Page 36 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)
Chapter thirty-one
Sinclair
I ’ve hardly left my room since I’ve been once again caged.
Only to scope out the place. Every door beeps when I open it, no doubt an alert going straight to Blackwell. And every window is the same. Mob pups are posted up at every exit possible, but he doesn’t have me followed around by them. A slight improvement.
I’m not stupid, and I know that Blackwell isn’t either. If he claims escape to be more difficult this time, I believe him. But it doesn’t mean impossible. It just means it’ll take more time to plan.
The room I’m sleeping in is gorgeous. Eerily similar to my bedroom back at my family’s estate, only better somehow. Warmer and cozier. The sheets smell of something familiar that I can’t put my finger on. It acts as a natural sedative, making sleepless nights bearable.
Blackwell’s clothes are in the same closet as mine, but he doesn’t sleep in here. Probably afraid I might slit his throat as soon as he falls asleep. And he isn’t wrong.
There’s a fresh-blood hatred brewing in me for him that’s raw and pulsing. I can’t explain it. How can you loathe someone so completely, yet still hand them the blade that cuts you? How do they manage to hurt you precisely the way you expected, and still make it feel like betrayal?
There’s been this dark cloud hanging over me for days, and I think I’ve finally gotten the courage to swallow my pride and go to Blackwell for a favor.
It’s still kind of early, and I’m not even sure if he’s home, but I check his office first. The door is left ajar with one pup hanging around the outside. He steels when he sees me, as if I might bite unprovoked.
I walk in confidently, and he immediately stops what he’s doing, fingers hovering above the keyboard, sitting behind his mahogany desk. Why do they all have a mahogany desk? My father, his father, and now he. Is it like a rite of passage or something?
He doesn’t speak as I approach his desk. “I need a favor,” I say boldly. Deciding to rip the bandage clean off.
A half smirk takes over his face as he leans back in his chair. Pompous prick . “A favor?”
“Yes,” I say tightly, and he gestures with a hand to continue. “I need to go to Oglesby.”
“Why?” he fires back.
“I left something there.” I sigh, exacerbated when he looks confounded. “It’s where I was.” I look down and pick at my nails. “Before I got caught,” I mutter.
“You were in Oglesby?” he asks in disbelief.
I take a peek at him before lifting my head again. “Yup.”
He gawks at me for a long moment before shaking himself out of it. It makes me want to laugh. I was so close. Close enough to not look there. Anyone would assume I would try to put as much distance between the danger as possible. So, I kept close.
He relaxes. “And what is it you left behind?”
I huff and roll my eyes. “Does it matter? This isn’t a ruse to try and run. It’s just something that has become important to me that was left there that I would like back.”
“Tell me what it is, and I’ll have it retrieved for you.”
My lips thin and I feel like stomping my foot. “Why can’t you just take me there? Put a fucking chain on me if it’ll make you feel better. I don’t care.”
He leans forward to place his forearms on top of the desk, eyes sharpening. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?”
“Will you take me there, yes or no?” I snap.
“No.” His answer is curt and final, and he goes back to his laptop.
Inhaling deeply, I wrestle my temper into submission and reach for a semblance of civility. “Blackwell,” I say evenly, and he looks up. “It’s…my cat.”
This time, he’s braced for the absurdity. “A cat,” he echoes flatly. When I nod, he huffs a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head, retreating to his laptop as if the matter no longer warrants energy.
“I’m serious, Blackwell.” He looks at me with dead eyes. “You don’t believe me.” He doesn’t respond, and his face doesn’t change. “What if I can prove it?”
“Prove that you have a cat.”
“Yes. If I can prove to you that I have a cat, will you take me to go get her?”
He watches me for a solid moment, his face unreadable. He stands up and rounds the desk, and I try not to make direct eye contact with him as he nears me. “Show me.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, we’re arriving at the hedge maze on his parents’ estate on an ATV. The ride was painful, being so close to him and not wanting to touch him, but being forced to unless I wanted to fall off.
We walk side by side, and I stuff my hands inside my pockets to hide the shaking.
We’re silent the entire time, until we finally come to the middle, where the bench is.
I had this crazy feeling that she would find her way home and be there waiting for me.
Or come jumping out of the bushes at any second, but she isn’t there.
Kneeling, I start pulling out the cans of cat food and bottled water. Some full and some long emptied and forgotten. A lump forms in my throat, thinking I might never see her again.
“I started feeding this stray that would hide out around here and—” I shrug a shoulder.
“Felt kinda bad for the thing. She was all matted and looked like she had been chewed up and spit out. When I left, I took her with me. Obviously, when I was taken from where I had been hiding, she was left behind. I don’t even know if she’ll still be there or not, but I’d like to see. ”
I’m already abashed when I look up at him. He’s staring back at me as if I’m a puzzle he might never solve. Both a threat and a myth. Like I’ve just revealed a new piece of myself, and he has no clue where it fits.
“Never mind,” I mutter and try to walk away.
Some attachments aren’t meant to be retrieved. Some are left to be mourned. And some are better left in the wild.
When he jets an arm out to stop me, I freeze in fear that he might touch me. “Alright,” he says, and I slowly turn to look at him. His brown eyes start to thaw. “I’ll send some men out there to look. You’re going to need to give me the exact location, though.”
“I’ll give you the coordinates.”
He shakes his head again in disbelief. Then we make our way back to the house without talking.