Page 19 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter sixteen

Sinclair

H e has the decency to warn me that we’re going back outside again and on the ATVs.

So, I wrap my damp hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and tuck my head under a black beanie. My jacket zips all the way up over my chin, so I don’t have to battle the freezing air against my face.

We walk side by side to exit out the back again, and when I realize there’s only one vehicle there, I don’t miss the little smirk on his face when he mounts it. Rolling my eyes, I climb on behind him and slip my arms around his waist.

The innocent gesture has those crescive feelings in the pit of my stomach festering. The sharp, unwelcoming knot twists with something I’ve tried to ignore since the moment I stepped foot on the estate. A pestering ache, heavier now, and impossible to ignore.

His scent envelops me, intoxicating and smothering. I made a vow to myself to never let anyone hold that kind of power that could crush me. But that control is unraveling thread by thread. And I fucking despise it.

Yet here I am, pressed against him, soaking in his warmth like it’s salvation. Letting him thread himself deeper into my bones. And the worst part is, I’m not even trying to stop it.

I pay close attention to where we’re going and realize we aren’t heading in the direction of their little torture bunker. We’re headed in a different direction. We reach one part of the iron gates, and he stops to hop off and enter a code into a keypad I almost didn’t notice.

The gate opens and he climbs back on to drive us through, exiting the estate and entering into the thick tree line.

A path is already stamped through the forest as if used frequently, and I sit quietly behind him until something materializes in the distance.

A shadowy figure grows with each beat of the engine.

The figure rapidly takes shape. A house. Black, striking, and entirely unexpected. It’s not massive, at least not in comparison to the estate we both grew up in, but it carries a grandeur that leaves me breathless.

The forest gives way to manicured landscaping, and the closer we get, the wider my eyes become.

It’s something straight out of my dreams. Gothic bones dressed in regal detail, with hints of mid-century lines and Victorian drama.

A deliberate chaos of styles that somehow feels like dark poetry.

A driveway curves around a freshly carved crater in the earth, suggesting something still being built or unearthed.

I’m in total and complete awe as the vehicle falls silent and I robotically dismount it. My eyes are unable to tear from the sight before me. The stunning architecture.

Movement dances in my periphery, snapping me back to reality. I blink the daze from my eyes and catch myself in time. I settle my cheeky mask into place and look to Blackwell, finding him already studying me coolly, and impossible to read.

“I don’t care whose house this is,” I murmur, eyebrow arched with mocked defiance, “but I will take it from them.”

His smile spreads slowly, like he was anticipating this kind of reaction from me. Something about it is infuriatingly endearing. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but there’s no need for bloodshed.” He leaves a heavy pause. “This is our home.”

I swallow hard, unsure if I heard him correctly. “Ours?” I parrot back, the word unfamiliar on my tongue.

His smile turns into a rare toothy grin. “Yes, ours .” He chuckles, shaking his head when I narrow my eyes at him. “This isn’t a trick, Sinclair. Come.”

Still stunned, skeptical, and slightly uncomfortable, I follow him up the steps toward the front doors. Tall, maroon, and crowned with gilded hardware like something out of a forgotten cathedral.

We step into the barren space, yet the emptiness carries a strange, unexpected warmth.

Something intangible that clings to the air and reverberates off the bleakness.

A serenity settles over me like a blanket, unwelcome in its comfort.

I don’t know if it’s the way he said ours , as in his and mine , or if it’s the sheer absence of blood, betrayal, and memory.

But something about this place feels sacred.

Unspoiled. Safe . And that’s what disturbs me the most.

“I wanted to leave it up to you to finish it out. Floors, kitchen—all the final touches.” His voice seems far off as I cautiously explore, moving on autopilot.

The place is skeletal. Raw even. The floors are unfinished, the walls are stark, and what appears to be the kitchen lacks cabinets or appliances. Even the bathrooms are empty. Void of even a toilet. Yet, none of it feels hollow.

I decide to work from top to bottom. The stairs are grand, but not gaudy. It curves with elegance, understated and commanding. The only thing, other than the exterior, that’s been completed. A blank canvas stretched in every direction.

