Page 2 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)
Chapter one
Sinclair
T he Golzars are in my house.
I started drinking the moment I heard they were coming. Not sipping, but drinking. Not because I’m nervous because fuck that. I’d like to be in the right frame of mind when people start negotiating over my uterus.
Right now, I’m standing directly outside my father’s office, leaning against the wall with a wine bottle in one hand and the stem of my patience snapping in the other.
Two mob gnomes stand flanking the door like little lawn ornaments, trying to pretend like I’m not here.
But the way their shoulders lock up when I shift tells me otherwise.
They’re skittish, and it puts a little smile on my face.
“The engagement will be announced next month. We’ll host a party in honor of it,” I hear my father say, I’m sure he’s sitting behind his mahogany desk, trying to puff his chest out for the Golzars.
“Our family accepts,” a deep, unfamiliar voice says.
A long pause follows it, and someone clears their throat. “Yes, we accept,” another deep voice adds with a disgruntled manner like he’s chewing on broken glass.
A dark chuckle happens, and the first unfamiliar voice speaks again. “I apologize for my son’s surliness. He’s still coming to terms with the arrangement.”
Translation: He doesn’t want to marry the psychopath you’re offering.
My father’s chortle makes my eye twitch. It’s the kind of sound that makes you want to set something on fire.
“I’m sure the rumors about my daughter have something to do with it.” He laughs again, and others join in this time. “I assure you, she only needs a firm hand, and she’ll stay in line. But she’s young and in good health. Should give you plenty of heirs.”
My nostrils flare, and I white-knuckle the bottle in my hand. One of the gnomes scoots slightly like he’s preparing for impact. I smirk at him, but he won’t look at me. I lean in closer and imagine what it would be like to turn men to stone with a glance.
What Athena meant as punishment, Medusa turned into power.
“It’s her sanity I’m uneasy about,” comes a voice that has been living rent-free in my mind for years.
Blackwell. His voice, darker now. Sharper. Still low, still lethal. And still maddeningly disinterested.
“Oh, she’s harmless,” my father says dismissively, and I nearly burst into laughter.
The wine hits my throat against the giggles. Harmless . That’s adorable. Pitiful, deluded man. The mob pups go rigid as if I’m about to do something to prove my father wrong.
“She’s a fucking kook,” Blackwell snaps. “I was promised your older daughter, not her .”
The dead sister card. I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see God. Spinning around, I take another sip from the bottle. “At ease, boys,” I say with a lazy salute.
I’m off to find some trouble.
I meander through the halls, barefoot and bottle dangling from my fingers. The house is always crawling with men. Testosterone around every corner. But they all avoid me like the plague.
I duck into one of the sitting rooms. Doesn’t matter which one. Almost all of them have a mini bar. Some with bottles collecting dust, while others have hardly anything left.
I pluck a bottle from the cluster of wines and continue my tour of agonizing boredom.
They think I’m insane. But here’s the thing no one tells you about going mad. It’s not always a tragedy. Sometimes, it’s evolution.
And they only have themselves to blame.