Page 7 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter five

Blackwell

M y patience is wearing paper-thin as I glance at my watch for the second time, waiting in the foyer for Sinclair.

It’s the night of our engagement party. An obligation her family insisted on hosting at a venue closer to us.

I doubt it’ll remain a celebration by the end of the night.

Not with Sinclair at my side. She might end up with my hands around her throat, squeezing the life out of her, by the time the last toast is made.

The intolerable fucking vamp.

I sigh and take a breath, preparing myself to go and fetch her.

But just as I place one foot on the first stair, she appears at the top, looking like the angel of death, ready to descend back into the depths of Hell where she came from.

And with the way she’s been making my blood burn and my head pound, it feels like I’m already there.

In constant hell, living and breathing it.

By the time I realize I’ve gone still, she’s already halfway down the stairs. My eyes rake over the lace hugging her most prominent curves, the teasing slit that reveals her pale hip and opposite thigh.

The contrast of her pale skin under my calloused hands has my fists stretching at my sides to refrain from grabbing her as soon as she’s within arm’s reach.

I told her lies. Fed her venomous words about how little I desired her for the sole purpose of sparking a reaction.

But I’ve wanted her since I had her pinned beneath me on her bed, snarling like a feral cat.

Her skin, as if untouched by the sun. A scent that is overpowering in the most exotic way. It’s all maddening, and she knows it.

She stops one step above me, our eyes level. Her soulful gaze unreadable beneath shadowed makeup, and her body boldly close to mine. As if challenging me.

My eyes jump up to her hair, delicately tossed into something elegant with only a few pieces astray. “Purple,” I grunt in disapproval.

Her plush lips curl into a vicious yet brilliant smile. “I was bored.”

Purple, blonde, indigo. I’ve seen it all since she was a teenager. Another act of rebellion and a ‘fuck you’ to the world.

“Couldn’t have waited until after tonight?” I mutter and head for the doors.

“Why?” she practically chirps as she catches up with me to walk at my side. “Wanted my hair to be perfect for tonight.”

I take another soothing breath, steeling myself for what’s to come.

We ride in silence, save for the hum of the tires and the occasional glance I steal in her direction. She stares out the window, aloof and distant, like she’s already escaped. She looks poised. Elegant. Almost serene. A far cry from the chaos she brings with her.

She’s a goddamn chameleon. A savage and a society girl stitched in one. Combat boots, dripping in venom. Then she’s a poised debutante draped in pearls. It’s unnerving how well she transforms, wearing both skins flawlessly. And somehow never losing that sharp edge underneath.

I’m so caught up watching her, trying to decipher which version I have of her tonight, that I nearly let it slip my mind. I reach into my jacket and pull out the small velvet box. “I almost forgot,” I mutter.

Her eyes drift over, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “What is it?”

“Your ring.” I pop it open and keep my eyes on her face. Watching for something. A flicker of surprise. A twitch of genuine emotion. The slightest reaction. Anything.

She tilts her head, and her smile grows into something languid and sly.

“Hmm,” she hums, plucking the ring from the box and sliding it right on without hesitation.

She holds it under the cabin light, examining the way it catches.

“Cute,” she says casually, flashing me a grin.

The small diamonds in her teeth gleaming at me like a threat.

The golden hoop barely peeking out from under her lip as if mocking me.

The one word is like a gut-punch.

Then she turns away like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t just put a goddamn engagement ring on her finger.

A ring I spent too much time designing. Put entirely too much thought into, apparently.

All for her to call it cute , drop her hand, and turn her head to look out the window like I’m not even here.

Does she even like it?

Does it even fit?

She gives me nothing, and it’s infuriating. She’s infuriating.

“I don’t need to remind you of how important your conduct is tonight, do I?” I say with a little too much bite.

She lets out a low chuckle. “You mean my performance.” She turns to me, smiling. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

My nostrils flare from her mocking tone. “I’m serious, Sinclair.”

She gives me a theatrical frown, her eyebrows lowering. “You’re always serious,” she says, dropping her voice into a deep rasp.

“If you—”

“Here’s something you should learn about me, and learn about me sooner to save yourself the trouble.

” I fall silent out of ire. “Telling me what to do is like issuing a challenge. A challenge I am more than willing to oblige. My entire life, I have been told to behave . I do not need to be told what exactly is expected of me. I know. Smile and only speak when spoken to, and men are superior and women are to be submissive and remain an object—”

“Are you finished?” I say dryly. I see that I've hit yet another button, as her face grows rigid and she goes silent. “Good. So, we’re both on the same page.”

I face forward, ignoring her attempt to burn holes into the side of my head with her gaze. I can almost hear her inner thoughts of violence and vengeance. For once in my life, I regret opening my mouth. I may have poked the fucking bear.

She’s deathly silent the rest of the ride. And when the car rolls to a stop, she’s out before the engine cuts. I step out after her, jaw ticking, a growl low in my throat. I yank at the lapels on my jacket and button it.

When she tries to storm ahead of me, I lunge forward and wrap my fingers around her lace-covered wrist, yanking her to a halt. She spins with the force, colliding with my chest. Her breath hitches, eyes burning as she fumes up at me.

I remain cool, when really, my heat matches hers. “I have let you rampage through the estate ever since you stepped foot in it like a hellhound off its leash, without a word,” I grit out. “One night, Sinclair. One fucking night. Act like a goddamn lady.” My jaw throbs by the time I finish.

She throws her head back and releases a dry, boisterous laugh that doesn’t seem human. “A lady?” she echoes, incredulous.

