Page 16 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter fourteen

Blackwell

T he first rays of sunlight filter through the shades, cutting faint lines across the room.

I lie there, watching Sinclair sleep. I hardly slept at all. I couldn’t, not after last night. After seeing her body so overtly displayed for me, illuminating every mark on her porcelain skin, every story her scars tell, it’s haunting me. Consuming me.

I can’t stop my mind from obsessing over it. Over her . I have so many pressing matters, but she seems to be all I can think about. About the life she had to simply survive, and about the vengeance I will carve into the bones of the people who made her, piece by bloody piece.

My brothers and I didn’t grow up in a warm family environment, but we were cared for. Protected and treated with respect. Our world was brutal, but Baba never used that brutality against us. He was hard on us, yet with reason.

And Maman —she was direct and maybe even cold at times, but never cruel. She knew the life we had to prepare for. She warmed up more as we grew older and passed the age of being coddled.

Of course, I fight with Dane and Harlan, and there will always be some competition there, but we would sooner catch a bullet for each other than to spill each other’s blood.

We value family, not for the sake of alliance and power, but for the sake of being family. Uncles, aunts, and cousins included.

Who did Sinclair have? If not a friend, not family, then who?

Who helped hold her together when she was on the verge of shattering?

Her sister was the only one of them to show a sliver of kindness to her, but from what she’s told me, she only patched her up after taking a beating.

She didn’t protect her from it. No one did.

She’s sleeping on her stomach with her head turned my way and her arms tucked under the pillow. The blanket dips low on her back, baring the graceful line of her spine. Slowly, without thinking, I drag the blanket lower, exposing the curve of her entire backside.

The jagged scar on her hipbone catches a sliver of light. I yearn to trace it with my fingers. To memorize every inch of her pain. But I restrain myself.

Instead, I pull the covers back up, shielding her again. I study her face as she slightly stirs, and a tiny sigh leaves her lips. She doesn’t wake. She remains relaxed and unguarded.

No hint of a smirk. No mask concealing her pretty features. She’s never looked more human. Just as she was meant to be.

My phone vibrates on the side table, and I snatch it up before it wakes her. She only stirs a little, but her breathing remains even. I pull myself out of bed and head into the bathroom to get washed up.

My father will send someone for me soon if I’m not quick. I take a short shower and throw on some joggers and a thermal shirt before leaving my room.

When I reach my father’s office, he’s already there. He’s sitting behind his desk, still in his robe and a coffee mug in one hand. His hair is mussed, but his eyes are sharp on me.

“What the hell happened last night?” he demands without preamble.

Sighing, I flump into a chair across from him. “I don’t know exactly. An argument between Beck and some other men.” I rub the back of my neck sheepishly. I should know more by now. “Before I could intervene, it all went to hell.” I shake my head. “I’m not sure,” I mutter.

My father studies me, disappointment plain on his face.

And it isn’t unwarranted. What I should have done was stayed and locked down the scene.

But instead, I left Scout to deal with it while I fled all for Sinclair’s protection.

I haven’t spoken to Scout yet about the aftermath, and it’s been hours.

This woman has my mind fucked.

“I’m sorry, Baba . Sinclair was there, and—”

“And she got involved,” he finishes for me.

“Yes, and I felt it was imperative to remove her from the situation entirely.”

“And why was one of Beck’s guys brought back here?”

This is going to be fun to try and explain. “I’m not sure yet,” I admit shamefully.

“Scout and Dane both said it was a request that came from Sinclair.” He lets the words hang. “And that you approved it.”

I scrub my palm down my face with a heavy hand, reminded of last night’s panic. It still claws at my ribs as a reminder. How the thought of any harm coming to Sinclair had me coming apart. I finally nod in response.

His chuckle is low and knowing. I gawk at him as it grates on my every nerve. “Boy, that girl has you by the balls already.”

I shake my head sharply. “No, it isn’t like that.”

He leans forward with his elbows on his desk and eyebrows lowered.

“Growing feelings for your fiancée is not the issue, Blackwell. It’s letting it cloud your judgement, especially in a situation like last night.

It will only get you and possibly her killed.

” His words slam into me like a physical blow.

