Cellie's POV
The ringing wouldn't stop. It drilled into my skull like a jackhammer, each shrill note making my head throb harder. I groaned and rolled over, expecting to feel the lumpy mattress of my apartment bed, but instead sank into something ridiculously soft and expensive.
My hand reached out blindly for my phone, but instead of cold metal and glass, my palm landed on warm skin. Bare skin. A very firm, very male chest.
Every thought in my head screeched to a halt.
My eyes snapped open as memories from last night crashed over me in waves. The party. The drinks. Too many drinks. My mother's shrill voice criticizing everything about me. And then... him.
Oh god. Oh god no.
I traced my fingers down the chest beneath my hand, trying desperately to convince myself this was Kevin. It had to be Kevin, my on again off again hookup who knew better than to expect anything serious from me. But Kevin's chest wasn't this broad. His skin wasn't this smooth. And he definitely didn't have the kind of muscles I was currently touching.
The phone kept ringing.
"What is it?" a voice growled in a thick Italian accent that made my blood run cold.
That voice. Deep and rough like gravel, with an edge that could cut glass. I knew that voice. I'd heard it last night when he'd whispered filthy things in my ear, when he'd groaned my name, when he'd...
No. No no no no no.
My heart stopped, then started again at triple speed. Hot shame flooded through me, followed immediately by ice cold terror. I sat up fast, clutching the silk sheets to my chest, my mind racing through every horrible way this could go.
You stupid, stupid girl. Your own stepbrother. Your mother is going to kill you. He's going to kill you. The don of the entire Italian mafia, and you just...
I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision, and that's when I saw the evidence scattered around the room. My dress in a crumpled heap by the door. My bra hanging off a chair. My heels kicked into opposite corners. And there, on the floor beside the bed, used condoms that confirmed this nightmare was very, very real.
Demetrio DeLeon. I'd slept with Demetrio DeLeon.
The same man whose father was marrying my mother in less than a week. The same man who ran the entire Italian mafia in Chicago. The same man who, according to every rumor I'd ever heard, killed people before breakfast and didn't lose a minute of sleep over it.
I was going to throw up.
He was still on the phone, his voice cold and clipped as he barked orders at whoever had been stupid enough to call him this early. I didn't hear the words. All I could hear was the roaring in my ears, the accusations piling up in my mind.
Whore. Slut. You're just like your mother. No, you're worse. At least she waits until after the wedding.
My hands shook as I wrapped the sheet tighter around myself, rocking slightly. I needed to get out. I needed to leave before he finished that call and noticed I was awake. Before he could say all the things I was already screaming at myself.
I slid out of bed as quietly as possible, my feet hitting the plush carpet without a sound. My vision was blurry with unshed tears, but I could see my clothes well enough. I reached for my dress, fingers trembling.
"Stop right there."
The command froze me in place. Every muscle in my body locked up, some primal part of my brain recognizing the danger in that tone.
A click echoed through the room. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
"Turn around."
I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to bolt for the door and never look back. But there was a gun pointed at me, and I wasn't stupid enough to test whether Demetrio DeLeon's aim was as good as people said.
I turned slowly, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might bruise my ribs.
He was still in bed, propped up against the headboard with white silk sheets pooled around his waist. And god help me, he was beautiful in the worst possible way. Dark hair mussed from sleep and from my fingers running through it. Sharp jawline covered in stubble. Grey eyes that were currently staring at me like I was an intruder instead of the woman he'd spent hours with last night.
My face burned as I took in the rest of him. Scratches down his chest that I'd definitely put there. Lipstick marks on his neck, his jaw, his collarbone. My lipstick. Evidence of everything we'd done written all over his skin.
The gun in his hand didn't waver. It was pointed directly at my head, held with the casual confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his voice flat and dangerous.
The words hit me like a slap. He didn't even remember. After everything, after the way he'd touched me and kissed me and made me forget every reason why this was a terrible idea, he didn't even know who I was.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "Cellie. Cellie Bianchi."
Recognition flashed in those cold grey eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like fury.
