Page 17 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Her nonchalance has me counting to three before opening my mouth again. I may not have a total grasp of understanding her, but I do know that if I demand anything from her, she will only dig her heels in deeper. She’s a creature who bends for no one, but if I change tactics, she might tilt for me.

“Sinclair. I’m asking you.” I pause, my eye contact with her firm and unflinching. “Please, do not put yourself in immediate danger like that ever again. I do not want to see you hurt.”

Something in my voice must reach her. She breaks character for a fleeting moment. Something flickers across her face before she can smother it.

“I can try, but I can’t promise you anything.” She tries for steeliness, but she’s so transparent right now.

Knowing when to quit while I’m ahead when it comes to her, I move on. “So, is our guest a souvenir, or is there a purpose to detaining him?”

She looks at me as if startled by my question. “Haven’t you questioned him yet?”

“Question him? For what exactly?” I counter, frowning.

Her expression runs the gamut—shock, suspicion, accusation, disappointment.

Then she gets serious before speaking again.

“This was planned, Blackwell. Any idea who?” I don’t answer.

“Alright.” She wipes her hands on the towel as she stands up and stretches with effortless grace, showing off the tops of her tight thighs.

“I’m going to get dressed, then we’re going to go and question him.

” She even adds a little nod at the end and walks off as if she’s calling the shots.

Normally, no one outside my bloodline dictates my next move, but Sinclair may be the exception I’m willing to entertain.

I wait at the bottom of the stairs after changing into a suit, glancing at my watch with impatience.

Sinclair appears only minutes later, dressed in black head-to-toe.

Her pants like second skin, hugging the trim curve of her waist, a sheer long-sleeved top with thumb holes, another pair of thick-soled boots, and a leather jacket dangling from one hand.

Her makeup is a toned-down version of her usual dark look, and her platinum hair is pulled back into a low, slick ponytail. If looks could kill, we’d all be on our knees.

Something reckless stirs in me. A compulsion to tell her how fucking good she looks. How there’s a fiery halo wrapped around her. But I choose to bite it back and turn for the back of the estate without a word.

She shrugs on her jacket as we enter the chill of the early afternoon. Scout is waiting on an ATV next to an unoccupied one sitting, idling. I hop onto the empty one and expect Sinclair to join me, but she goes right up to Scout and says, “Thanks for keeping it warm, but I got it from here, Scout.”

Scout cuts his eyes to me waiting on permission, and for fuck’s sake, I nod. His nostrils flare with agitation before he dismounts.

Sinclair flashes me a Cheshire grin, swings her leg over, and revs the engine. “Race you there,” she tosses over her shoulder, then bolts off as if knowing where she’s going. I swear under my breath before gunning it.

Minutes later, we come to a screeching halt near the containment building. Sinclair hops off her vehicle and runs her hands over her hair, smoothing down the flyaways.

“Holy fuck, my face is frozen,” she huffs, breathlessly.

I catch Spade approaching us as if waiting, a large black bag slung over his shoulder. He looks as wary as I feel. “What’s that?” I ask.

“My supplies,” Sinclair answers with a toothy grin. “Thanks, Spades.” She flashes him a wink before turning her attention to me. “Shall we?”

My instincts light up like a goddamn inferno. I stalk over to Spade, my voice low. “Open it,” I demand.

Spade promptly unzips the bag and opens the top for me to get a good view of the contents inside. When I recognize what they are, I level a grim look at Sinclair.

“What?” she says innocently, shrugging her shoulders.

“What are these for?”

“For interrogation, obviously,” she sasses.

Considering they aren’t ticking time bombs, I stifle a growl in my throat and lead us all inside. It’s a one-story brick building built like a bunker, windowless with only one way in and one way out.

Inside, her prize sits slumped in a chair, bound wrist-to-ankle, his head hanging low. From the looks of it and the dried blood covering his face and chest, it seems as if Sinclair beat most of the fight out of him already.

And judging by the way Sinclair is chomping at the bit and strolling forward, last night was only a warm-up.

“Would it be possible to get him up?” she asks sweetly, peeling her jacket off and tossing it on the metal table full of tools.

She draws me in with her effortless authority that I decide to let her take point. So, I turn to Scout and mutter, “Just do as she says,” while I settle in to watch the circus unfold.

“Spade?” she calls out, crooking a finger, and he approaches with the large bag.

“Right there is fine.” My eyes narrow as he sets the bag down obediently, as if he is entirely under her command.

I’ll have to arrange a new guy for her. I don’t need anyone too loyal to her.

After my father, everyone answers to me.

Scout and Spade drag the prisoner upright, binding his arms out and slightly above him with thick chains.

His body hangs like dead weight, barely conscious, knees buckling beneath him.

Blood has crusted over his face, painting him in dried violence, but every twitch, every shallow breath, opens his wounds anew.

