Page 26 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Sinclair

I t’s been days since the dinner from hell, followed by something more terrifying, but I still feel raw under my skin.

Like something foul I can’t quite scrub out.

Outwardly, I’m the same. Wandering the vast estate, looking for something to get into. Touching things I’m not supposed to, peeking into rooms I’m not supposed to be in, all the while wearing an unbothered smirk, throwing a wink at every mob puppy I pass.

But inwardly, I’m frayed. I’m still stuck in that tub with Blackwell’s arms around me, holding me like I’d fall apart if he didn’t. It was something I didn’t know I needed. It’s why I can’t let it ever happen again. I can’t let him get that close again.

I’m afraid of what I might say if I do.

What I might feel .

So, I’ve been avoiding him as much as humanly possible. Going out on more shopping sprees, wandering the hedge maze with Blender, clinging to the shadows like a vengeful little plague.

But when we do cross paths, I do a great job at pretending like I’m as solid as ever.

Neither of us brings it up, but he’s different.

In the way he touches me for the sake of touching me, so casually.

A light caress down my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Brushing my fingers in passing. Kissing me without devouring me and tearing my clothes off.

And I let him. I don’t pull away, but I don’t lean into it either. And I never make the first move. Reciprocation is all I can offer. It’s the only currency I trust.

We may come from the same world, but our lives were nothing alike. I’ve never had a relationship. Never even seen one up close. Not romantically, not platonically. Hell, I wasn’t even friends with my siblings. Watching Dario and Jacqueline Golzar is the closest I’ve gotten, and it’s fucking weird .

She was forced into her marriage like the rest of us ill-fated bitches, but she seems… happy .

It’s so unnatural.

As if she had learned to love her captor. The whole Stockholm syndrome thing. Or maybe he somehow earned it.

I can’t think too long about marrying Blackwell. Every time the thought tries to slither its way in, I shove it down with the rest of the bottom-feeders in my mental basement. Alongside shame, want, compassion, and trust.

I don’t hate it here. Sure, I’m bored to death most days, but I don’t always feel the need to keep my bedroom locked at all times, or sleep with one eye open. I don’t trust any of them, or anyone in general, but I feel somewhat safe here.

Maybe safe isn’t the right word.

I think it’s content.

Yes, I feel content.

Turning a corner, half-expecting to be alone, there he is. Manifesting himself like he knew he was on my mind. All clean lines and subtle assuredness, standing there like he’s been waiting for me.

I slow to a stop, letting him come to me.

When he reaches, his arms automatically go around my waist, and his face softens.

Without a word, he kisses me like he hasn’t seen me in so long.

Desperate but unhurried. With warmth that’s reserved for something soft and real. Not for steeled mobsters like us.

I kiss him back with a smirk curving my lips. Cool and detached as always. “Stalking me, Blackwell?” I rest my arms on his shoulders.

“Always have,” he rasps between kisses. “Losing your touch, Sinister Sinclair ?”

I grin at the most common nickname people have for me. “I prefer Lady Lobotomy .”

He chuckles, pausing his lips for a moment. “I haven’t heard that one yet.”

“That’s because your brother recently came up with that one.”

He looks down at me, head tilted, half a smirk, eyes sparkling. I can’t take it. “Fitting.”

I need distance. Instead of running my fingers through his hair like I’m dying to, I drop my hands. He takes the hint and follows suit. His ease unwavering.

“So, where are you headed off to? Another meeting with plans of global domination? Or global annihilation?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. He’s hiding something. “Just business as usual.”

“So, murder then,” I tease.

His half smirk stretches. “I’d like to have dinner tonight.”

“Then have dinner. No one’s stopping you.” I breeze by him.

“Funny,” he says dryly, matching my steps. “Six o’clock.”

“Not going to tell me to wear something nice?” I sass.

“Would it matter if I did?”

I turn to grin at him, and he’s already looking at me. “Never.”

I start to veer off to disappear around the corner when I’m grabbed by the waist and spun into him like a move straight out of a fucking fairytale. My hands slap against his chest. Our bodies press flush.

He only tortures me with a heated stare for a moment before opening his mouth over mine for a kiss deeper than the one before. Leaving me breathless and my pussy wet with heat.

My mask slips when he pulls away. Not giving me any time to recover, he walks off wearing a cheeky grin like he didn’t just set me on fire to leave me smoldering.

Asshole .

I head up to unwarp my mind and bleed out some tension. When I hit the top of the stairs, I hear some newcomers arriving. Quickening my steps, I duck around the corner to see who they are and what kind of evil they’re adding to this place.

Curiosity is one hell of a drug.

I peek over the banister only enough to see but not be seen, and I spy the last people I’d expect to be visiting. What the fuck are the Bozzellis doing here?

Looks like my day just got a little more interesting.

I switch directions, walking away from my room and towards another. A little secret of mine. Making sure I’m not being watched, I close myself inside the empty bedroom that happens to be right above the office, where all their little secret meetings are held.

Same old trick I used back home. All the vents are connected in some way, acting like an intercom. And the closer you are, the louder they project.

Closing the door and flicking the lock, I kick my shoes off to get comfortable. Seeking the floor vent I’ve used for months now, I lay down on my belly and fold my arms to rest my head on them with my ear hovering over the vent.

I half-listen, half-doze. Nothing but egotistical babble. Men preening and comparing dick sizes.

I don’t understand what kind of business they could have with the Bozzellis. They aren’t well-connected. No solid ties to the inner circle. They have some bad blood with a few of the core families, mine being one of them. They’re a total wild card. Unpredictable.

Which makes them dangerous.

Their loyalty to no one, and their allegiance for sale to everyone.

I’m about to check out with nothing holding my interest when I hear my name drop, and my ears perk up.

Is she as crazy as they say she is?

Do you keep her locked inside a cage?

Yawning through the usual, I turn my head to the other side to stretch my neck.

Once they’ve exhausted all curiosity where I’m concerned—part freakshow, part cautionary tale—they move on to my family in general.

They wear their disgust for them loud and proud.

No pretense or diplomacy, even with Blackwell sitting right there, knowing he’s about to marry an Ortiz.

But I can’t blame them. I share their sentiments and revulsion. No offense taken here.

And like storm clouds rolling in, the conversation takes a dark turn.

They want to take out the Ortizs. And not metaphorically.

A sick thrill crackles through my chest like firecrackers.

The thought of my family dead should be a joyous occasion, but there’s no time to celebrate.

Because technically, I’m an Ortiz, no matter how far I try to separate us and how much they like to disown me.

And without the family name, there’s no leverage. No empire. No point or purpose.

If they kill my family, I’m worthless . Like I’ve always been.

I teeter on the edge of sanity, waiting, begging for Blackwell to speak up. To say something concerning me and our arrangement. To push back. To insist I’m off-limits. But why would he? Our marriage was transactional and strategic.

No family, no gain.

No gain, no value.

Worthless .

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, they drop the real bomb. They want into the circle. And to cement their seat, they want to take my family’s place and offer their daughter to Blackwell. Replacing me.

Blood thunders in my ears. My throat throbs, and my chest caves. I feel it everywhere.

Betrayal . It ripples through me like fire in my veins.

Dario is the only one to speak. He doesn’t object. He explains it will have to be further discussed.

Discussed .

Whether I live or die will be a simple matter of discussion.

But I know they won’t refuse their offer. Why would they? If they don’t take the deal, someone else will. And the outcome will remain the same.

I’ll be left with no family, making me useless. Then I’ll end up tossed onto the heap of corpses of my kin or cast aside like trash.

Either way?

Fuck. That .

It’s finally time for me to take possession of my own life.