"Fuck!" He slammed his free hand against the headboard, the sound making me flinch. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking up at the ceiling like he was praying for patience or maybe for the ground to swallow him whole. "Fuck!"
When he looked at me again, his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. The gun was still pointed at me, but his finger had moved away from the trigger.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could feel the weight of what we'd done pressing down on both of us.
"Pack your shit and leave," he said finally, his voice deadly quiet. He tossed the gun onto the nightstand like it was nothing more than a phone and crossed his arms, those grey eyes boring into me.
I wanted to snap at him. Wanted to point out that leaving was exactly what I'd been trying to do before he decided to pull a gun on me. But I bit my tongue because I wasn't stupid enough to antagonize a man who'd just had me at gunpoint.
I turned back to my clothes and started yanking them on as fast as I could. My dress was inside out. My bra was twisted. I couldn't find my underwear and I wasn't about to spend another second in this room looking for them.
I could feel his stare on my back the entire time, burning into me like a brand. When I finally got my heels on and headed for the door, I didn't look back.
The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded impossibly loud.
I leaned against the wall in the hallway, trying to catch my breath. My whole body was shaking. I felt dirty and used and stupid, so incredibly stupid.
"You bitch!"
I barely had time to process the voice before fingers dug into my arm, yanking me sideways into a small alcove.
Penelope.
My mother's face was twisted with rage, her perfectly manicured nails biting into my skin hard enough to bruise. She pulled me close, her eyes scanning my face, my rumpled dress, my messed up hair.
"I took a big risk bringing you into this family," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "I won't have you ruining everything for me before I've even officially married Manuel. Do you understand me?"
My throat felt tight, a panic attack clawing its way up from my chest. But I'd learned a long time ago not to show weakness in front of Penelope. She could smell fear like a shark smelled blood in the water.
"Let go of me," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. "I didn't do anything wrong."
Nothing she could prove, anyway.
Her eyes narrowed. She leaned in closer, actually sniffing me, and her expression turned even more disgusted.
"Don't lie to me. You're a whore, Cellie. You always have been, you always will be." Her voice dripped with contempt. "Of course you'd jump into bed with the first man you found at the party. I should have known better than to trust you to behave for one night."
Relief mixed with the anger in my chest. She didn't know. She suspected, but she didn't actually know who I'd been with.
"Look, mama," I said, putting as much exhaustion into my voice as I could. It wasn't hard. "I didn't do anything. I got drunk last night because you wouldn't stop criticizing me, and I had one of the servants find me a guest room. I just woke up. I'm hungover, I feel like death, and I'd really appreciate it if you could hound me about your paranoid suspicions some other time."
Her grip loosened slightly, uncertainty flickering across her face. She wanted to believe the worst about me, but she didn't have proof. And without proof, she was just guessing.
"I'm not you, mama," I added, unable to resist the jab.
Her hand dropped from my arm like I'd burned her. For a second, something that might have been hurt flashed in her eyes, but it was gone so fast I might have imagined it.
"Get out of my sight," she said coldly. "And don't you dare embarrass me at the wedding."
She turned on her designer heels and walked away, leaving me alone in the alcove with bruises forming on my arm and a sick feeling in my stomach.
I waited until she was completely out of sight before I let myself slump against the wall. My legs felt like jelly. My hands were still shaking.
What had I done?
I pushed away from the wall and made my way through the sprawling mansion, past priceless artwork and marble floors that probably cost more than I'd make in my entire lifetime. Servants moved quietly through the halls, their eyes sliding over me without really seeing me.
Good. The last thing I needed was witnesses.
When I finally made it outside, the morning sun felt too bright, the air too cold. I wrapped my arms around myself and headed for my beat up car in the visitor parking area, surrounded by Mercedes and Bentleys and cars I couldn't even name.
I got in, locked the doors, and let my forehead fall against the steering wheel.
One week. I just had to survive one week until the wedding, smile for the cameras, and then I'd never have to see Demetrio DeLeon again.
I could do that.
I had to do that.
Because the alternative, the possibility of anyone finding out what happened last night, was too terrifying to even consider.