Blackwell follows, but says nothing. His presence is quiet yet distant, granting me space as I meander from room to room, my eyes absorbing every detail while my mind overflows with ideas.

Colors, textures, textiles, furnishings.

I can see it all so vividly because this house is me.

Not the curated persona I parade for survival.

The real me. The one I bury under armor and performance.

The truest version. Unguarded and aching to breathe.

We reach another stairwell, tight and tucked away. A contrast to the sweeping stairs that brought us here. “What’s this?” I ask, my voice guarded.

He dips his chin, silently telling me to look for myself.

Mixed emotions swarm inside me, and my heart plummets with elegiac memories.

It was my choice to move my bedroom up to the attic back home.

For seclusion, isolation, and security. My sanctuary as well as my cage.

I chose to live above everyone. Not to feel safe, but because it gave the illusion of control.

Up there, I could see the threat coming.

I could pretend I had autonomy. It was the only space I ever felt belonged to me.

At the top, the room opens wide, swallowing me in quiet awe. The ceiling is steep, its angles dramatic, painted black and broken by heavy mahogany beams that stretch into the two-story space above. Below, black-stained floorboards, aged with time, creaks softly beneath my steps.

Everything soon fades into the background, rendered meaningless by the one thing that now holds my attention. My piano.

Swallowing the rock lodged in my throat, I amble with careful steps as if it may be a mirage. Like if I move too quickly, it might vanish.

But it isn’t a figment of my imagination. It’s real. It’s really here. My pristine, sleek, stark white grand piano, I’ve had since before I was ten years old. It was my true sanctuary.

My fingers glide along the smooth keys, barely grazing the ivory surface, and I exhale shakily. Untouched by time. Not a scratch. Not a crack. Not even a speck of dust.

It’s strategically placed near the double glass doors that lead into a glass and steel grid half-dome.

The structure alone makes my breath hitch and draws me in.

I catch the cold of the handles in my palms and swing them open.

I step out into the cool air, and a smile breaks across my face before I can help it.

A widow’s walk.

Iron railings curve around the edge of the platform, aged black and ornate, looking down on the yard and endless forest beyond. It feels like I’ve wandered into my own dream.

My back is to Blackwell when his voice splits through the fog my head is stuck in. “The house was built in the 1880s,” he says, voice low and steady. “I tried to preserve some of the soul of the house, but I could only salvage the bones. Floors, foundation.”

He sidles up next to me at the edge, and I turn my head slightly. He gives me this slow, annoyingly charming smile, and his annoyingly handsome face goes out of focus as the world tilts. I feel like I might faint. Or puke. Or just fucking drop dead.

How can he know me like this? I don’t even know myself.

“Sinclair, are you alright?” His voice is muffled, like it’s traveling through water. But when he touches my arm, I’m jerked out of whatever the fuck that was.

My stomach twists, and my head pounds. Everything is scrambled, but I manage to pull myself together and clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say with boredom, arching an eyebrow.

Okay, Sinclair. Get your shit together. It’s a fucking house. A house . Material.

“Do you actually play, or is this another way to fuck with people?” His cheeky tone has my face heating.

I turn to give him a sardonic grin. “Now, why would I tell you outright?”

He chuckles and goddamn, I swear he’s blushing. That’s it. My knees betray me and wobble, and I struggle not to choke on my tongue. A chunk of dark hair falls over his forehead, and my fingers itch to touch it. He looks so unfairly good like this. Relaxed, thawed, and unarmed.

“Of course, not.” He leans his forearms on the railing to take in the view.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, soaking in the silence, the trees, the distance between who we are and who we pretend to be.

A few minutes, maybe more, pass until he finally murmurs, “There’s still more to see. We should move. Light’s fading.”

Walking at a leisurely pace, we make our way back down to the main floor. “Do we have a basement?” I ask with lucid enthusiasm.

He gives me a knowing smirk. “Sorry, but it’s more like a crawl space. Should be enough room to drag your victims down into, though.”

“Fair enough.”

