Page 23 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter nineteen

Sinclair

R unning off alcohol and violence, we pull up to the hellhole I was forced to call home.

I’m not consumed with feelings of nostalgia.

No cleaving to any memories. Nothing to even reminisce on.

Only malice and contempt fuel me. The thought of setting the estate ablaze and watching them burn alive, screaming for help, begging for mercy, stirs up something dark and almost euphoric inside me.

Blackwell keeps me close, but not for safety or affection. It feels heavy like a chain, not warm like a comfort. As if he’s here to parade his trophy for winning a hunt for exotic creatures, and he plans to hand me over as a tribute.

He’s not gentle when he pulls me out of the vehicle with him, and I glance up at the height of the estate. At the attic.

They thought that by banishing me up there, I would alleviate them of grief.

In a way, it did. I kept myself hidden up there more often, lurking in my little tomb, rather than hunting down my next victim to drag their sorry ass through their polished halls.

But every time I did emerge, it was open season.

A shudder trickles down my spine, imperceptible through my coat, when Blackwell drops his hand lower on my back. His touch still causes me stress, but for this moment, it steadies me, whether he knows it or not. I find some peace in it, like an anchor on my sanity and tranquility.

My mind drifts into a fog the second we walk through the doors. It smells the same as I remember. Cold. Lifeless. Embers and soot. The painful past tries to choke me, but I’m too checked out. So far detached, I feel nothing at all.

I have no idea who takes my coat, but my father materializes like the devil, that repulsive, poisonous smirk twisting his face, my brothers trailing behind him like pathetic pets. Thank God my mother isn’t here. I somehow hate her most of all.

I plaster on a confident smile, ready to propel forward when Blackwell’s fingers catch my hip in a subtle gesture, yet a warning undertone. “Let them come to you,” Blackwell’s voice pierces through the fog, rapping into my ear.

To anyone watching, it may look like a tender whisper, sweet nothings spilled against my ear. But to them, all they see is control and correction. A man reminding his woman of her tight leash.

His breath ghosts across my skin, chilling my spine. The torrid heat of his proximity almost has me wavering. But I’ve trained for this. To remain idle against dominance and tyranny.

Stillness is safe.

Stillness is survival.

Stillness is safe.

Stillness is survival.

I’ve worn a mask, impenetrable and bulletproof, for so long, I’m not even sure what’s underneath it, if there’s anything left at all.

Let them come to me .

When my father realizes we aren’t advancing, he strolls forward to close the distance. He shakes Dario’s hand first, then to Blackwell, and down the line. Everyone smiling like snakes.

“Sinclair,” my father says in a dead, monotone. His chin only dipped slightly. His soulless eyes lingering on me for too long. A toned-down version of his beady stare when he had too much to drink, but I can see the fire and filthy thoughts swirling behind them.

When Royce’s obsession with me came to light, he beat him to a pulp. But it was in no way a paternal reaction. It was jealousy. Because then he took it out on me, too.

“Hello, father,” I reply, my posture unflappable.

Lincoln and Royce flank his sides to follow our father’s lead with stiff handshakes and sneers posed as smiles.

Lincoln gives me a cursory nod that I barely acknowledge, and I avoid looking in Royce’s direction at all.

I can physically feel him trying to suck me in with his eyes, or perhaps it could be Blackwell he’s sizing up.

I’m suddenly regretting the outfit I chose for tonight.

I resist the temptation of recoiling or bolting for the exit.

I hate how easily they can still tear me down with one single look.

I hate how they can make me feel anything .

I hate them . And I hate being here. Why the fuck did I agree to this?

Because I refuse to cower, letting them win.

The only way to get through this evening is to imagine slicing them into pieces, basking in their anguished screams, and bathing in their blood. Picturing all the ways I would inflict pain and torture on them, murdering them in my head over and over again until I’m numb.

Well, that , and alcohol.

Blackwell’s hand traces lazily up and down on my hip as he trades hollow words with the monsters of my past. Whether absentmindedly, like calming a wild animal, or consciously.

Either way, I’m grateful for it, and so should everyone else be in this room.

If he weren’t touching me right now, I’d be ripping their throats out.