“I’m warning you, Clair,” I snap. The name slices through her smugness like a blade, and she falters ever so slightly. “You do not want to test me. I’ve let you run rampant to placate you, but tonight, I will have no tolerance for your games.”

“And you wouldn’t want them to think you don’t have your bitch on a leash,” she sneers.

“Is that what you need, joon kharash ?” Soul-scraper .

She stares at me, eyes narrowed. Then she bares those glittering teeth in a grin that says she’s about to set fire to something. The kind of grin so wicked it can peel flesh from bone. But it moves me in a different way.

“Shall we?” she says sweetly. But I know not to trust calm waters.

I guide her hand to the crook of my arm and lead us through the doors towards the ballroom.

The air inside is dense, brimming with testosterone and veiled threats.

My spine locks up like instinct, ready for impact as we enter.

But Sinclair? Ever composed beside me like sin wrapped in obedience.

But I know under all that polish is a fuse waiting to be lit.

We begin to circulate, playing our parts with rehearsed smiles and shallow conversation.

I keep one eye on her the whole time, waiting for her to snap.

To say something to get a rise out of me or do something to poke at me for sport.

But she stays in character, smiling sweetly while she shakes hands and makes small talk like it’s foreplay.

I don’t know if I’m proud or bracing myself for detonation.

Eventually, my parents make their approach.

My mother beams. “Oh, Blackwell,” she sighs, taking Sinclair’s hands in both of hers.

“You failed to mention how stunning Sinclair has become.” I watch Sinclair in slight amusement.

She tries to mask the flicker of unease, and when my mother leans in to plant a kiss on each cheek, I have to hide my smirk behind a cough.

Especially when Sinclair’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“It is so nice to finally meet my soon-to-be daughter-in-law,” my mother says, still clasping Sinclair’s hands like she plans to keep her.

She gives her an outward once over and adds, “You’re radiant, darling.

I don’t think anyone else could pull off purple hair the way you do. ”

Sinclair recovers with the speed of someone used to being cornered. She plasters on a polite smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Golzar. It’s nice to see you too,” she says, only an octave over a robotic tone. Then she subtly pries her hands out of my mother’s.

“Oh, please. Call me, Jaqueline.” My mother doesn’t skip a beat. She sidles up to my father, gazing up at him adoringly. “Don’t they look wonderful together, Dario?”

My father offers a noncommittal nod. “They do.” He couldn’t care less how we look together. It’s all about legacy, leverage, and gain. It isn’t for the aesthetics.

It takes Sinclair less than a heartbeat to spot an exit. “Restroom,” she says with a tight smile, already halfway across the room. Gone. Seeping through the cracks like smoke.

My mother steps into the space Sinclair left behind, chattering away as I offer the occasional nod, pretending to listen. But my focus is on the room.

My eyes sweep the area, finding all the usual suspects.

Family, friends, frauds. I spot my uncle lingering in the back with a drink in hand, his family with him.

I’ll have to shake his hand and offer the proper pleasantries soon.

But it’s the trio across the room that tightens my focus.

The beady stare from the Ortiz men. Sinclair’s father, Anthony, and her two brothers, Lincoln and Royce.

They wear their suits like armor and their smug expressions like second skin. But there’s no edge to them I haven’t encountered before. They pose no threat. Not the kind that I fear, anyway.

I excuse myself from my parents and the vultures orbiting them.

I cross the ballroom with measured strides.

I shake hands with all three, my grip firm but restrained.

Predictably, they all squeeze harder than necessary.

Like boys trying to prove something. They fail to understand that brute strength does not equate to power.

It was my father who taught me that power does not shout, it whispers.

“I appreciate you hosting this,” I say only to Anthony.

“It’s the least we could do, getting Sinclair off our hands,” he says with a hollow chuckle.

“You let her leave the house with that hair? Why didn’t you tell us you were having such a difficult time controlling her?” Lincoln, the eldest, asks without a shred of interest. Only entitlement.

The ache in my jaw is back as I grit my molars and bite my tongue. I don’t even want them looking at her. Don’t want them speaking her name like it’s theirs to use. I don’t want them thinking they still have any kind of hold over her.

The surge of possession crashes over me. An onslaught of protectiveness. It’s white-hot and unforgiving, nearly knocking the breath out of me. I have to pause to catch my breath. I can’t let them see me unravel.

My gaze strays over to Royce briefly. Just enough to catch the glint in his eyes as he scans the room. There’s something off about him. Not just cruel or corrupted but corroded. Something deeply rotten behind those eyes.

“I can certainly give you some tips.” Royce’s words are slightly slurred. Already intoxicated on dark liquor.

“I’m having no trouble at all with her. The color is hardly offensive,” I say, thinking that I’m telling a little white lie when it isn’t a lie at all. It’s already grown on me. All of it has grown on me.

Her father starts prattling on again, Lincoln chiming in with overly practiced superiority. But I can’t hear a word they say. I’m too focused on Royce and how his black eyes are sweeping the crowd like a predator sniffing out the prey.

Sinclair hasn’t returned yet, and instinctively—no, absolutely—it’s her he’s searching for.

That primal protective instinct where Sinclair is concerned, bristles to life like a beast stirred from sleep. Death will be too good for Royce. He needs to suffer. I want his blood boiled, not just spilled. I will peel him apart, scream by scream.

Mercy won’t even be a shadow in the room.

Royce slithers out of the room like an uncouth snake, and I give it all but two minutes to follow pursuit. Sinclair still hasn’t resurfaced, and that creates an anxiety in me that wraps around my spine like a warning.