Page 24 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

I leave the kitchen as swiftly as I entered, and can’t help but think it could be the last time I see Baxter.

He’s getting older, slower. This house doesn’t keep anything that can’t serve.

If he drops dead, they’ll probably take him out with the trash.

Or if he grows too weak, they’ll probably take him out back and shoot him like an injured animal.

Dig him a shallow grave to throw him in, next to all the rest of the nameless, loyal corpses buried around this place.

I round the corner and nearly slam into a broad, firm chest cloaked in expensive wool.

My breath catches for a split second before registering it’s Blackwell, not Royce.

“You startled me,” I say with a flippant chuckle, trying to pass it off even though my pulse thrums. He stands there silently, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s posing for an oil painting of himself—brooding, rigid, and fucking handsome. “Dinner almost ready?”

“Not sure,” he mutters grumpily, looking over my shoulder as if expecting someone to be with me. Then his hand finds my lower back to steer me back in the direction of the quaint dinner party from Hell.

“Came to make sure I was behaving ?” The words are bitter on my tongue.

He doesn’t answer as I stare at his profile, jaw tight, unreadable. He’s more wound-up now than when we first arrived.

“Still mad at me?” I push. He still doesn’t speak and it’s grating on my last fucking nerve. I dig my heels in, refusing to take one step further.

Finally, he reacts. A faint growl rumbles in his chest, releasing from his nose, and he pins me with a dark stare. “Sinclair,” he says my name so lowly, the timbre of it ripples down my spine.

“When will you and all those bombastic fucks get it through your thick skulls? I—”

The hallway spins, and I’m suddenly caged against the wall. His body covers mine, holding me with his weight, reminding me of the night of our engagement party. “And when will you stop giving them reason to look down on you?” he sneers.

I gawk at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?!” I shriek.

“Keep your voice down,” he bites, and my blood boils. “You couldn’t have just come here and—”

“And what? Keep my mouth shut? Sit there like your well-trained show dog? My deepest apologies for emasculating you by slipping my leash and forgetting to play the obedient bitch in front of your precious council. Didn’t mean to break your fragile illusion of control, darling . Next time I’ll crawl before I stand.”

“This isn’t about me,” he snaps, his voice raw. His eyes bounce around my face. For a fleeting moment, there’s softness flickering in his eyes. But it vanishes, and he’s back to being surly and steeled. “Acting like a rebellious drunk only lets them win.”

My eyes narrow on his. “I don’t fucking care what they think,” I hiss.

He keeps analyzing me, closer now. Scrutinizing every micro-expression, and I wish I had just kept my trap shut. “You’re upset with me.”

“I’d have to care to be upset.” My response is instant.

His stare sharpens. “We all have a part to play, Sinclair. You know that.” I turn my head, done with this conversation. But he’s not.

His long fingers curl around my jaw, firm but maddeningly gentle when he turns my face. I don’t want gentle. I don’t need it. I’m not some fragile vase on the verge of tipping. I’m already chipped, and what’s left doesn’t break, it cuts.

“I have to be the man they expect me to be. But you know that’s not me.”

I blink. What the fuck? He’s exactly who he portrays himself to be.

“I don’t know you at all,” I say, instantly wishing I could take it back.

His face falters, almost crestfallen, and it stabs me somewhere I didn’t even know could hurt.

A lump rises in my throat, dragging my resolve down with it.

And I hate him for it. “And you know nothing about me ,” I push, needing distance.

“Don’t act like this is anything other than an obligation for both of us.

” Nothing in his wrecking-ball eyes changes, and all I want to do is hurt him.

“What? Because we’ve been fucking you think there’s anything between us more than a fucking contract?

I have never let you in, and I never will.

And I don’t even want to know you. You are no different than any of them! ” I finish loud, coldly.

He slaps a hand over my mouth, and I burn, imagining how I’d like to kill him. I haven’t forgotten about the little stunt he pulled on the jet.

The rage and rejection and humiliation all swirl into one violent storm. I start to shake as it all tears me to shreds. All I want to do is scream. Cry. Disappear.