We’re finally ushered to the cigar room, and I peel from his side without a glance back, heading straight for the minibar. I don’t need his judgey looks right now. My buzz is waning, and I cannot stomach any of them sober.

Still maintaining the facade of enjoying dark liquor, I pour two glasses and carry them back to the loveseat where Blackwell is now sitting. I join him, careful to leave a few inches of space between us, and offer him his drink without a word.

I clam up internally, feeling his eyes hanging on my profile, maybe questioning me, maybe studying me. But I refuse to look at him.

I have no fucking idea why I did that?

I didn’t even realize I did that.

Why in the fuck did I just serve him a drink?

Well, fuck . I’m fucking fucked .

I tip half the liquor back in one go and fight the bitter burn scraping down my throat. The men are already in whatever disingenuous conversation, talking around me, thinking I’m too vapid to hear.

But I’m here. Floating at the edges, detached and unnoticed, like a ghost through their words. Invisible but ever present, taking inventory, filing it all away to later sharpen as weapons.

It’s when I become the center of attention that I can no longer play the fool. Like when my father asks Blackwell if I’ve been a problem for him, as if I’m not here. I allow my eyes to wander, letting their words wash over me. Playing the dazed idiot and disappointment, they’ve always seen me as.

But when my mother floats into the room, I can’t ignore her. I feel the space getting smaller. The air is thicker and heavier like wet cement pouring into my lungs to be buried alive.

I can’t breathe in here.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I rise abruptly, saying I’ll be back, and no one says a thing. No snide remark on how I no longer live here, or ask where I’m going, or tell me to wait for dismissal, or even a flat-out no . I throw a glance over my shoulder on my way out, and no one follows.

It’s not because they trust me. It’s because I’m in no way a threat to them.

Let them think that. That mistake will one day cost them everything.

I wander aimlessly, long enough to be sure that I’m really alone. Once I’m confident no one’s shadowing me, I veer toward the back of the house. The soft clatter of dishes and muffled chatter leaks through the swinging door to the kitchen, and it gives me a light smile.

When I blow into the room, conversation instantly stalls. All heads turn, all eyes widen on me. It takes me less than two seconds to find the only pair that matters. Pale eyes framed by deepening lines that crease when he smiles at me.

“Miss Sinclair,” Baxter says warmly, setting his knife down to wipe his hands before meeting me halfway.

We don’t hug. Never have. But his smile is comforting enough because it’s genuine.

“Hello, Baxter.”

“Hello, little shadow,” he says, smiling widely, and gives me a quick once-over. “It feels like it’s been so long.”

I smile. “It’s only been a few months, hasn’t it?”

“Several.” His tone makes it feel like years.

“So, what is on the menu for tonight?”

The background hum of the kitchen chatter resumes, and I end up beside him, watching him move with adroit grace I’ve studied since I was a child. There’s always been something about the noise here. The murmurs, the clanking of pots and pans, it’s like white noise for me.

It was one of the few places untainted by my family’s rot. It’s too far beneath them. But it was my first sanctuary, before my attic.

Baxter launches into the night’s dishes and low-stakes gossip. Mostly trivial drama between the staff. When you never get to leave the estate, spilled wine becomes scandal.

“How is your new life, girl?” he asks.

I study his profile and realize how much he’s aged. I was so used to seeing him all the time, I hardly noticed as his hair turned gray and the crinkles turned to wrinkles.

“Just as subservient as it always has been,” I say breezily, and pop a grape tomato in my mouth to avoid his look of pity for too long.

He sighs, eyes dropping back to the task at hand. “Could you say it is better than here?” he asks quietly.

“Depends on how you look at it,” I rush out and pivot to a new subject before I speak too honestly. I shift the conversation to food, raving about how good the food is at the Golzar estate, but making sure he knows that none of it compares to his work.

I know the first course will be plated soon, and someone will come to hunt me down.

“Well, it was nice catching up, Baxter.” I give him a pat on the shoulder.

He turns to give me his undivided attention, and I have to fight the ridiculous urge to wrap my arms around him and deeply inhale all the scents clinging to his jacket.

His looks soften, turning sentimental. “Take care of yourself, Miss Sinclair.”

“Always have,” I chirp and steal another grape tomato before spinning on my heels.