Page 14 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twelve

Blackwell

I bring my finger to my upper lip to feign an itch just to catch another whiff of Sinclair.

The wicked sweetness of her.

We walk through the private entrance of the casino, and she strolls beside me as if she didn’t just wreck me in the backseat only minutes ago.

I was buried inside her, spiraling into madness, and somehow, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

My fingers flex at my sides, dying to touch her. To drag her off somewhere dark and private to lose myself all over her body again. No woman has ever done this to me. To have me starving for more when I’ve just been so thoroughly satiated.

But here I am, hungering for her. Still haunted by the way she feels clenching around me. The way her mouth steals my breath. The way I feel bereft when I’m not rooted inside her.

When we walk out to the main room, I spot the women of the men I’m here to meet, clustered with cocktails in one of the private lounges.

“I need to meet with them privately,” I tell her low under my breath. “You can join later. I’ll introduce you.”

“No, thank you,” she quips, mischief in her tone. “I’d rather spend your money on playing Blackjack.”

Before giving me the chance to argue, she’s already walking away, hips swaying in deliberate, taunting arcs. Knowing her reclusive behavior, I assumed she wouldn’t want to socialize. Not after a life of being ordered to smile at whom and forced to consort with a revised list of debs.

I wipe the stupid smirk off my face and head to the private room where I’m expected. This deal is critical and high stakes. And I am to conduct it without my father.

My father’s absence speaks volumes. He told me about his heart condition weeks ago, downplaying it with his usual professionalism.

Sometimes forgetting that I’m not only a business partner or employee.

I’m his son. His family. I deserve more than diluted truths.

And the fact that he let my mother intervene and insist he stay home tonight confirms the actual severity of it.

It isn’t just stress. It’s far more serious than he’s letting on.

My brothers are already there, working the room in their distinct ways. Harlan, with that effortless charm and charisma, can emulate like turning on a switch. And Dane, the taciturn one, laconic by nature. He’s a man of very few words, but when he speaks, you listen. Every word carries weight.

I find myself more aligned with Dane. I’ve never been one for idle talk. I’m deliberate and reserved. I don’t waste my words on men who would sooner stab me in the back as soon as I turn it.

The air is always taut with tension in a room full of men in power.

But tonight, it hums with something more palpable, more visceral.

The kind of pressure that settles hard in your gut.

Everyone is thoroughly searched before entering, but the precaution does little to soothe the unease coiling inside me.

It could be because my mind is not entirely here. My mind keeps drifting to Sinclair, knowing she’s out there exposed.

I want nothing more than to snag Sinclair and get us the fuck out of here. However, walking out before the deal is sealed would be seen as a slight. A personal insult no one here would forget and never forgive.

Thankfully, it unfolds without friction and as planned. Smooth, at least on the outside.

Still, my hackles are raised as we wrap it up. And I won’t exhale until she’s beside me again.

I glance across the room at Scout, and there’s a subtle crease between his brows as he surveils the room. His eyes scan every person in it and every single move they make. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’ve felt it the moment I stepped foot in the room.

I signal one of my men with a look and a nod toward the back. “Retrieve the women.”

A few minutes pass before the doors open, and they file in, drinks in hand and laughter circling. I pay them no attention as introductions are being made, my eyes keep straying to the threshold.

Too many seconds crawl by, and of course, no Sinclair.

I grunt, trying not to visibly shift as my pulse kicks up. Just as I decide to go tearing through the casino myself, she strides in. Head held high and eyes gleaming with mischief. Every step she takes is designed to test my restraint as she approaches me.

I manage to stay put despite the internal war within myself. “Did you enjoy spending my money?” I murmur as she plants herself at my side.

“Sure did.” She grins, unrepentant.

“Any luck?”

“A little.” She shrugs while glancing around. “So, how long are you going to make me suffer through this?”

My lips fight against the humor threatening them. “Not long.”

I’ve been nursing the same drink since I got here, pretending to be present. But my attention sharpens when I spot two men having what appears to be a heated conversation. Voices are raised, hands are waving, violence crackling through the room.

I snap a look to Hawk, and he’s already headed my way. “Get her out of here,” I order sharply.

“And miss all the fun?” Sinclair teases, the rebellion in her already sparked.

“Sinclair,” I growl in warning, but her eyes are laser-focused on something else. Something that has her lit up. Before I can grab her, she sprints off, and my heart jumps. “Clair!”

