Page 25 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twenty

Blackwell

T he dining room is gleaming and gold.

Polished silver, expensive crystal, enough blood money in the tableware alone to fund a coup. And yet it feels oppressive.

Sinclair’s too far gone now, loose but unfiltered and dangerous.

She’s drunk but not sloppy. She’s too proud for that.

Her face is flushed, and her eyes are glossed over.

She’s so obstinate in her opinion of me and convinced that my actions against her tonight are all out of my need to control her.

That I demand to keep her on a taut leash.

My anger hasn’t been towards her. It’s been for her.

Her entire demeanor changed since the moment we got onto the jet.

She is constantly throwing me for a loop, but tonight it’s different.

She’s using it to hide something deeper, more painful.

Seeing her go through all the emotions in the last few hours has affected me in ways I never knew I was capable of.

She settles into her seat beside me, almost missing it entirely.

But my hand is already there to steady her.

She hardly notices as she starts drumming her fingers on the table, resting her chin in her propped hand like a bored heiress.

Her mother clocks the movement, wrinkling her nose up in disdain.

“Still can’t hold your liquor, I see,” her father says, without looking at her. “Some things never change,” he utters under his breath.

“Not for lack of trying,” Sinclair chirps without slurring her words. She reaches for the wine as soon as it’s poured, and I hold my tongue. I’ll let her deal the way she wants to tonight.

Her brothers chuckle, low and cruel. Lincoln mutters some snide remark under his breath, and I fist the fabric on my leg.

“I see you’ve kept up with the theatrics. Always needing to be center of attention,” her mother says, staring daggers at her like the sight of her daughter repulses her.

Sinclair grins after drinking some wine. “I like to give the people what they want.”

My nostrils flare as I white-knuckle my fork. I glance at Dane and Harlan across from me and see them trying to hide their smirks. But I can’t see the amusement here.

“And you still think leather and fishnets are formal wear,” Royce jumps in. “What’s next? Cosplay?”

“No, I save those for your dreams,” she replies sweetly, ripping a large chunk of bread off to shove into her mouth.

She might as well have ripped a piece of my heart off. I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this. I clench my teeth so hard I taste blood.

“Charming how you’ve never evolved past rebellion,” her mother tries to say without retaliation.

“And it’s charming how you’ve evolved into nothing more than skin, bones, bitterness, and Botox,” Sinclair claps back so easily, it’s impressive.

“I did warn you,” her father says to me, trying to pass off passive aggression for fun banter with a chuckle. “You’d have your hands full.”

“I’d rather have my hands full than empty,” I say, stabbing at my food with enough force to crack the China.

“Those who crave silence seem to never shut up,” Dane mutters, and the room falls dead silent. His words aren’t directly pointed at the Ortizs, but we all know who they’re for.

Dane hardly speaks up. It’s typically Harlan tossing in comments, but they seem to have switched roles momentarily. Dane is past the point where he can no longer stay quiet, and Harlan is too, where he doesn’t trust what will come out of his mouth if he opens it.

My father clears his throat. “Funny. Most families at least pretend to get along in public,” he says in a way that is intended to lighten the mood, earning a chuckle from a few. But I know it isn’t in humor.

“We’ve never been good at pretending,” her father replies.

Sinclair falls back in her chair and laughs too loudly. But I don’t watch her. I’m too preoccupied with keeping a vigilant eye on her father and brothers as their faces turn crimson. If they so much as flinch in her direction, so help me God, I won’t be able to stop myself.

Her father, ever the coward, changes the subject. Veering towards safer terrain before Sinclair can recover and begin to spill, splaying all their dirty laundry.

I remain composed, putting on the facade of following along to the flow of conversation, but that’s not where my attention lies. I’m fixated on the way Sinclair fists her hands in her lap under the table as she wears a careless, vacant smile. Putting on a flawless performance.

If I didn’t witness her consuming all the alcohol myself, I’d swear she wasn’t even drunk right now.

She’s just that good at acting aloof to her family’s cruelty, keeping hold of what little power she still possesses with them. She plays it so well. Detached. Dismissive. As if none of it gets to her. But I see right through the act. I see how deep it cuts.

And the worst part? She’s used to it.

So, when the wine is again poured for her, I don’t bat an eye.

If they make her out to be the villain, she might as well drink like one.

We’re all silent on the flight home. No one questions my mood or dares to speak to me.

No one rolls their eyes at my drunk fiancée.

We were all witnesses to the same abominable treatment.

How Sinclair was carved up by her family and then written off like a check.

And how she took it. As if it were normal, expected.

Harlan takes it upon himself to sit next to Sinclair with an unspoken understanding. They all sense that I need time to myself. I need to keep my distance, stewing in my anger until it simmers before dealing with her.

After seeing her mistreatment for myself, I don’t have the heart to take my anger out on her. It’s not a question of whether she can take it or not, because it isn’t a question. I know she can. But she deserves better.

I stare at her profile as she seems to be entertaining him right back, causing him to laugh a lot. But it isn’t long before she passes out.

I don’t know how she does it. Tonight was hardly a glimpse into her wretched life. She was treated like dirt and chewed on like a dog toy, yet never letting them rip her apart. The only purpose she served was to bleed for their entertainment.

If her sister hadn’t swallowed death first, they’d have buried Sinclair long ago, simply for sport. And she would have let them do it if it meant not giving them the satisfaction of seeing her back down.

There’s something holy in the way she endures.

She is no longer for their amusement. No longer their possession. She belongs to me, and she will have a life like no one has had before. Never again will she have to look over her shoulder, wondering if today is the day they finally break her for good.

