Page 3 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter two

Blackwell

W hen I asked Anthony Ortiz if his daughter would be in attendance, the arrogant bastard nearly dismissed me with a scoff.

Apparently, he doesn’t believe women warrant a seat at his table. Especially that daughter. But he must’ve sensed his mistake because immediately after we finalized the contract and raised glasses in that farce of a toast, he granted me permission to ‘find her’ as if she were a roaming cat.

I assume he thought the gesture was courteous. It was condescension, thinly veiled. Fine by me. I prefer handling things my own way anyways.

I haven’t seen Sinclair Ortiz in years. Not since she was a pale little thing who hid behind her dyed hair and eyeliner like war paint. The whispers about her have only grown since her sister’s death.

Madness. Violence. Isolation.

A girl better suited to an asylum than an estate.

The rumors about her and her state of mind had me conflicted with keeping the agreement between our families after the older daughter died. But I’ve put it off for as long as I could. Until my father finally gave me an ultimatum. Choose a daughter from one of three families, or he would.

I didn’t choose her . I chose what was easy to manipulate. The Ortiz empire is valuable, but its owners are brittle. And should something unfortunate befall Anthony Ortiz, pushing out his two sons wouldn’t require much force. With Sinclair, I can dismantle the remnants from within.

She is not my bride. She is my strategy.

“Where is Sinclair?” I ask the two guards loitering near the main corridor.

They exchange glances like startled prey. “She might be up in her room, sir,” one says stiffly.

“Pacing her widow’s walk,” the other mumbles.

I turn to him slowly. “And where the fuck is that?” My tone is murderous.

His eyes slightly widen. “Upstairs, sir. Then left. There’s a second staircase. Leads up to her quarters.”

I blink. “In the attic?” They look like bobbleheads as they both nod in unison. “If you’re fucking with me…” I warn.

“No, sir. She really lives up there.”

Christ .

I leave them with a sharp glare, following their simple instructions, until I find the second staircase.

The steps groan beneath my weight. The higher I climb, the more I question my sanity. Maybe I should’ve waited. Set a meeting. Arrange a formal introduction on neutral ground. In daylight, with witnesses.

But something about catching her off guard appealed to me.

When I reach the top, I pause outside the door. Haunting and oddly soothing classical music seeps through the cracks. I try the knob, and find it unlocked.

Of course. No fear. No caution. Welcoming danger.

The door opens into a room belonging to a villainess from a different century.

Black wallpaper shimmers faintly with baroque patterns under the flicker of dozens of lit candles.

A maroon chaise lounge sits beneath the ceiling-high bookshelf, dozens of books cluttering it with worn spines.

An open door reveals a black-tiled bathroom with a clawfoot tub that gleams under low light.

Heavy velvet drapes pool near the windows, and there’s one thing that is out of place, like an angel in Hell. A grand piano. White. Pristine. Smooth.

I float past it, brushing the keys with a fingertip before reaching the oversized bed.

The covers are askew, the scent lingering around it oddly sweet.

Foliage drapes from a built-in canopy, vines curling down toward the large open window.

A sheer curtain billows in the night breeze. And through it, her.

She stands barefoot on the rooftop platform, bottle of alcohol hanging from one hand, as her toes meet the edge.

No barrier between her and the abyss. Black lace flutters around her like the wings of a mourning moth.

Her bleached hair is messily tied, loose strands brushing the back of her neck.

Her silhouette is all sharp lines and soft curves, ethereal and grotesquely beautiful beneath the moonlight.

It’s no wonder why men fear her. She is beauty, and she is chaos.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “What the fuck are you doing?” I say loud enough for her to hear. “You’re going to fall and break your goddamn neck.”

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she laughs, and it’s light and eerie.

“Oh, Blackwell,” she sings, turning slowly.

Her bow is theatrical and taunting. “My betrothed. I didn’t expect you to enter my kooky lair so willingly.

” Her grin widens as her eyes glint, catching the word kooky —the one I had so graciously labeled her with earlier.

Good to know she listens.

She raises the bottle and takes a long drink, immediately wincing. “Ugh, I thought this was wine.” She inspects the label with a crinkle of her nose, then shrugs it off and drinks again. “Tastes like varnish. Warms the belly though.”

“Get your ass in here. Now,” I demand, agitation rising. And we are just properly meeting. How will we make it to the altar?

She smiles lazily, and the moonlight catches on what looks like a diamond on her tooth. “Or what? You’ll write me a stern letter? Call off the wedding?”

“You’re deranged,” I mutter.

Her smile widens. “And you’re catching on.” She looks away. “And it wouldn’t just break my neck, I’d die,” she quips, glancing over the edge. My heart jumps when she sways, and her laugh rings out like a dare. “The look on your face. Priceless.”

“Sinclair—”

“Oh, come on. This would be perfect for you. No wedding. No mad wife. Just an unfortunate accident. Poor Sinclair, gone with the wind.”

My fists curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I force myself to stay perfectly still. If I startle her, she might go toppling over and it’ll look like I pushed the bitch, so I didn’t have to marry her. And knowing the vulturous minds of her family, it wouldn’t take much to spin.

She gasps after taking another swig and looks at the bottle in approval. “It gets better after a few sips.”

She grins, then her eyes widen as she feigns another stumble. My heart seizes, but I keep my expression impassive this time.

