what’s left.

His eyes flick away for half a beat, and I find it very telling. “He won’t be there tonight.”

“Is he out of town?”

That earns me a sharp look. “My father doesn’t always need to be present at every meeting.”

I frown. “Why not? He’s still the head of the family, is he not?”

It’s obvious the question hits, and just like that, he smooths his expression. “He is, but he trusts me to fill in for him when needed.”

“And it’s needed?” I press, arching a brow. “Is he gone, or just…”

He sighs as the tension in his jaw builds. It only provokes me more. But before he can give me his rebuttal, the owner comes back. They talk quietly, keeping it in Italian, then after he pours me another glass of red wine, he disappears again.

I squint at him over the rim of my glass. “Did you just order for me?”

He quirks a brow. “You speak Italian?”

“No, but I’m not daft.”

One side of his mouth tilts and goddamn he wears a smirk well. “Just hush and drink your wine.”

My mouth pops open in indignance, but before I can fire back, something unexpected happens. My head falls back as I burst into laughter. I laugh harder than I have in so long. I can’t even remember the last time I genuinely laughed.

It hits me so fast, I barely register the shocked look on his face. It has me sobering, and I bring the glass to my lips to try and hide the leftover giggles.

There’s a charge sparking between us. The heated glare taking over his handsome face is so familiar I can feel it move through me like molten lava, heating me to the point of melting me.

His unabashed look says we’ll be fucking in the car on the way to the casino.

He doesn’t ask me about dessert, not that I would eat any anyway. And when we walk out of the restaurant, he walks with urgency.

The closer we get to our blacked-out getaway, my skin dances with exhilaration, and my nipples are tightening. I have the strongest urge to cross my legs to stave off the desire burning between them.

I’ve grown silent as he opens the car door, and I slip inside first. Those fucking unwarranted nerves are back. This time, it has everything to do with what we’re about to do. Fuck. I haven’t been nervous about sex since I found out how much I liked it. Since I knew exactly how to weaponize it.

“Drive around back,” Blackwell says to our driver, then pulls me into his lap with one smooth motion.

I’m stiff against him, but I keep my face relaxed. He stares at me, and I brace myself when he raises a hand. I swallow, and his fingers make a gentle trail down the side of my face and neck.

The car stops again. “Out.” One singular word, low but audible, and the two men up front exit the vehicle without a glance back.

The doors seal shut, and we’re surrounded in silence.

Okay, breathe. Get your shit together, bitch. When it comes to seduction, you got this.

I’m bold and make the first move. I use his shoulders to steady myself as I swivel in his lap so that my knees are on either side of his hips, straddling him. My skirt naturally hitches itself up. We’re both wearing that knowing smirk.

“Are you going to fuck me or what?” I say lightly, even though I’m about to come undone. From desire or trepidation, or a bit of both.

His hands slide onto my thighs, his calloused skin against the smoothness of mine. A titillating contrast. I get comfortable, slinging my arms over his shoulders. Our faces so close, exchanging a breath.

My pussy pulsates when his hands begin inching up my legs, disappearing under the silky fabric of my skirt. The muscles in my core jump when he makes contact, but I keep a straight face.

His eyes skitter all over as his thumb begins to make languid, small circles.

Our heads gravitate, creeping closer. I don’t know who makes the first move this time, but our mouths suddenly fuse, and his efforts with his hand double.

Rubbing my pussy, making my hips rock on reflex.

Our tongues wrestle and our bodies come together.

A moan spills from me, and I can’t take it anymore.

But before I can shove his hand away to tear his cock out and impale myself, he sinks two fingers inside of me, curling them.

My hands fist the back of the seat, nails stabbing into the leather.

My muscles freeze up, and my mouth goes slack, but he doesn’t stop his tongue from lavishing every inch of it.

My forehead bumps into his, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the onslaught of ecstasy. A silent scream flows out, bleeding into his tongue, and I convulse on his hand.

I’m dazed and confused when I begin to descend, and shame paints my cheeks. I don’t give him the chance to catch it, though. I go for his belt with shaky fingers, but I manage to get the task done.

I have his cock out and I point it up and sit down on it.

As soon as my ass meets his lap, he grabs me by the back of my hair and crushes my mouth with his.

I let his bodily responses decide on the pace.

When he grunts, it’s frustration, so I go faster.

When he wilts and his kisses turn sloppy, I slow it down. I’m not ready for it to end just yet.

It’s not until our skin becomes slick, and the air turns too thick to breathe in, that I take us both to the peak. I hit mine first, and he grabs hold of my ass to slap me up and down on him when I no longer can until I feel his cock swell and thump inside of me, and he goes still.

It was only our second time fucking, but somehow, we’re so in sync, it feels like we’ve already done this hundreds of times before.

Yet it’s still mind-blowing.