Page 6 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter four

Sinclair

I t’s been two dreary weeks of this tasteless mausoleum of a mansion.

After waking up that first morning, groggy, achy, and instantly peeved, I chose to play along. Temporarily, that is. Twenty-two years of captivity under my father’s roof had me craving change, even if it came wrapped in more steel bars.

At least I won’t have to pretend like I’m part of a family anymore. And there’s a whole new crew to torment.

But it was only going from one hellhole to another. Told when to eat, shit, and speak. The henchmen tail me at a “respectful” distance, pretending they’re subtle. And they’re just as easy to ditch. Fucking bullets for brains.

I don’t ditch them to escape. At least, not yet.

I do it for the tiny thrill of it. That sliver of adrenaline as I watch the panic on their faces, frantically trying to locate me before someone finds out they failed their one and only job.

To babysit the psycho. But that spark dies just as quickly as it flares.

The only thing keeping me from setting random fires just for the hell of it is studying this place. I roam the estate like a ghost with a vendetta, memorizing every hallway, every stairwell, every blind corner, and every damn nook and cranny.

This morning’s stroll in particular brings me to the office where Dario Golzar and his charming son, my darling fiancé, like to hole up when they’re actually here.

Last time I tried to eavesdrop, one of their little rats manning the door snitched on me.

They have yet to learn that this bitch does bite.

But they’ll learn. Especially when I can no longer tolerate the boredom. Someone will have to entertain me.

There are two mob pups on either side of the door.

One is made of stone. Won’t even give me a small glance or a muscle twitch.

So, I focus on the one with the shifty eyes.

Like a snare, I have his eyes locked with mine as soon as they make contact.

I sway my hips the closer I get, and it must be too much for him.

He darts his eyes away and swallows hard. But he’s already shown me his weakness.

My arm brushes his as I press a finger to my lips with a quiet “ shh .” He keeps his head turned, pretending not to see me, along with the garden gnome on the other side.

Good boys.

I lean in and press my ear to the seam of the door to listen in. Laughter filters through. Then an unfamiliar male’s voice speaks up. “You need to sleep with one eye open around that one.”

Could be vanity, but this conversation may be about little old me.

“I’m aware,” Blackwell replies dryly.

“Tell me. What’s she really like?” Silence. “I hear she’s fucking wild. Ties men up, tortures them, then fucks them senseless.” He pauses. “Some sinister shit.”

“That’s enough,” Blackwell snaps without raising his voice.

“I mean no disrespect, Blackwell. I’m just saying—”

I burst into the room and saunter in as if I were to be expected. “Don’t believe everything you hear in the girls’ locker room, boys,” I chirp with a cheeky smirk.

Blackwell’s expression is smooth, sitting behind his father’s desk, utterly unimpressed. The guest occupying a chair facing him is about mid-thirties and totally forgettable. His eyes balloon when he whips around and sees me.

“I’m sure you’ve been known to get a little rough in bed.” Strutting through the room, I hop up, perching myself on the edge of the desk, and swing my heavy boots. “A man can gag a woman and bind her, and that’s kinky. But when a woman takes control, suddenly it’s sinister?”

He squirms in his seat, and Blackwell remains reticent behind me. He clears his throat to try and recover as he’s quickly crumbling under my stare like a sandcastle. “I’ve heard it’s a little more than rough play,” he mutters.

“Oh? Pray tell.” I cross my arms, grinning. “I do love a good story. Especially one about me.”

He glances behind me at Blackwell, but he gets no help from him.

A bead of sweat forms in his hairline, and it might as well be blood in the water.

I hop down and close the distance slowly, savoring the way his posture stiffens.

I plant my hands on the armrests of his chair and lean in, close enough to taste his panic.

“You know,” I whisper, watching his pulse hammer at his throat, “I could show you sometime. Let you get a front seat to what my appetite really looks like.” And because I have a thing for theatrics, I dart my tongue inside his ear. He jerks away as if it were a snake.

I giggle, delighted to see him visibly shaken.

“That’s enough, Sinclair,” Blackwell says from behind me. There’s warning in his tone, but no real heat.

“Oh, come on,” I coo. “I just want to play.” I stroke a finger through his dark hair. He may be intimidated by me, but I bet if I cupped his crotch, his dick will be hard as shit.

