Page 46 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Sinclair

T he silence on the ride from the air strip to the ruins of my childhood is haunting.

Blackwell doesn’t speak, and I don’t ask questions. That’s our language when something is too raw. Say nothing, breathe through it, and pretend it doesn’t feel like being skinned alive.

The further we drive, the more familiar the land becomes, and the more chilling it is. I feel it in my bones. Like a map burned into me of a past I can never seem to outrun.

Then it appears. The Ortiz estate. Home. Hell. Both.

I stare out the window. Still and silent. He said it was mine now. To do whatever I want with it. Those words weigh more than the marriage contract itself. A wedding gift, supposedly. Or maybe just another strategic move in a long-running game.

Because I still have no trust in men. Especially not the powerful ones who say the right things and hand over power like charity. So, is this a boon? Or a burden?

A way to give me closure, out of love?

Or is this him dangling my past in front of me like a leash I can never cut? Just because he can.

That’s the way my mind works. Fucked up, defensive, and programmed for betrayal like it’s religion. I’ve never had anyone give me anything other than another scar. But I would be a fucking fool to be led by blind faith.

As the car creeps up the drive and the devastation comes into full view, I realize something. I’m not triggered. Not really.

I expected the walls to close in, the nausea, and the bile to rise. The weight of everything I lost here. But instead, I feel…lighter.

The closer we get, the easier it is to see the damage that had been done the night of their final demise. Like a mirror reflecting my version of a dream come true.

My wildest dreams never looked like weddings or fairy tales. They looked like this. Ashes. Destruction. My family getting exactly what they deserve.

The night’s darkness is perfect. There’s no light to soften the edges. No birds chirping. No blue skies and sunshine. No disguise to make it feel like anything that it’s not.

It looks like a fucking warzone. The garish doors I’ve always despised blown apart. Windows all shattered. Parts of the iron gate twisted and flattened, like the perimeter lost its will to protect the vile scum inside.

There’s no sign of life. No soul. Just ruins.

Imagining my family being slaughtered like pigs, whether Blackwell’s intentions, I see the appeal to this.

I open the door before the engine is shut off. The gravel crunches beneath my boots, sharp and satisfying, like tiny fragments of bones snapping.

The front steps are cracked and uneven. I take my time climbing them, lost inside my memories. Memories I wished to rewrite.

Stepping over splintered wood and bullet casings, I step inside and I’m instantly hit with the smell of blood and death. It’s baked into the floors, the walls, the very bones of this place. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, and I grin. It doesn’t choke me. It feeds me.

Blackwell is silent, following several paces behind me. He knows better than to get too close when I’m like this. On edge and half feral.

The grand staircase is covered in more blood and debris. The chandelier my mother obsessed over hangs low, one side blown out, crystals scattered like teeth. There’s a large blood stain on one wall, like a bullet went through one side of someone’s skull and out the other. And I like it.

I graze my fingers along the wall. What used to feel like a prison now feels like a chapel of bones I’ve earned in blood. Like a god surveying the aftermath of a flood she sent. A cleansing.

The carnage in the dining room draws me in. I walk the length of the long table. A smear of blood stains the floor near the head chair. My father’s seat. I crouch down and press my fingers to it. Cold. Satisfying.

This place was always rotten. Now, it finally looks that way.

We’re back outside again, the air a contrast to the smoke still sitting heavy inside. It’s cold and clean. My skin buzzes with leftover adrenaline, vengeance humming beneath it like a second pulse.

Then I see it. A white van idles in the dark. The kind kidnappers ride around in. No windows or markings. My voice cuts through the silence. “What’s with the van?”

Blackwell’s eyes are clouded. There’s something he’s hiding behind them. He exhales slowly, but doesn’t look away. It’s something I respect about him. When it comes to something serious, he will look me directly in the eye. Always.

“There’s something else,” he says. His voice flat and robotic. He’s nervous about something. If he’s nervous, then it’s something real.

Before I can respond, he gives a single nod to Hawk. The back of the van opens up, and all the blood in my body ignites. Hot and cold. A firestorm in my veins.

One. Two. Three. Four.

My family.

Tied up.

Mouths taped shut.

Dirty.

Shaking.

And beautifully beaten.

