Page 38 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter thirty-three

Sinclair

I ’m sprawled out on the velvety chaise in one of the sitting rooms of the obnoxiously perfect house.

From the colors to the textures, everything in this place is perfect. Whoever designed this place nailed it on the head. Dark, seducing, warm, intense. I love it all.

“So, how come I never see your wife or your kids?” I ask over my wine glass.

“You think I would let you anywhere near them?” Harlan responds with slight amusement.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I should’ve poisoned your drink.”

He grins. “You’d miss me too much, Lady Lobotomy .”

“I’d have to care for you to miss you.”

“Lies. I’m the only one you don’t want to kill.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Well, Blackwell and I.”

I reach down and pet Blender, who’s curled up against the nook of my bent legs. “That right is reserved only for Blender.” She’s never been so content since I’ve met her. When she sleeps, she doesn’t leave one eye open and snap awake at every noise. Doesn’t startle if I touch her.

“Bullshit,” he teases.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He chuckles, causing me to grin. There’s a sibling-like comfortability between the two of us. I wouldn’t turn my back on him, though. And I don’t think he actually trusts me, but he would definitely have to provoke me to snap on him. Most people don’t need much to get me to spill blood.

I gaze over at Blender again, letting her silky fur slide between my fingers. “He wouldn’t stop looking, you know.”

I blink, but I can’t look at him. “What?”

“The cat,” he says. “Blackwell wouldn’t pull his men off the job until it was found.”

“ She ,” I correct him.

“Sure. She ,” he says dismissively. “He wouldn’t let it go.”

I scoff, pretending that doesn’t strike somewhere raw. “He sent some of his disposable henchmen, it’s not like he—”

“He did more than that,” Harlan interrupts, tone suddenly serious.

“He obsessed.” I glance up. “Had surveillance around the clock and sent your fucking dirty clothes to put in all the traps. Dane and I thought he had just about lost his goddamn mind.” I stiffen and have to look away.

“When the wily beast was finally caught, he flew out there himself to retrieve her. Took her to a vet and had her flown here on a private jet like goddamn royalty.”

“Harlan,” I growl in warning. I can’t hear any more of this. I won’t let him get inside my head with these false hopes.

“Look around, Sinclair.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice soft but sharp. “This entire estate? He built it all for you. Every inch. Every thread. Every detail screams you .”

“An interior decorator did all this,” I argue.

“And how the hell did the decorator know you this well? Huh?”

I scream inside my head, begging him to stop. I can’t take it. I’ve been avoiding these intrusive thoughts for so long.

“He’s trying,” he says simply. “After your family fell, the alliance died with it.” I know that. “Marrying you doesn’t get him a goddamn thing. If anything, it weakens our standing. You’re a pariah in our circle.”

That stings, even though it’s true.

“He doesn’t need to win you over,” he continues. “He wants to. It’s no longer about power or politics, Sinclair. It’s about you. The sucker fucking fell in love with you.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat and grind my teeth. I want to stab him right now to shut him the fuck up.

“That, or he’s clinically insane. Actually, both. Because he’d have to be crazy to be in love with you.”

I give him a scowl, biting back a smirk.

“Look,” his voice drops an octave. “You want to stab him? Go for it. God knows he deserves it. But don’t ignore the fact that he’s bleeding out trying to make you happy.”

“He’s holding me here prisoner.”

“And yet you’ve remained content.” I open my mouth, but he continues before I can make a sound.

“Don’t give me that bullshit there’s no escape.

That’s never stopped you before.” I refrain from arguing.

What’s the point? “He’s never going to recite poetry or sprinkle rose petals on the bed.

He’s doing what he knows how to do. He’s trying .

” He stands and stretches with a grunt. Good, leave . “Oh, and one more thing. Your ring.”

I automatically glance down at the finger my engagement ring used to adorn. “What about it?”

“It’s the Blue Moon.” I frown at him, and he doesn’t allow me to question it. “You aren’t stupid, Sinclair. So, don’t act like it.”

My eyes snap up with anger, but I don’t comment. I let him go without another word, then sit there still and silent, trying to make his words leave with him. But no such luck.

The glass of wine feels like dead weight in my hand. I stare at it blankly, then throw it. I watch the red liquid and glass scatter like something deeper broken.

He's wrong. He has to be. Because if he isn’t, it means I’ve spent all this time hating a man who has been trying to cage me, not to control me, but to keep me. And I don’t know which is worse.

The idea of Blackwell tailoring this place for me, knowing me so well, is ludicrous. Fucking unfathomable. No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Believing it would be letting him in. And no one gets in.

No. He hunted down the cat as a means to make me content, not happy.

No .

He’s still the man who so readily agreed to slaughter my family. The one who schemed behind my back. The man who held me down and told me I was his, as if I were a possession to be possessed, like every man has seen me. He is no different from them.

And yet, he came for me. Even after I tried to kill him, he still came for me.

I deluded myself into thinking I spared him because death was too easy. That living in fear, always looking over his shoulder, wondering when I might pop up at any moment with a blade to his throat, was the sweeter revenge. But what if it’s because I couldn’t kill him? That I didn’t want to?

Because he’s still here.

And so am I.

I hate him.

I want to so badly.

I hate how disheveled he looked when I finally woke up.

I hate how red his eyes were, how messy his hair was.

How a mess he was. I hate that my stupid heart lodged in my throat when Blender barreled into the room and leapt into my arms, knowing he was the one to make it happen.

I hated how, in that moment, I felt warm and safe and whole for the very first time in my life.

I hate him.

I hate him for making me feel everything I swore I wouldn’t.

And the worst thing isn’t that Blackwell might love me. If anything, it gives me more power over him.

The worst part is that I might be starting to love him back. Or something like it.

And I won’t survive it.

Love is for fools, and I am no fool. So, what the fuck is happening? How is this happening to me? How can I make it stop? Can it be stopped?

My fingers curl into fists, knuckles bone-white.

What now?

Do I ignore it all and pretend this prison with soft pillows and velvet drapes isn’t exactly where I want to be?

Or do I risk it all?