Page 21 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter eighteen

Sinclair

I ’m just coming out of the hedge maze after hanging out with Blender when I see Blackwell.

He’s standing at the top of the steps, hovering over like a Persian god, all regal and handsome as fuck. His hands are casually shoved into his pockets, and there’s a black silk scarf around his neck, owning the fuck out of it.

It should be a sin to look that good while doing absolutely nothing.

It’s infuriating how he can get my blood pumping without saying a word or moving an inch. He lets the silence speak for itself. It makes me want to choke him with his own scarf and demand he release me. To free me of whatever spell he’s cast or whatever chemical imbalance he triggers in my system.

Because whatever this is, it’s an illness I’m starting to like.

“You seem to like the garden,” he states as I join him at the top of the steps.

“Just the maze.”

He glances over at it and smirks. “It took Harlan till he was a teenager to find his way out of it.”

“What about Dane?”

“He still can’t find his way out.”

I grin. “And you?”

“Took me a couple of days.”

My grin turns smug, and I move past him, heading towards the back doors.

I’m unsure of how to act around him. We’re engaged to be married, but not in the traditional sense.

We’re certainly sexually compatible. There’s no denying the chemistry there, but we’re not lovers.

And we’re certainly not friends. If anything, we teeter on that line between love and hate.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how long it took you?” he calls out after me.

I stop and face him. “Like you don’t know?”

“How could I? You ditched my guys every time you went in.” He walks to me, and my heart rate picks up. It’s unnerving how tranquil he is when I’m one touch away from combusting.

I shrug nonchalantly as I resist the craving for some kind of physical touch from him. “I prefer exploring on my own.”

“Well, considering we never had to send in a search party, you figured your way out fairly quickly.”

I lift one shoulder with a smirk. “It was challenging enough. At least to keep me entertained for a day.”

He’s quiet for a moment while he stares at me. “We’re invited to dinner tonight at your family’s estate.”

Right away, the mood shifts, and any pleasure I’ve had from this conversation quickly evaporates. “And it’s necessary for me to attend?” He doesn’t answer as he blankly stares back at me, and I huff in annoyance. “What time do I need to be ready?”

He glances down at his watch. “You have two hours to get yourself ready.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

It’s just past six o’clock as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

My makeup is dark, my lips painted a bloodied maroon.

My hair is wild with a crimped style, and I wish I had more warning so I could have dumped some color on it.

Purple or anything loud enough to make my father sneer with disdain.

He’s always loathed whatever shade of rebellion I picked that month.

But it was better than the way he began looking at me once I had tits. That slow, slithering look that no father should give his daughter.

There’s no one pounding on my door, no mother waiting to lecture me about appearances, propriety, and the endless shame I’ve supposedly brought to the family name.

She hated my so-called ‘gothic phase’, but all her nagging did was make me double down.

So, I wore more makeup, more leather and fishnets, and made my hair brighter, wilder.

What started as a petty “fuck you” turned into armor. Then into comfort. A phase that is no longer a phase, and now a part of me.

Picking out my outfit for tonight, I felt torn for the first time. Part of me wanted to put on something that would have my family steaming in embarrassment and clenching in resentment. But then the other part of me, the part that I hate, wanted to wear something with Blackwell in mind.

Something that would have his hands itching at his sides. Something that would have that muscle in his jaw twitch. Something that would drag those dark, dangerous looks from him that tell me we’re about to combust together.

And I absolutely abhor it. I don’t do anything for anyone but myself. People are selfish and greedy by nature, primarily driven by self-interest. A harsh lesson I had to learn the even harder way.

So, I ended up compromising. Only because I wanted to, not having any outside influence.

A black, form-fitting leather skirt, high-waisted, ending at my calves, and a slit up to my thigh to give a tease, as well as showing off an inch of midriff.

Pointed black stiletto boots come up to my knees, and a sheer high-necked top that covers my arms and shoulders, but shows off the black lacy bra underneath. Neither wholesome nor obscene.

Giving my wild hair one more fluff, I grab my black trench coat and head downstairs, making sure to be a couple minutes late just to get under my fiancé’s skin.