“Clair!” Blackwell’s voice cracks through the room like a whip.

I freeze. No one has ever called me that. Other than the names that were used to try and break me, I’ve only ever been Sinclair . And usually laced with venom and contempt. That single syllable hits harder than a slap.

I swallow down the ache and turn around with a plastic smile. His stare is sharp enough to cut. But I don’t flinch under the blade. I twist it instead.

“We’ll have to continue this meeting another time,” Blackwell says, clipped and cold. His eyes never leaving mine.

Whatever the guy mutters behind me is drowned out. I’m anchored by my affliction. Caught on some invisible chain that’s around my neck, pulling taut. Whatever it is tethering me to him right now, I don’t know if I want to sever it or cling to it.

The sound of the door closing shakes me from the intrusive thoughts, and I fiddle with a pen on his desk as if unaffected. “Was it something I said?”

“You are promised to me.” He chops up each word. “To me. Only.” Good thing the goosebumps on my arms are concealed by my jacket sleeves. He cannot know what kind of effect his voice alone already has on me. “You will not disrespect me by touching another man.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes as I round the desk and slide back onto the surface, closer now.

Bolder in appearance. I won’t let him see that he unsettles me, even if it hums beneath my skin.

It’s not fear. Not that. Fear requires something I don’t have, and that’s the will to live.

The hope that tomorrow matters. And I stopped waking up wanting to be here a long time ago.

“I was only teasing him,” I say, inspecting my nails, feigning indifference. “He wasn’t my type. Too spineless. I like them a little resilient.”

I meet him head-on when he languidly stands to his full height. With one step, he’s in my space. His fingers are unforgiving as they dig into my thighs and wrench my knees apart to slot himself between them like he owns the right to do so.

I arch one eyebrow at him with a veneer of monotony, when in reality, my blood rushes to my cunt with lewd desire. He leans in, and I stand my ground, refusing to budge an inch. His proximity leaves my head hazy, and the intoxicating scent of him in waves has my cunt dripping with greed.

“I will only say this once, although I should not have to say it at all. But since you clearly need it spelled out for you, if I ever catch you with another man—or woman—I will fucking kill you.”

A shiver coils down my spine, and all I want to do is kiss him until I taste blood from his pouty lips and ride his thigh like a bitch in heat.

“Funny,” I say, toying with a button on his dress shirt. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

My eyes open wide when his hand strikes out to grip around my throat. The tip of his nose almost kissing mine. “You belong to me, Sinclair,” he seethes.

I am no longer bothered by men claiming ownership over me. I was born a possession, and I will die a possession. But only in flesh.

No one can own my mind. Nor can anyone ever tame it.

“Why the fuck are you smiling?” he snaps.

“How hard are you right now?” I ask, grinning, wide and wicked.

His annoyingly handsome features don’t budge an inch.

“What are you waiting for, Blackwell? Take what’s yours,” I taunt.

“Why abstain?” I drag a finger up and down his chest and tilt my head to brush my lips against his. “I am yours, after all.”

He uses his iron grip on my neck to give me a little jerk to demand my attention. To demand control over the situation. “If I want you,” he rasps, voice like steel, “I’ll have you.”

Something inside my chest stings from his blunt confession. It feels like…rejection. A mixture of emotions has me stupefied. I can’t tell if I’m pissed or offended.

I hide the stab to my pride and swallow hard. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I yank my groin against him, and what do you know? There’s a firm bulge there.

Confidence floods back, seductive and cruel. “Your cock says otherwise, Blacky,” I purr. Then I grind against him slowly and brush my lips along the scruff on his chin. “You want to fuck me,” I whisper.

He finally moves, grazing my ear with his mouth. “I have no desire to fuck you right now,” he whispers back.

My whole body stills, and my teeth grind. He’s lying. I know he is because I can feel his cock trying to burst through his pants. But it stings no less. To feel unwanted by him .

“Pity,” I say smoothly. As if completely unaffected. Then I lean in as much as his hold on me will allow. “Because it would’ve been fucking wild.”

I nip at his jawline, and his hand flexes around my neck. Then he lets go and takes a step back. Refusing to take the bait I’m offering him to on a silver fucking platter.

Unruffled, I hop down from the desk with lazy grace and saunter to the door. Leaving just as calming as I did crashing in.

He thinks he won. Let him.

The next one is mine.