“I understand you wanted to protect her. But don’t you ever forget your role in this family. Where your duties lie.”

A surge of resentment pulses through me. I feel offended he would imply my duties are above Sinclair. But he’s fucking right. The family is first. Always.

“I understand, Baba .” I bite down the urge to argue or explain. But I know he doesn’t want excuses.

I can’t let Sinclair be the reason I fail him or our family. Even if there’s a part of me that knows it’s already too late.

After clearing things up with my father, I leave his office in silence. I head next to the kitchen to have some breakfast made, balancing it on a serving tray myself to deliver.

Despite every warning ringing in my head and every vow I made to my father, I need to see her. To remember she’s still breathing. That she made it out alive and she’s still here.

I arrive back to my bedroom and close the door behind me still balancing the tray of food. The unmade bed is empty, but the sound of running water coming from the bathroom pulls my attention.

Placing the food down on a table, I follow the trail of steam inside the bathroom.

The air is thick and warm, fogged up from the hot water in the shower.

Through the misted glass, Sinclair’s figure moves.

So graceful and devastating. I lean back against the counter and cross my arms to refrain from going to her.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t do the walk of shame without washing off all the makeup and dried-up sex on me,” she says, her voice lazily amused.

I snort, biting back a grin. “No worries.”

A glass sitting on the sink’s vanity catches my eye.

I pick it up to inspect the soapy and bloodied water.

Inside, her rings sit at the bottom, glinting ominously through the suds.

I fish one out and rest it on an open palm to study closely.

What looked like a simple gold band last night is anything but.

A tiny dagger folds neatly down, retractable like a switchblade.

A slow grin curves my lips as I drop it back into the glass. Sinclair Ortiz, always armed. I finger the other ring out and it too looks like a completely different one as well. Last night it was a gold band with a golden rosebud. But the flower is gone, revealing a small, needle-like spike.

Shaking my head with a chuckle low under my breath, I drop the second ring back into the sudsy water and turn my attention back to her in the present. “I have breakfast for when you’re done.”

“Oh, good. I’m starving.”

I’m about to exit the bathroom when the water cuts off. She opens the glass door to stick her head out, her face bare and flushed from the heat. “Can I have a couple towels?”

I’m momentarily struck. It’s a rare thing to see her without her armor of dark lipstick, winged eyeliner, and the scathing edge she hides behind. Just bare skin, damp hair, and a raw kind of beauty that hits like a physical punch. She’s somehow even more lethal like this.

I have to wrench myself back to the present and grab two towels.

When I hand them over, I’m careful not to brush her skin.

One touch and I know I’ll stop pretending I can resist her.

Then I flee, escaping the bathroom before I do something reckless.

Just imagining her body bare, wet, it has my fists flexing with a want I can’t bury.

Adjusting my stiffening cock through my pants, I take a seat and wait for her to join me. Moments later, she comes sauntering out wrapped in a towel and using another to dry her hair.

I don’t comment when she drops the wet towel on the ground, leaving it there, before taking a seat across from me with her legs tucked under her. She takes a napkin to lay over her lap like a fucking princess before snagging a piece of bacon for herself.

She is a walking contradiction, and it truly vexes me. Her good manners and bad habits so tangled together, I never know which to expect. Her unpredictability is frustrating yet alluring.

“Not hungry?” Her arrogant tone snaps me out of it. The smug smirk and knowing spark in her eyes have me slightly shifting and clearing my throat to buy a second of composure.

I don’t answer her and begin digging in.

I cut my eggs with too much force, causing the knife and fork to scrape against the plate.

The high shriek is somehow less suffering than the silence stretching between us.

How she can sit there without a goddamn care in the world when all I can do is bottle it all up and keep it together. It has my teeth aching.

“You can’t ever do that again,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level.

“Do what?” She’s so calm as she stares back at me, all wide-eyed innocence, sipping her coffee as if we’re discussing the weather.

I set my fork down and flex my hands on my thighs, so they won’t shake. “Sinclair.” She doesn’t even blink. “You are not invincible.”

“Neither are you,” she bounces back.

I ignore her comeback. “You could have gotten seriously hurt—”

“I’m still standing,” she cuts me off.