Page 4 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter three

Sinclair

I am scathing mad as I’m tossed inside a large vehicle with my hands and feet bound.

How dare they snatch me from my own bed and try to haul me away with no answers to the questions I screamed at them?

They didn’t want to give me answers, then I wasn’t going to go quietly. So, I fought like a rabid dog. You’re supposed to let sleeping dogs lie. Especially half-drunk ones having dreams that are more like fantasies of burning their home down with everyone in it.

It wasn’t until I bit a chunk out of someone’s neck and raked skin from at least two faces that they finally had the sense to bind my wrists and ankles and jam a gag between my teeth.

Didn’t stop me.

I thrashed and roared against the fabric choking me, eyes brimming, limbs burning with the promise of more violence. When they dragged me out of the vehicle and to the private jet, I doubled down.

I screamed louder, kicked my bound legs harder, and thrashed my body with every ounce of strength I had. They tied me to a seat using a rope. Fucking rope. The kind you use for cattle.

“Fucking crazy bitch,” one man muttered as he cinched the restraints tighter. I bared my teeth at him. “What are you going to do, huh?” he goaded, leaning in. Closely. Hot breath in my face. “Gagged and declawed, you’re harmless.”

I slammed my forehead into his nose. The crunch was music to my ears. His heckling turned into gurgling as blood gushed from his face. The others howled with laughter.

“You fucking whore,” he seethed, and raised his hand. I was already prepared for it when his backhand cracked across my cheek, snapping my head sideways.

When I slowly turned back with a bloodied grin, their faces paled. They began calling me names like psycho, bitch, witch, and the classic whore, and I liked it. Laughed right through the gag as they all went to take their seats far away from me.

I knew I was helpless then, bound and in flight. So, I thought it would be best for me to take a short break to regain my strength. Save some energy for when we land and start in on my reign of terror all over again.

I allowed them to think I was spent when they hauled me off the plane to load me into another vehicle.

Quiet. Recharging. I waited until we were on the move to lunge for the driver, turning the men into a frenzy as I went berserk on them.

The van veered, men screamed, and by the time they regained control of me, they were breathless and sweating.

I fell limp again and have remained that way since.

Even as we’re rolling up to the estate and come to a stop, I’m docile.

I wait until the door opens and someone goes to grab me, then I lift my bound feet and kick them square in the face, forcing him to stumble back.

And I don’t stop kicking. I start up my tantrum all over again.

Thrashing and screaming as I’m being dragged inside. Then I’m upright and there he is. Blackwall Golzar. A faint memory from last night. Or just hours ago, as the sun is only rising now.

Immaculate. Cold. Sculpted from wrath and indifference, standing in a stately office like it was a throne room. His father stands beside him, speaking lowly, then gives me a look of disappointment before leaving.

“Why is she bleeding?” Blackwell demands in a booming voice as he looks around.

My lungs burn with the effort of restraint, my muscles trembling from the fight they haven’t stopped waging. My hair sticks to my face, skewing my vision, but it doesn’t matter. I can still bare my teeth. Still resist. Still fight like hell.

“She fought us the whole time.” Wrong answer. He’s across the room in seconds, breathing down the neck of the man who spoke.

“I asked,” Blackwell says, dangerously soft, “why’s she bleeding?”

A hush falls over the room. The tension becomes suffocating. They all shrink back, and a few glance in the same direction. Likely toward the motherfucker who clocked me when I made him snap like a twig, losing control.

“It happened while detaining her,” someone says with a brittle tone.

Blackwell doesn’t move, but his stillness is no less volcanic.

“And you couldn’t detain her without spilling blood?” His voice drips with hardly controlled fury.

“She went fucking crazy,” the fool blurts out, sealing his fate.

Somehow, it gets even quieter. Blackwell turns his head slightly, his expression carved from ice. I should shiver, should cower at the sheer menace radiating from him. But instead, my breath shallows, and I think I might be a little turned on. Okay, so there’s no doubt. I’m fucking turned on.

To make grown men tremble like cowards from one single look? That’s the kind of power I crave.

“She killed Ian, sir,” someone timidly mutters, hand still clenched too tightly on my arm. I grin viciously. “One of our men, sir,” he reiterates.

The whole room holds its breath when Blackwell shifts. He stalks toward the speaker with the same quiet threat he used before. “So, it’s not her blood?”

“Not all of it.” His voice shakes.