By the time we land, the space given to me was not nearly enough to cool me down. And when Sinclair wakes up giggly and still intoxicated, it only rips control further out of my reach. I’d save the explosion for the morning, if only I could think straight, but I am only capable of so much.

As soon as we walk through the doors, I pull Sinclair by the hand and take her straight to my bedroom. She doesn’t resist. Still giddy, still drunk on deflection.

I completely tune her out the entire way, and the moment I close the bedroom door behind us, I pin her against it. “What did Royce do to you?”

The smile dies. “Fuck off, Blackwell,” she snarls, shoving hard at my chest.

I’m immovable. “Tell me what he did.” My words are chopped up into tiny pieces.

“I said fuck off!” she shouts and pushes harder.

I’m tired of the secrets and mysteries and games. I want answers. Mostly where Royce is concerned.

I grip her jaw, squeezing and forcing her to remain focused on me. “What did he do?”

Her eyes glass over, and her mask reveals the pure rawness underneath. “I said,” she growls through her teeth. “Fuck. Off!” she screams and starts flailing about, her fists slamming into me, wild and trembling. “Get off me! Get the fuck off me!”

My hand shakes on her face. “Tell me what he did!” I roar.

“Why do you care so much?!” She stops thrashing. “Huh?! Why? So, you can toss me on my ass when you realize how fucking ruined I am? How dirty I am?”

Ruined . The word hits like a brick to the sternum.

And the raw pain in her eyes is so tangible, I can feel it too. It has my knees buckling.

Her chin contorts as her glossy eyes bore into me. “I think you know what he did to me.” Her voice cracks, ripping my heart out. “Just use your fucking imagination.” She shoves at me with the last two words.

I swallow hard as my stomach churns. I need her to say it out loud, so that my imagination doesn’t run wild like it has been. I know it’s selfish of me, but the mystery of it all is gutting me from the inside out.

But then I remember the turmoil of her life. I don’t wish to inflict more pain into it. I never want to cause her any real pain again. I wish I could build a protective cocoon around her.

I ease my grip and drop my forehead to her. She flinches, and it nearly sends me over the edge. But I stay there, breathing her in. Steadying us both.

Eventually, after several moments, our breath aligns.

Without withdrawing, I run my hands over her. Sliding up the back of her head, into her hair, then down to caress her neck and shoulders. Down her arms. Letting my touch say everything I can’t right now. Everything I won’t.

When I open my eyes, her eyes are open too, staring blankly. She’s retreating behind the wall again, but tonight I’m going to tear a piece of that wall down. Permanently.

I don’t say anything as I scoop her up, holding her protectively. She’s never felt so tiny in my arms. I carry her to the bathroom, set her gently on her feet, and turn on the tub. She doesn’t resist, and I don’t dare disturb the silence.

I know her strength, but I undress her like she’s breakable. Then I undress myself, my eyes never once straying from her beautifully broken features.

Once I’m satisfied with the water’s temperature, I lift her again and lower her into the steaming water. Then I sink in, bringing her back to my chest.

Minutes creep by as her body remains stiff. So, I just hold her. No demands. No expectations. Only patience and warmth.

Just when I think it’ll never happen, she melts back into me. Her body softens, and I keep my breath steady despite the victorious feeling bursting inside me.

When I begin running a soap bar over her silky skin, I do it slowly, reverently so. The scars on her back, ribs, and thighs…I study each one, touching them with care. No words.

Not tonight. I won’t ruin this with questions, threats, or promises of revenge. Just solace as I hold her until the water turns to room temperature.

When we leave the bath, we don’t speak. I wrap her in a towel and carry her to the bed. She doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t need to. Because I already know.

Every time we touch, we explode, coming together in a frenzy. Passion turns to hunger. Hunger turns to greed. Greed turns to dominance. Tonight, our gravitation is no less fervent. Our desire is no less parched. But I take my sweet time with her, and she lets me.

I sit on the edge of the bed with her still in my arms. Holding her for a few more moments, my nose pressed against her head, breathing her in.

Her smell is so overpowering, I’m enslaved.

She has no clue the possessive hold she has over me.

I may be able to conquer her physically with pure brute and muscle.

But she reaches places inside me that are unattainable. To everyone but her .

Dragging my lips across her forehead, I cup her delicate face, and she returns my gaze. Her eyes are pink with unshed tears and exhaustion. The pain is still evident, potent. I feel hopeless at this moment. I could give her anything in the world, but I can’t wipe away her past.

Searing my lips to hers, they move together. Our tongues meet in the middle, and we remain unhurried. Her arms curl around my neck, clinging to me like it’s the only thing that’ll keep her from finally shattering.

She’s pliant in my hands as I maneuver her to the bed, laying her down, covering her body with mine. All the while, she still holds onto me and kisses me so deeply, as if to make the rest of her world disappear.

The towels get tossed aside, and I rain down kisses on her face and neck. She has her eyes squeezed shut, but it’s okay. If I am going to get anywhere with Sinclair, I need to take smaller steps with her. Learn more patience.

So tonight, when I settle my hips between her legs and I slide into her, there’s no battle for dominance. No war between our bodies. We lay down our swords and surrender.

As I make languid, long thrusts, her nails dig into my back. But not in an animalistic way like she usually does. It’s to anchor herself to me. To hold onto me for dear life.

When I feel her mouth in my hair, and a hand snakes up my back to thread her fingers through it, I feel it. That shift. It’s faint, but it’s there. Proof that she’s still alive.

That no matter what they did to her, she survived.

And now, she’s mine.