Page 32 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twenty-seven

Sinclair

M y head pounds and my ears ring as I try to regain consciousness.

The smell of blood and urine invades my senses, slapping me awake and burning my throat. Opening my eyes is like lifting concrete, but I somehow manage. Groaning, every muscle in my body screams in agony as I try to sit up. The hard ground is cool beneath my palms.

“Fuck,” I hiss through a dry throat and wince, squeezing my eyes shut. My hands shoot up to cradle my skull and apply pressure. I rub at my temples to desperately try to allay the pain.

I force my eyes open again. I need to bear my surroundings as I focus on the blurry fragments. A single light bulb flickering sways above my head. Even though it’s dull, it still hurts to look at.

Nausea washes over me, and I rest my eyes to breathe through it until it passes. The foul smells do not help any.

Okay, focus.

One more deep breath.

I slowly open my eyes for the final time and peruse the rest of the small room. Cement walls, a bucket, one door with no handle, and nothing else.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no .

How?

My memories are jumbled, and I cannot remember how I got here, but I know where here is.

Knowing there’s no sense in trying, I have to anyway. Using the wall for support, I stand up and give myself a few moments to steady my legs and find my balance. I don’t have time to waste.

Here goes nothing.

Gearing up my strength, I sprint forward, then angle my body to ram my shoulder into it. “Ohh,” I groan in agony, holding my shoulder. That fucking hurt like a bitch.

I rotate my arm a few times to work out the kinks and shake off the pain. This is not the time to be a pussy. I’ve been through worse.

I give it two more goes before my body gives out and I slump to the floor. My energy is completely depleted. There’s no use in crying out because anyone out there is the same people who put me in here.

The will to survive does not stem from the will to live . It’s about pride. I will decide when, how, and where I will go out. Not any of them. Me. My choice.

The longer I sit here, the more my memories start to reveal themselves. It’s all my fault. I let my guard down. I thought I was in the clear. I walked around in broad daylight thinking my newly darkened hair would be a disguise enough to remain unnoticed.

I barely saw it coming. I was caught and bagged.

And it wasn’t by accident. They knew exactly who I was.

“The last of the Ortizs.”

“Her head is worth millions.”

“No. We were ordered not to kill her. She’s going to the auction.”

“Her bid will be worth more.”

The underground auction where women are lined up and sold like cattle to the highest bidder.

Paraded on a stage to be broken and humiliated in front of a crowd of men with deep pockets, and by invitation only.

Politicians, old money, new money. Anyone with a sick fetish of an unwilling woman and the pocket to fit the bill.

An unexpected laugh escapes me just thinking about the sorry motherfucker who wins the bid on me. The prize will not be worth the price.

The door opens with a shrill, ear-piercing sound. Two men step inside. They’re armed with brawn muscle, but they still have no clue they just stepped on a hornet’s nest.

“You need to eat,” one of them says robotically, tossing me a plastic-wrapped sandwich, as the other guy gives me a look that turns my stomach.

I curl into myself, trembling and wide-eyed. Like a frightened little bird with a broken wing. And it works like a charm.

As soon as they get close, I strike like a feral beast. Teeth gnashing and claws ripping at flesh in a frenzy. I sink my teeth into the neck of one as the other tries to pry me off him. Copper floods my tongue, and I spit out a chunk of flesh as I’m yanked away.

I don’t hesitate as I turn on the next. My nails tearing his face apart, and I catch his eye. His hands slap over it on instinct. He stumbles back, and I throw my weight into him, knocking him down and straddling him.

Using my thumbs, I hook them into his eyes and push all my weight into them.

Instead of trying to remove my body from his, he only scratches and claws at my hands.

But they’re anchored in by my nails. I’m shaking from using so much force, and I scream through my teeth.

Blood curdles out of the sockets as they give way, and my thumbs sink into his skull.

I’m yanked off and tossed back, hitting the ground with a thud. But it does not stop me. I’m too high on adrenaline to feel anything. The first victim is mobile again, holding one hand to his neck as he bleeds. “I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch,” he seethes through blood-stained teeth.

I give him a bloody smile right back and scream like a Banshee, flying through the air, talons extended.

On instinct, he removes his hand to use both of his to try and fight me off.

I use a finger and stab into the open wound close to his throat.

He screams out, and the more he flails, striking me anywhere he can get to, the more my finger disappears into his neck. All the way to my knuckle.

The sickening sound of flesh and gurgling breath brings me joy, sparking the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a rush of heroin.

My body is lifted by my arms with harsh grips restraining me. I start cackling as I watch the gory picture I painted. Blood still running, still warm.

“Goddamnit! I told them to watch her carefully!” someone shouts. I keep laughing like a fucking lunatic. “Get them out of here.”

I’m tossed into a corner and watch them with a splintering grin as they drag out the bodies, and guard the door to make sure I don’t make a run for it. The one who was barking orders is the last one to leave. He sneers at me. “Crazy whore.” He spits on the floor, then slams the door shut.

They return only minutes later, stronger in number. I’m crouching in the corner like a feral, covered from head to toe in blood. I’m no match for them, but that doesn’t stop me. Nothing will stop me until they physically put me down.

My efforts are futile, and I’m easily overpowered. A pinch on my neck has me stilling. Cold trickles through my veins, burning them. I go limp, let my grin die. They drop me to my feet, and I stumble back and fall to the floor.

“Fucking cunt. She made me bleed,” one of them says.

A few of them chuckle as I let them think I’m down. I’m weakened, but I am not done.

I tune out everything else they say, then when they haul me up, I keep the weak facade going.

They drag me to a tiled room and strip me.

The water is freezing as they blast me unmercifully.

The daze I’m in isn’t pretend as I watch the water disappearing into the drain go from red to a pale pink until it runs clear.

“Who’s going to want her? She’s all carved up already,” someone says, talking about my scars.

“She’s still an Ortiz,” someone else says.

I want to laugh, but I won’t. Not yet.

My wrists and ankles are shackled. I’m kept naked, display-ready. My head swims, but I’m not gone yet. I’m aware, caught between haze and fire. My steps are uncouth, trying to keep my feet under me as they pull me along. Down a hall—left, then right, turning another left, then I lose count.

I’m shoved into a glass box. “Behave or you will be put under,” someone warns in my ear with hot, rancid breath. My mouth twitches, but I remain in a murk.

Lights blind me, shining bright on the display case. It’s impossible to see anything past them, but I know they’re there. Out there, licking their chops, readjusting their tiny dicks in their overly expensive slacks.

The sound of someone over an announcer saying a few things to rile up the crowd is just background noise. I don’t even pay attention when the bidding begins, nor care about the price for me.

I shuffle my feet forward, the shackles clanking. I move until I can lean my forehead against the glass, staring out with broad focus, so that everyone thinks it’s them I have my sights locked on.

I smile, a wolfish, toothy grin. All malice and no warmth. I roll my head back and forth listlessly. The background noise fades into nothing.

Good. I have your attention .

Standing up straight, I crane my neck back, then connect my head with blunt force against the glass. I don’t feel a thing. Not when I do it again, and once again before I’m dragged away, roaring in laughter, leaving a streak of my blood left on display. Symbolic, really.

I’m handled with zero care, tossed around, and shoved down. But I go down with spirit. A sharp jab at my neck stands me to attention.

And the very last thing I remember is… he didn’t come .