Fresh crimson seeping through cracked flesh.

His swollen eyes squint against the low light as he struggles to look around the room, disoriented and dangling like a carcass awaiting judgment.

I watch as Sinclair crouches beside the bag and picks up a softball, tossing it between her hands. “Thanks, boys,” she says easily as they step back to stand behind me with anticipation buzzing in the air.

She prowls forward like a lioness sizing up an injured gazelle.

“Hello,” her voice rings out like a bird’s song.

The bloodied man squints at her through hooded eyes as he tries to focus.

Recognition flashes across his ruined face as he stares back at her angelic yet twisted one.

His face quickly blooms with hatred. “I’m only going to ask you once.

Obviously, your boss was in on this failed attempt at Blackwell’s life, but who else was in on it? ”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

Sinclair responds with a step back. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.” She turns with a simple smile, walking back several paces like she’s on a runway. Shoulders back, spine steeled. Her confidence is the most alluring aspect of her thus far.

Facing her victim again, she brings both hands up to clasp the softball at her chest. Placing her right foot forward, she swings the ball back with her right arm, then swings it forward and rotates it in a full windmill motion, stepping forward with her opposite foot, releasing it, throwing her weight into that leg.

The ball whizzes by him, cracking against the wall with a violent thud, missing him by a hair. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” she mutters with a hint of playfulness in her tone. “Just warming up, boys!” she announces.

Picking up another ball, I sit on the edge of my seat and watch her take another crack at it. Everyone hisses and groans behind me when it makes contact with his right shoulder. He howls, sagging further against the chains. Fuck, that had to have shattered it.

“Who else was behind the attack?” she asks with a sugary sweet tone, picking up another ball.

When he answers with a pained groan, she lines herself up with another shot, and this time, as the ball cuts through the air with even more speed than the last, it connects with his face with a sickening crack. It had to have been going at least sixty miles per hour.

I know it’s lights out when blood sprays from the split flesh. She jumps forward with a gasp. “Oh, shit,” she says, inspecting her work like a bored surgeon. “Oh, good. I didn’t get your nose. You can still talk, right?”

“You fucking bitch!” he spits through the blood.

“Good. You can.” She looks over her shoulder, smiling and shaking her head. “It’s been a while, so my aim is a little off.”

I sit back and rest one ankle over a knee. “As entertaining as this is, is any of this even necessary?”

Raising an eyebrow, she picks up another ball, twirling it inside her hand, both of us tuning out the withering man behind her. “You still don’t think it was planned?” She looks behind me. “What about you, Scout? Some preening meatheads, or something more? Something calculated.”

I twist my upper body and look at Scout. “Well?” I prod.

He bounces back and forth between Sinclair and me. Wanting to be anywhere else but this room. “Something wasn’t right last night.” He’s right. I felt it, too. “It could have been random, or it could have been coordinated.”

My stare remains fixed on his for another moment before swaying back to Sinclair. “Alright, darling. See if you can make him talk.”

Predictably, the humor in her face morphs into gravity, taking my words as a challenge. Her eyes narrow as she rolls the next ball between her hands. Planting her feet, she pitches another one, crushing his ribs. He lets out a strained grunt, chains clinking above him.

“Ready to talk?” she asks coolly, the next ball ready to launch.

He spits a wad of blood out, and Sinclair’s lips thin, lining up another pitch. Her shoulders square, and she launches it. This time, landing right in the center of his chest.

She is fucking radiant when the power is hers. When she owns absolute control. God, I want her. But wanting her is wanting her fire, and I’m not sure how long I can stand in it.

“Alright, alright,” he gasps, wheezing for air and gurgling on blood.

Sinclair drops the next ball to the floor, taking deliberate steps forward. “Good boy,” she coos.

“Beck,” he pushes through heavy breaths.

“Beck, what?’ she asks so softly, like hushing a crying baby as she encroaches his space.

“Beck—he set it up.” The room falls into heavy, charged silence.

Behind me, I can physically feel Scout and the others stiffen. I sit forward, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the man hanging from chains like he’s already a corpse.

“Yeah, no shit. But who else?” There’s no humor or warmth left to Sinclair’s voice.

“I don’t know,” he sputters. “Only know that Beck instructed us to…” he trails off.

“To what?” she snaps, bucking at him.

He flinches and fuck , I want her so badly.

“I don’t know! Start shit!”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she sneers, and I rise to my feet.

“I don’t know,” he cries out. “We just do what we’re told.”

Her arm jerks, and he’s throwing his head back, jaw dropping with a pained howl as she has a crushing grip on his shattered shoulder. “Better.”

“Okay, okay! Beck was working with the Mendozas. They planned a brawl as a distraction to get to Blackwell,” he spills in one breath.

The room is now deathly silent, and I can physically feel the way Scout and Spade go still.

She was right. This was a fucking assassination attempt.

Well, fuck. Me .