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, eyes still wide, hand splayed across her chest like she’s just survived a thrill ride. She turns to me, laughing softly, her chest rising and falling with exhilaration. “Well, that was a rush.”

I realize that one wasn’t a game.

“You’re only confirming everything I’ve heard.” I take a measured breath and extend a hand toward her. “Now, come inside.”

Her face softens, and she turns her back to me again. Sighing in contempt and cursing under my breath, I climb out onto the platform. The drop below is most definitely a death sentence.

We stand side by side in the moonlight. I keep my face forward, but I can see her in my peripheral staring blankly out into the darkness that surrounds the night. The silence we’re engulfed in isn’t at all uncomfortable.

“Do you know they call this your widow’s walk?” I ask, unable to help myself.

She smiles faintly. “It is. In both definition and theory.” She glances at me, gauging my reaction, then returns her gaze to the night. “It’s a northern thing, dating back centuries or whatever. Rooftop platforms built on the homes of captains so they can overlook the ports.”

“Why call it a widow’s walk?”

She exhales a short, dry laugh. “Romantic folklore. The wives would climb up there, watching the sea for their husbands to return. Waiting. Hoping.” She pauses for a breath.

“But most of the time, the sea had already claimed them. The walk became a vigil. A place to mourn the lost before they were actually gone.” Her voice drops as if she’s reciting a ghost story she’s told too many times.

“And the theory?” I ask even though I already know where this is going.

She turns to me, eyes gleaming with a sly smirk. My eyes flick to her teeth, and yes, there’s a diamond embedded in each of her upper canines. And just behind her top lip, a golden hoop glints from a hidden piercing.

“The widow spider. The one who lures, mates, then kills. Unapologetic and efficient.”

“And which do you prefer?”

She falters from my question but quickly recovers. “Well.” She looks away from me again, leaving me to study her profile. “Either way, the male dies, and the woman lives.” She lifts the bottle again. “Unrealistic but very romantic.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but I can tell she doesn’t need to think about it. “I don’t pine. Nor do I have the privilege to kill without consequence.”

We both let the silence settle between us, letting the night reclaim the space. I wonder if she was trying to warn me or dare me. And in that moment, I begin to understand something dangerous about her.

She’s not looking for a rescue. She’s already made peace with the edge.

“I’m sorry she died. I know she was the better choice,” she says almost sincerely.

“None of this was a choice,” I retort curtly, and I offer her my hand again. “Come inside.”

“Why?” she lashes defiantly.

“Because this is foolish.”

Her head whips around, eyes glowing like hot coals.

“Foolish is letting assholes like you continue to decide the shape of my life. To pretend I have a say in any of this, when we both know I’m merely a transaction wrapped in lace.

Accepting this fuckery is choosing a life of chains and quiet suffering. What kind of existence is that?”

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to gain control over myself and the situation. If I want to get her off the ledge without incident, I need to stay rational.

“I won’t ask you again,” I say vehemently, failing miserably at the composure I know this moment requires.

She tilts her head, and something colder settles in her expression. “No. I choose the quicker death. Because at least that would be my choice.”

Everything slows when I see her lift a foot with enough weight hovering over the edge to tell me she isn’t bluffing.

I move without thought as instinct takes the wheel.

I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around her waist in one violent motion, jerking her body into my chest. Her head barely reaches my chin, and she grunts from the impact, the same time the bottle shatters to the ground.

With a snarl, I haul her through the open window, my grip crushing and unforgiving. Her spine arches at a painful angle with the pressure, but I don’t ease up. I don’t stop until I have her inside and spin us toward the bed. Her feet never touching the ground.

I throw her down and pin her with my body, pressing her into the mattress. Her robe opens beneath her like spread wings.

She screeches and bucks against me with a strength born of madness. “Why did you do that?” she screams through her teeth. “I die and you’re free.”

Her struggle dies out, and there’s this deranged lucidity in her glassy eyes that rattles something I didn’t know I had. The world goes mute.

Up close, stripped of all that dark armor, no makeup, or taunting smirk, I can see her. Pure raw skin, pink cheeks, and those uncanny eyes. Those brown laced eyes with gold and green that somehow look ancient yet young, all at once.

They paralyze me.

“We’d both be free,” she whispers.

Something unkindly rips in my chest, burgeoning into something ugly. Something beyond madness that has me shutting down. Suddenly, everything stops meaning anything.

I lower my face until our noses touch, breath hot between us. “And what would people think? That I murdered you?” I snarl, now shaking with coiled fury. “You want to die? Do it on your own goddamn time. Not when I could be blamed for it.”

Her nostrils flare as she glowers up at me. Her eyes suddenly dry. “Get the fuck off me or I will rip your face off with my teeth,” she hisses, and I believe her. I’m almost moved by the power she exudes.

There’s an intense moment when I hover over her, drinking her in. She’s trembling but not with fear. It’s electricity. I can feel it pulse between us. I remove myself from her, and she instantly scrambles up to her elbows, and I regret releasing her.

She’s flushed in the face, chest rising and falling with labored breath, and only covered in small pieces of black silk under her black lace robe, still splayed open. Those wild eyes and messy hair. She looks freshly fucked and my cock responds to the beautiful sight of her like this.

My fists groan, and everything inside me urges me to break something. Or claim it. Instead, I say nothing and walk away. All the while, she’s hurling curses at my back.

I should continue my leave and walk right through the exit, but her recklessness seems to be contagious, and in the worst way.

I go back to the office with new terms.