“Then I will ask one final time, and you better have an answer for me.” Blackwell’s tone is flat, which is worse. It’s the calm before the storm. “Why. The fuck. Is she bleeding?”

The little bitch doesn’t answer fast enough. In a blink, Blackwell’s hand is fisted in the man’s collar, yanking him forward. The barrel of a gun is pressed to his temple before anyone can react.

The poor bastard is now shaking in his boots. “Because someone hit her!” he rushes out.

There it is.

A sudden trickle reaches my ears. Then the scent of urine hits my nose. My smile stretches as I glance down just in time to see it. Liquid spreading over the polished floor. The man is actually pissing himself.

I look up at Blackwell in envy. His lip curls up in disgust and he shoves the guy away. He looks down at the piss puddle like it’s personally offended him and takes a sidestep to avoid it.

“Point him out,” he says evenly.

It takes no more coercion for the little pisser to point out the guilty party. Blackwell swivels his head, eyes slicing through the room. Then his gaze cuts back to me. Holds it with dark intensity. For a long moment, we stare at each other. Unblinking.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts his gun and pivots slightly. My grin twitches as if encouraging him to do it. He pulls the trigger. The sound is deafening, but Blackwell doesn’t even flinch.

I turn slightly to see the body hit the floor like a sack of shit. He just shot a man without looking, and didn’t miss. Well, fuck me . As soon as I’m satisfied, I dart my eyes back to Blackwell’s.

“Leave us,” he says with his eyes still on me as if they never left.

“Sir, do you—”

“I said leave us,” he says with finality. No one dares to ignore him.

I hear the sound of the body being dragged away, then the door shuts with an ominous thud, sealing us in silence.

He leans back against the desk, untouched by the violence he enacted, his bespoke suit still pristine. Probably the same one from earlier.

The tension builds, and the only sound is my labored breathing. I shift, trying to keep my balance as my legs tremble and my wrists burn. But I stand tall when my instincts have me wanting to crouch in a defensive stance.

He watches me as if I’m a cornered animal. “I guess we should have tranqed you.”

I show my teeth. The audacity. I mean, yes, I am feral, but how dare he even think of darting me like some kind of animal!

My resolve almost falters when I catch one corner of his mouth twitching. A flicker of amusement he’s trying to suppress.

Fine. He wants a show?

He approaches me with confident, unhurried steps. Totally unaware he’s stepping right into a lioness’s den. A lioness who is thirsting for blood.

He stops, leaving a foot of air between us. Only my eyes move, locking with his. He remains tranquil and calm, and it makes me want to scream. How can he be so unshakable when I am boiling inside?

He reaches for the gag but pauses mid-air. “Do not bite me,” he warns with a baritone that spears a chill right through me.

I narrow my eyes in response. He pries the soaked cloth from my mouth, lifting it up and over my head. I wipe the slobber from my chin on my shoulder, never taking my eyes off him.

I’ve never been one to shy away from a sudden urge, especially the self-destructive kind. So, when the image of spitting in Blackwell’s maddeningly handsome face flashes across my mind, I don’t hesitate or second-guess it. I gather a wad of saliva in my mouth, lean back, and hurl it.

Unfortunately, my aim is a little off, landing just south of glory. Hitting him in the chest.

His chin dips slowly and methodically. For a moment, nothing moves.

Suddenly, I forgot how to breathe. And for the first time in years, fear curls cold and uninvited, trickling down my spine.

I haven’t felt fear in so long, so as it creeps in, I feel it everywhere.

In my fingertips, in the tautness of my shoulders, in the thrum of blood rushing to my ears.

But it isn’t a fear that weakens. It charges.

When he lifts his eyes again, they’re endlessly black. Deeper. Bottomless. The kind of gaze that makes you forget where you are and who you are.

My heart slams against my ribs, and heat gathers between my thighs like an aftershock. My face feels feverish with shame and thrill, clashing beneath my skin.

With no warning at all, his fingers twist through my hair and wrench my head back. I hiss in pain when he yanks me against the hard line of his body. His face is inches from mine, all sharpened angles and fury. He snarls, practically foaming at the mouth. Even his perfect, dark hair is now undone.

His control is unraveling. His sanity is breaking.

And fuck me, it’s beautiful.

“You have two choices here, little girl,” he spits, spittle hitting my cheek. “Act like a proper human being and accept your place here, or you can tuck tail and run back home and do whatever the fuck you want to do with your life.”