Page 33 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twenty-eight

Blackwell

M y knee bounces with fury and nerves as I sit crammed in the back of the surveillance van, watching her through someone else’s eyes.

Sinclair. Shackled. Beaten. Vulnerable and exposed. Her knees are unscathed because she refuses to kneel. She’s caged like a prized pig, yet still holding court like a goddamn queen.

The feed glitches from the covert cams our men on the inside wear as they move through the crowd. Our ties with the De Lucas paid off. In addition to their alliance with the Abramovs, who have ties to another Russian family. They gave us a rare in.

Russian alliances are hard-earned and even harder to maintain. But desperation makes excellent diplomats.

If the Bozzellis had never come to us with that deal or moved in on the Ortizs sooner, we would never have been put in this position. Sinclair would still be home, safe. Still mine. Wrapped in silk and sin, not displayed like motherfucking merchandise.

My molars grind. “Why are we waiting again?” I growl lowly.

“Patience, Blackwell,” Harlan cautions, while Dane sits there unmoving since we got here. Rigid and hasn’t spoken or unclenched his fists once.

Scout shifts beside me. “You know we can’t move yet. Your father—”

I slice him a look. “Mention him again and I will put you on the auction floor.”

The space quiets. All I hear is my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. But even that goes quiet when Sinclair moves.

Slowly. Her chin up, wearing that smirk that usually precedes carnage. “What are you about to do , joon-kharash ?” I whisper.

We’re on the edges of our seats, waiting for our Sinister Sinclair to make her presence known. She has her head resting on the glass ominously. I feel it in my blood, thick and hot when her eyes light up. Wild with sparks spraying.

Then she slams her head into the glass. I don’t know how many times.

Maybe twice, maybe ten times. It all happens so fast. The sound doesn’t reach us, but I feel it vibrate every bone.

She begins laughing, blood running down her face.

Then she’s grabbed up and hauled away like a slab of meat.

Hands wrapped around her bare body, touching her.I explode.

“We’re going in. Now .” My voice is lethal.

“Blackwell—” Harlan tries to cut through the black haze with reason.

I’m in a blind heat when I jump up with an inhuman snarl. “I said now!”

She’s no longer in our sights. Knowing I am helpless to see what they are doing to her, it amplifies my ire, turning it into molten carnage. I’m deranged and black out for the next few moments. My brothers are restraining me before I hulk out entirely in the small space.

I’m no help to her if I can’t keep myself in check, so I inhale through my nose, slow and controlled, trying to wrestle back a sliver of composure.

“You good?” Dane murmurs, and I nod once.

“Gear up,” I say evenly.

We hit the building hard. I don’t hold back, waiting for the immediate danger to be dealt with first. I take the lead at the front of the line.

Gunfire goes off like a goddamn symphony of death. I move like a man possessed. Breaking bones with my hands, taking bullets. But I feel none of it. Nothing but the carnal need to reach her.

I burst through people like obstacles. “Where is she?” I roar at no one in particular. A man points, and I shoot him anyway before pressing on.

“In here, sir,” someone shouts to me, standing at a closed door.

I barge in, and like that, I feel whole again.

The room reeks of chemicals and blood, but none of it registers.

Only Sinclair. She’s slumped over, barely holding onto consciousness.

I rush to her and drop to my knees. Her head lifts, just barely, eyes glazed over, but she sees me.

I cup her precious face and brush strands of her newly darkened hair away from her eyes, revealing the wreckage of the woman I would burn the world for.

“Get me something to cover her with,” I snap loudly, rage coiling inside me.

Why the fuck hasn’t someone already done that?

“Come here, jāné del-am .” The life of my heart .

I gather her in my arms, and she’s limp in my embrace.

“Where the fuck is something to cover her?” I shout out. Louder and angrier.

“Here you go, sir,” someone says in a winded voice, handing me a large jacket over my shoulder.

I snatch it without looking. “Get the fuck out,” I growl, shielding her from every gaze with my body curled protectively around hers.

I wrap her in the jacket and hold her close. One arm under her knees, the other around her back, pressing her gently to my chest as I stand. Her body folds in with trust and surrender.

I turn with her and pause at the threshold.

“All clear. We can move out,” Harlan says, his eyes drifting down to Sinclair repeatedly.

I follow behind him, flanked on all sides by our men while I carry Sinclair out of hell and into the only safety she has—me.

I look down at Sinclair, so small in my arms. She stirs, eyes fluttering open, unfocused but still defiant. She may be sedated, but Sinclair will always be Sinclair. Even half-gone, she stares up at me like she’s weighing her options.

I lean down, voice low and razor-sharp, I warn, “You fight me, and it’ll be the last thing you fucking do.”