He brings his head in, bypassing my face, and brushes his lips against my ear tenderly. I start thrashing in his hold, and he gives me more of his weight, taking the air out of me.

“I fucking love your lies,” he whispers. The words crawl under my skin, digging up something buried too deep, too familiar. “It’s so easy to see the truth beneath them.”

A hairline fracture splinters through the barriers I’ve spent my life reinforcing.

No, no. Get the fuck out of my head!

That traitorous lump swells, and I can’t swallow it down. My insides clench. I’ve felt pain. Real pain. My body’s been scorched, twisted into something unrecognizable. But my mind—that was hallowed. Sacred. Mine . No one could ever touch it.

But now he’s in. Infiltrating and prying it open, making me feel .

Stillness is safe.

Stillness is survival.

I chant the words in my head over and over like a mantra until I reel myself in and regain temperance. He feels it, I think. His hand falls from my mouth, and I turn my face enough to whisper back in his ear, “You’re really killing my buzz.”

And just like that, I see it. A crack in his armor. Finally! I knew he was part human. His body turns to stone, locking up like he forgot how to breathe. Fear tries to creep in, but I shut it down, putting myself back into that safe place. Cold, quiet, untouchable.

He leans away like he’s been burned, finding it difficult to look at me. And when he releases me from his weight, I stumble, unsteady without the pressure of him holding me upright. I press a hand against the wall for support.

Without a sound, he places his hand at the small of my back like it never left and nudges me back in the direction of Hell. His silence is more domineering than any threat he’s given me. Domineering and annoying as fuck.

We enter the room, and no one pays us any mind. I spot Harlan at the minibar, leaning an arm on it with one ankle crossed over the other. His face is the one everyone sees, but I see that twinkle in his eyes when they connect with mine.

Blackwell is prudent enough to withhold his tongue when I part ways with him again, heading straight for the dark liquor. “I was wondering where this Sinclair was hiding,” Harlan murmurs for only me to hear.

I give him a smirk and turn to peruse the room with a new drink in hand. “Yeah?”

“I was beginning to think all the rumors about you were exaggerated.”

“They were watered down.” I sip my drink with a straight face. Anxious for the buzz to kick back in and send me into a state where I won’t remember much of tonight.

He hides his low chuckle in his drink. “I don’t know, joon-kharash . I was expecting the Lady Lobotomy everyone fears.”

I abruptly spit out my liquor on an uncontrollable laugh. Heads turn and conversations halt as all the attention turns to me. But I ignore them and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Harlan is trying to hide his grin behind his glass, but I don’t give two fucks.

After everyone is sure I’m not lighting a match, they go back to their conversations, and I’m back to being a nobody.

“Is that what they call me?” I ask Harlan.

He shrugs a shoulder, face back to neutrality. “Something like that.”

“Did you just make that up?” The corner of his lips twitches, his eyes surveying the room like he’s ignoring me, like everyone else. But I don’t take offense, because unlike Blackwell, I do know Harlan. “Wow, that was pretty good. I like it. What else you got?”

“I’ll tell you only if you promise not to spit your drink out again.”

“I never make promises.” He snorts. “Come on,” I whine, feeling the effects of the liquor again. “Entertain me, Harlan.” I go to drink, and only a drop comes out. Damnit . I pick up the crystal decanter to fill my glass, my pour sloppy.

“Fine.” He pauses, and I watch him, zealous to hear what else he comes up with. “Batshit Barbie.”

I snort. “That’s alright, but you can do better.”

“The Attic Witch.”

I roll my eyes. “Heard that one already.”

“Gotherella.”

I look at him with confusion, creasing my brows. It takes me a moment, but then it finally hits me. I have to steady myself on the bar top when I giggle. “I like that one too. Almost as much as Lady Lobotomy .”

A dark cloud rolls in when Royce comes into the room. I only see him out of the corner of my eye, but I can feel his eyes on me. Another set of eyes burns into me, and I look up to clash with Blackwell’s. Is that why he came looking for me? Because Royce left the room after I did?

Stop it, Sinclair. He doesn’t care about you. If anything, he just wanted to make sure nobody was touching what he claims belongs to him. He wasn’t concerned for your safety.