Page 44 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)
Chapter thirty-nine
Blackwell
S he walks ahead of me, barefoot, barely covered in silk.
The hall is dim. The moonlight coming in from the high window at the end of the hallway.
She doesn’t look back to check if I’m following her. She knows I am. Knows I will follow her anywhere.
We reach the stairs and she begins to ascend. No snark. No smirk. Just an eerie stillness she wears when she feels the need to protect herself.
It grows darker until we reach the landing at the top. Then moonlight floods in through the glass dome that leads out to her widow’s walk. Illuminating the room and reflecting off the alabaster surface of her piano.
White.
She lives in black. Surrounds herself in it. Weaponizes it. It was intentional, separating it from the dark. A deliberate choice to keep it untouched by the poison.
The piano has been her true sanctuary. Music is her clean place.
Her proof that, despite everything, she still yearned for some light in her life.
Her exterior remains calm, but I know there’s a storm of emotion going on inside her. In the way her jaw is too tight, looking like she’s bracing for something. Her music is sacramental and private. Quite possibly the most personal piece of her that she holds closest.
In the short time she’s been back, she’s added to the space. Velvet furniture in deep jewel tones. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with worn spines. Several thriving plants scattered about. I haven’t made the connection between her and the plants, but they’re alive and well-tended.
She sits down on the piano bench, and I hover several feet back, unsure of what to do. Sit or stand. I’m sure she wishes for me to vanish altogether, so I take a seat to fade into the background as if I’m not even here.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the bedroom.
Silence stretches, but I can be patient. For her. For this.
Finally, she lifts her hands. And plays.
No music sheet, no familiar tune, no effort. I could be wrong, but it feels like improvising. Raw and cracked open. Her fingers glide and strike, notes swelling and retreating. She bleeds into every key she hits.
This doesn’t feel like a performance. It feels like a confession.
I’ve seen so many dark shades of Sinclair. Wild. Violent. Seductive. Manic and heartbroken. And right now, I can see her soul.
She’s sorrow incarnate. A phoenix not just rising from the ashes, but she stayed in it, lived in it, and made it her kingdom. Built a throne on top of her own ruin, reigning where others would perish.
Every note she plays is a truth she would never dare to speak. And I understand it. God help me, I do.
It’s mourning and rage. It’s the sound of a girl who never got to be soft, still trying to remember what softness feels like.
The crescendo builds louder, more violent. Her hands slamming the keys, notes shattering like glass. I feel it in my chest. Like she’s trying to cut the music out of herself with each stroke.
Then—silence.
She freezes, hands still hovering over the keys. She’s breathing heavily, but her lips are sealed tight. Slowly, she lowers her hands into her lap.
I stay silent and still. Knowing she needs some time to process and avoid the retreat into herself. Her head finally turns to me. Her face impassive, as if she didn’t just splay her soul for me.
I know she’s going to act as if this meant nothing. But I know what I saw. She let me see the part of her no one touches.
Her lips curl. “So, was it worth it? Giving up your one night for this?”
I crack a smile and shake my head, feeling heat rush to my face. “It was,” I say lowly, chin dipped.