Though he seems to tolerate me more lately. Must have pulled that stick out of his ass.

As prophesied, Blackwell paces at the bottom of the stairs, looking at his watch and counting every second I make him wait.

When he catches sight of me, he stops and freezes.

Eyes raking over me with a heat that has my skin burning and my nipples hard against the fabric.

I confidently hold his gaze and take the stairs as if I own the fucking world.

“Do you purposely arrive belatedly,” he drawls, voice low and threaded with irritation, “or are you really that careless?”

I give him a cloying smile. “Now, why would I purposely arrive belatedly ?” I respond cheekily and breeze past him to head out.

“To push my patience,” he mutters, appearing at my side.

I give him a shocked look in mock offense. “Me? Oh, come now, Blacky. You wound me.”

He beats me to the car door to open it for me like the gentleman he is not, all the while cursing under his breath. Guess he isn’t so tolerant of me yet.

I slide in, and he gives me a dry, unimpressed look before shutting me inside and circling the vehicle before joining me from the other side.

His moves are smooth as he settles in, unbuttoning his jacket with a practiced flick of his fingers and then giving a sharp tug on the lapels.

All the while, I can’t keep my eyes off his every move.

How can I not? He’s so annoyingly secure and alluring.

From the way the veins pop out on the back of his hands as the muscles constrict, reminding me of how strong they are and how rough the pads of his fingers are against my skin.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I want him, or if I want to be him.

I tear my eyes from him to stare out the window as the car pulls into motion with a vehicle in front of us and another behind us.

“Where’s your father this time?” I ask, assuming he isn’t joining us again because I haven’t seen him.

I wonder if it has anything to do with his heart condition I’m not supposed to know about.

“He’s in the vehicle in front of us, and my brothers are behind us,” he says with disinterest.

I snort. How pompous. The vehicles are lined in order of power and succession. “And your mother?”

“She won’t be coming.”

I look at his prominent profile. “Why does she get to skip this?” He refuses to answer me or even look my way. “So, is there a special reason we’re all being summoned for dinner tonight?” I turn my head again.

“Do you need a special reason to join your family for dinner?” His voice dips in that maddening neutrality.

I snarl at my reflection in the tinted window. “There needed to be a special reason to even talk to me while living under the same roof,” I mutter, immediately regretting commenting at all. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy and simmering in the quietness of the vehicle. I’m sure with pity.

“No,” he finally says, releasing his hold on me. “No special occasion.”

Liar .

The Ortiz family has never been the type to regale or break bread together, especially for the sake of it. There’s always some ulterior motive.

It isn’t a long ride to their private airstrip where there’s a jet waiting for us. It’s not very spacious, unlike the one I was forced to take when I came here. Not a lot of headspace and no private bedroom in the back. But it’s luxurious, nonetheless.

I give his father and Dane amicable smiles and say hello, then Harlan a more genuine one as I take it upon myself to sit as far back as I can on one of the plush leather seats.

Blackwell stops near his family and looks torn, looking to me, then to his brothers. I school my features and pull out my phone to open a game of solitaire, then cross my legs, completely ignoring him.

He makes the wise decision and stays at the front to sit. We take off shortly, and as soon as a stewardess comes to see if I need anything, I order a bottle of wine without thinking. When she comes back with the bottle and a stemless glass for me, I request a side of bourbon to add.

Probably a horrible idea since I haven’t eaten much today, but aw well. It’ll make tonight slightly more tolerable.

I shoot the bourbon back and keep my face passive, even as it burns all the way down and fizzles like acid in my stomach. Then the real drinking begins.

The more my face heats from the alcohol consumption, the less tension I carry, and the more bored I get. Damnit, why didn’t Harlan sit back here with me? At least he would’ve been a good distraction.

I reach for the wine, filling another glass with a shaky grace. Just as I bring it to my lips, I catch Blackwell closing in like a storm cloud. I lean back and smile up at him, casual and unbothered, drink in hand.

He takes the seat next to me, his face grim. “I think you should slow down,” he says firmly, as if he’s speaking some wise words.

Right away, I’m triggered.