We float room to room until we get to the back of the house, where nearly the entire wall is glass, opening up to yet another gorgeous view of the forest. Sunlight spills across a cluster of moving boxes off to one side. My gaze snags on one in particular, my name scrawled across the top.

“It’s ready for the final touches,” he says from somewhere behind me. “I’ll set up a meeting with an interior designer.”

I run my fingers along the seam of one of the boxes taped shut. “What are these?”

There’s a pause, then a barely restrained chuckle. I whip my head around in time to catch him rubbing his jaw to hide it. “The rest of your belongings from your bedroom.” He moves his hand to the back of his neck to squeeze it. “And your other room.”

My cheeks ache from trying to hide my grin. My other room . I laugh internally. “Is that what they called it?” I ask as I circle the box to another one.

“If you mean your family, yes. That’s what they said.”

“And if I didn’t mean them?”

He’s standing there all handsome and so assured, watching me. “Then I’d guess dungeon, lair, cave...” A corner of his mouth hitches upward.

I flash a toothy grin, then pretend to be more interested in the boxes. His attention is too intense for me right now. I’ve never been shy about my appetite or kinks, but there’s something about his gaze that strips me bare.

Unclasping the golden chain around my neck, I remove the bottom half of the crucifix dangling from it to reveal the needle-like dagger. I stab the seam and slide it through, cutting it clean, the box giving way with a satisfying split.

Everything inside is individually bubble-wrapped.

I pull out the first thing that catches my eye and unwrap it to find a pair of gold handcuffs.

“Might as well get rid of most of this stuff.” I dangle the cuffs from a finger and raise an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sure you’re too macho for any of it. ” Rolling my eyes, I toss them back in.

“Have you tried it?” he asks.

I turn and cross my arms with a hip popped. “They’re mine, aren’t they?”

He puts one foot in front of the other, daring to stalk me like prey. “I meant…on yourself.” I don’t answer because I don’t need to. We both know the answer. “Have you ever given up complete control?” His voice drops, and that vortex begins spinning in my gut. “To let yourself be vulnerable…”

“I’m not a stranger to helplessness,” I snap, breaking character. But my stature remains fortified.

His eyes ignite, sharp and knowing, aware he struck a nerve. But he doesn’t gloat. Just watches me closely, standing close enough to cage me in with his presence alone. He towers over me with unintentional intimidation.

Men no longer scare me. Insentient machines in human skin. I’ve known too many of them. Greedy in their violence and vacant in their cruelty. You learn quickly that there’s no use fearing them because fear doesn’t save you. And there is no saving you.

Only survival.

But with Blackwell, he’s different.

He doesn’t want to break me.

He means to unravel me.

He doesn’t need to touch me to dominate me. Doesn’t need to raise his voice or lift a hand. He saturates the room by simply standing in it. His dominance isn’t rooted in brutality or degradation. It’s quieter. Coiled. More insidious.

And that’s the true danger of it. Because I have spent my whole life learning how to survive cruelty. But I have no idea what to do with kindness wrapped in control. With someone who sees me and chooses not to destroy me, but to dismantle me.

It’s a total mindfuck.

“I’m not talking about control being taken from you, joon-kharash .” He tugs at a piece of hair sticking out from underneath my hat. “I’m talking about surrender. On your terms. Voluntary.”

I want to laugh in his face. Free will? That’s a luxury I’ve rarely wasted. So, when the chance comes to take control of anything or anyone, I don’t hesitate. I seize it. Always. And he knows that, because he’s the same. Men in his position never loosen the reins of control. Not even in sleep.

One side of my mouth shifts. “Let’s make a deal.

” He looks mused as he waits. “I’ll give you one night,” I say, plucking the gold cuffs from the box and dangling them between us.

“Total control. But you give me one in return, where I’m in charge, and you’re mine to do with as I please.

” His eyes hold mine like a challenge, and I could do this all day. I won’t bend or break.

“Any rules to this?” he finally asks.

“Nope. Just one night each. Full control. No safeties. No safe words. No outs.”

His eyes glint. “We’re still talking sexually, right?”

“Yes.” I hold my empty hand out. “Deal?”

He looks down, considering. Then he bites back a smile as he takes my hand and shakes it.