The room explodes into chaos. The sounds of chairs scraping, voices raising, and glass shattering have my gut turning as I keep my focus on Sinclair. She is my sole priority.

I’m fucking seething with dread as I push by anyone in my way to find my batshit fiancée, whom I have not let out of my sight since she twisted from my grasp.

Her tiny figure has a man pinned beneath her like a true conqueror. She’s feral as she beats his face to a pulp with this giddy, demented grin, blood splattering all over her, most likely rebreaking her fucking hand.

My men are moving in fast now, pulling bodies apart and restoring order. I surge forward and wrap my arms around Sinclair’s waist, setting her upright. Relieved she’s unharmed. She’s breathless and wild-eyed, but she doesn’t turn on me.

“Get her the fuck out of here!” I bark at Hawk, who’s already on it.

“He’s coming with us,” she states in a surprisingly equable tone despite the carnage still scorching her gaze.

Something about the authority in her demeanor has me rooted, and I stare back at her with morbid curiosity, wondering what her play is here.

Then I glance down at her bloodied victim, hardly breathing.

He’s nobody and won’t be missed, so I humor her and grab Scout’s attention as Hawk hauls her away.

After I’m certain Scout has everything under control, I leave. The disrespect given on our territory will not go unpunished. But I need to get Sinclair away from it all and then speak with my father first.

I am beyond reasoning when I get into the vehicle, joining Sinclair. As soon as the door shuts, we take off, and I grasp her left wrist. I’m not so gentle as I pull her hand up to inspect it. “It’s fine, Blackwell,” she says in a curt tone as if I have offended her.

The fire in my eyes matches hers as I snap my glare up. “Do not speak right now,” I sneer. Her mouth bobs open to argue, but I’m faster. I seize her jaw in my hand with a little too much pressure and thumb her bloodied bottom lip.

Something breaks inside me. I am now shaking when I pull her in closer, where our noses touch.

Fire and brimstone swirl between us as I try to breathe through the onslaught of emotions.

Like a dark tide trying to pull me under.

“I am warning you.” My voice is so low it’s almost inhuman. “Not. A. Word.”

Her nostrils flare, and I know she’s fighting the urge to be combative, but she’s prudent to heed my warning, and we ride the rest of the way in strained silence.

The second we reach the estate, I throw the car door open, grab her right hand, and yank her out after me to drag swiftly inside.

My vision tunnels, I’m so blind with rage.

I breeze past everyone without a word, or registering anything they’re saying, gripping Sinclair’s hand so tightly my knuckles turn white.

We head straight for my bedroom, the only place where I can afford to lose control.

The door slams shut, and I finally release her hand and practically stumble forward. I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating and tear at the collar of my shirt as if it’s choking me. The room tilts. The walls close in.

I peel my clothes off, but I feel no less trapped. A sheen of sweat forms on my naked torso, and my heart hammers inside my tightening chest.

Fuck .

Fuck .

I pace, flexing my hands as they go numb, tingling at the fingertips. It’s getting harder to breathe. The air won’t reach my lungs fast enough. I’m dying. Or am I having a heart attack?

“Are…you okay?” Sinclair’s disinterested tone somehow breaks through the haze.

“Don’t.” My voice is raw, torn from somewhere deep.

“You’re kind of freaking me out here,” she mutters.

Stop fucking talking.

Stop fucking talking.

Okay, breathe.

Breathe.

“Blackwell?” Her voice is closer, but I have my eyes trained on the floor, willing my body to obey me. “Whoa, Blackwell,” she rasps softly.

Her hand rests on my shoulder, and like a fucking shock, everything stops. The pounding. The shaking. The suffocating noose around my neck. Her simple touch brings me serenity. Stilling the storm inside me, extinguishing it entirely.

As the tightness in my chest slowly releases, I lift my head to meet her angelic face. She tilts it with something that looks like concern written all over it. She’s never looked so exposed. So innocent and youthful. All those years of hell she was put through, stripped away, if only momentarily.

She stares back at me like I’m something fragile. Then she lifts her hand just as cautiously to cradle my face gently. All I can do is stare back and swallow down the thick lump rising in my throat.

Neither of us can move as the pressure between us begins to build. The hairs on the back of my neck stand, and I watch as her poreless skin pebbles with tiny bumps. The air crackles, and our breathing kicks up in tandem.

As time slows, we finally combust.