They’re dragged out like garbage and forced to their knees. Lined up between us and the house like a sacrificial offering. All four sets of eyes on me. None more burning than Blackwell’s as he watches me with a disquieted unease radiating from him. He’s unsure of how I will react.

He didn’t tell me about this part, and with good reason. I’m not sure if I would have come if he had. The estate was already an internal battle, hard enough to survive.

I stare each of them down. To see them where they’ve always belonged. What I have always fantasized about. It’s literally a dream come true.

I look to Blackwell. I can visibly see him questioning himself, unable to read me. Then there’s movement out of the corner of my eye. A large duffle bag, then an even larger one, and a gas can all appear.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Like the estate, these motherfuckers are mine. To break. To bleed. To burn.

Whatever I decide, I won’t be merciful.

A smile curls at the corners of my mouth as I turn to Blackwell. His expression softens when he sees it. “Aw, babe. You shouldn’t have,” I murmur.

A half smirk cracks his face, but the tension in his shoulders never fades. I turn my focus back on my victims, almost foaming at the mouth with anticipation. My eyes lock with my father’s. The patriarch of this monstrosity.

So many scenarios play out in my head. I’ve been imagining this day most of my life. But now that it’s finally here, I can’t decide how I want to do it. How exactly I want to make them suffer. All I know is that their end is on my terms.

I walk with deliberate steps towards my father. Stopping, I look down my nose at him like royalty addressing filth.

Where’s your power now, daddy?

With not a shred of kindness, I peel the duct tape off unhurriedly. Never taking my eyes off his demonic gaze. He says nothing, and neither do I. Not yet. Moving down the line, I do the same to my mother, then Lincoln, then last and most definitely least, Royce.

All of them sneer at me as if they still hold any power. They have nothing while I walk tall, feeling like I have the whole world at my fingertips. And in a way, I do.

From birth to twenty-two years old, they were my world, because I was their prisoner. Their punching bag. Their entertainment. Their sin.

Until Blackwell whisked me away with force. Dragging me out by my hair. And despite everything we’ve gone through, he became my savior.

An idea sparks. “Hey, Deisel,” I say to one of our men, the biggest one that I refer to as Deisel because of how massive the goon is. His eyes widen slightly, hesitant. “Let me borrow your piece, would ya?” I extend a hand out.

He looks to Blackwell, and I won’t lie, it still stings when everyone still waits for Blackwell’s approval on every single thing. His eyes flick back to me, and finally hands over his gun.

I can feel Blackwell trying to figure out what I’m up to.

“I know he carries a Glock,” I say without looking at him as I check the chamber and switch the safety off.

“He prefers to use his hands. No need for a big gun.” I’ve seen him in action.

The man can crush a skull with his massive hands. His muscles aren’t just for show.

“And you wanted a Glock because…”

I grin. “I don’t want to kill them.” I point the gun at Lincoln. “Yet.”

Pop!

I pull the trigger, and it hits his thigh, right above his knee, careful not to nick an artery. I don’t want him bleeding out on the first wound.

He goes down, growling and hissing through his teeth, writhing in pain. Hawk doesn’t wait for instruction. He grabs Lincoln and pushes him back up to his knees. My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. To see Lincoln bleed, red in the face with pain. Weak .

I am so happy right now.

Pop!

A bullet goes to the opposite hip. Down he goes, and Hawk pushes him back up. “You fucking whore,” he snarls through his teeth. His greasy hair sticks to his face as he breaks a sweat.

Blackwell takes a step forward on instinct, and I stop him. “No.” My voice cracks like a whip. His head snaps to mine, and I can see the fire in his eyes. He almost forgot this is my moment. My justice.

His jaw tenses as he holds his tongue and shuts down the urge to interfere. Reminding himself why we’re even here.

My father chuckles, and it’s the same nauseating, guttural sound that makes my skin crawl.

“Look at you,” he says to Blackwell. “All that power and you hand your balls over to the family disgrace, all because she spread her legs. Domesticated by the broken slut.” He snorts. “Pussy must be magic,” he mutters.

I have to ignore the heat rippling from Blackwell.

The air between us is combustible. He’s barely holding it together.

I can feel him behind me, straining not to move, not to speak, not to tear everything apart.

If I so much as glance his way, I know he’ll implode.

Splintering under the pressure he’s bottling up just to let me have this moment.

I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “Patience, father. It’s not your turn yet.”