Cellie's POV
The reception was everything I'd feared it would be and worse. The DeLeon estate was even more obscenely wealthy than the cathedral, with manicured lawns that stretched for what looked like miles and a mansion that could probably house a small village. White tents had been set up on the lawn, filled with round tables covered in silk linens and centerpieces that probably cost more than my car.
I stood near one of the bars, clutching a glass of orange juice like it was a lifeline, and tried to blend into the background. It wasn't working. I could feel eyes on me from every direction, hear the whispers that people weren't even bothering to keep quiet.
"She's so beautiful," a woman to my left sighed, and for a brief, stupid moment I thought she was talking about me. Then I realized her eyes were on Penelope, who was holding court near the main tent in her designer wedding dress.
Another woman next to her let out a dismissive snort. "Beautiful? Please. She's nothing but a shameless, penniless gold digger who got lucky. Look how tacky her shoes are."
I glanced down at Penelope's shoes. They looked fine to me, but what did I know about designer fashion?
"I heard Manuel didn't contribute a single dime to her wedding dress," the first woman whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "It was the final test of her loyalty. He wanted to see if she'd still go through with the wedding even if he didn't finance it."
The second woman's laugh was sharp and mean. "Well, that certainly explains why the dress fits so poorly. She probably got it off the rack at some discount bridal shop."
"Shh!" The first woman grabbed her friend's arm, her eyes going wide. "You need to be quiet. Demetrio is glaring at us."
My heart jumped into my throat at the mention of his name. I turned slowly, carefully, following the direction the women were trying desperately not to look.
Sure enough, there he was across the lawn, standing with a group of men in expensive suits. But he wasn't glaring at the gossiping women. Those molten grey eyes were locked directly on me, burning holes into the side of my head with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
One of his men was leaning in close, speaking urgently into his ear, but Demetrio's attention never wavered from me. His jaw was tight. His expression was unreadable but somehow still threatening.
I allowed myself a small frown, just enough to ask what his problem was without being obvious enough for him to claim I was disrespecting him in front of his people. The last thing I needed was him deciding to perforate my skull with a well aimed bullet because I'd looked at him wrong.
What does he want now? If I were in his position, I'd be perfectly happy pretending I didn't exist. The last thing either of us needed was for him to make it obvious to everyone at this wedding that something had happened between us.
I was used to people staring at me. Sometimes it was admiration, though more often it was judgment or disgust or morbid curiosity. I'd learned to ignore stares a long time ago, to let them roll off me and keep moving forward. But Demetrio's stare was different. It felt like a physical weight pressing down on me, demanding acknowledgment, demanding something I couldn't give him here in front of all these people.
It took every ounce of willpower I had to tear my eyes away and turn back to my orange juice.
The ceremony had felt endless, with the priest droning on in a mix of English and Italian while I'd sat in that hard pew trying not to think about the man watching me from across the aisle. Every time I'd dared to glance in his direction, he'd been looking at me. Not at his father getting married. Not at Penelope in her white dress. Just me.
Now at the reception, I was starting to wonder if I should have risked Penelope's wrath and left early. My stomach was twisted in knots. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. And everywhere I looked, I saw reminders of what kind of family I'd just been pulled into.
The wealth was obscene. Crystal champagne flutes. Waiters in white gloves carrying trays of food I couldn't even name. A live band playing classical music under one of the tents. Flowers that must have cost thousands of dollars.
But all I could think about was where that money came from. How much blood had been spilled to pay for this wedding? How many people had died so Manuel DeLeon could afford imported roses and a five tier cake?
I closed my eyes and took another sip of juice, trying to calm my racing heart.
"Are you feeling alright, miss?"
I opened my eyes to find a young waiter looking at me with concern. He was probably around my age, with kind eyes and a friendly smile.
"I'm fine," I lied. "Just a little overwhelmed by all of this."
"First time at a DeLeon event?" he asked, his smile turning sympathetic.
"That obvious?"
"You're not drinking champagne," he pointed out. "Everyone drinks champagne at these things. It's practically a requirement."
I laughed despite myself. "I'm trying to stay sober. I have a feeling I'm going to need all my wits about me today."
"Smart choice," he said, lowering his voice. "These events can get a little intense. If you need anything, just flag me down. I'm Marco."
"Cellie," I said, grateful for the first genuine human interaction I'd had all day.
He nodded and moved on to offer champagne to another group of guests, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
The relief I'd felt during our brief conversation evaporated the moment I realized Demetrio was no longer hovering around the main tent. I scanned the lawn, looking for his distinctive figure, that dark presence that seemed to command attention even when he was standing still.
I couldn't find him. He'd disappeared somewhere, probably off to handle whatever business had been so urgent his man had interrupted the reception to tell him about it. Knowing what I knew about the DeLeon family business, he was probably hacking some poor soul to pieces in one of the mansion's back rooms.
The thought made my stomach turn over.
This was my family now. These people with their blood money and their casual violence and their designer clothes bought with other people's suffering. This was what I'd been pulled into because my mother had decided she'd rather marry into the mob than keep struggling to make ends meet.
I couldn't blame her, not really. I'd seen how hard she'd worked, how many jobs she'd juggled, how many times she'd gone without so I could have something resembling a normal childhood. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that she'd sold both our souls for a taste of this lifestyle.
"Cellieaa!"
Penelope's shrill voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. I turned to see her waving at me from across the lawn, her smile bright and fake as the diamonds glittering at her throat.
"Come here, baby! Come and say hi to the family!"
Baby. She'd never called me baby in my entire life. This was all for show, all part of the performance she was putting on for her new husband and his powerful family.
I plastered on a smile that probably looked as fake as hers felt and made my way across the lawn toward where she stood with Manuel and a small group of people I assumed were DeLeons.
Manuel was even more intimidating up close. He stood tall and proud with his arm around Penelope's slim waist, his presence commanding in a way that made me want to take a step back. His eyebrows were thick and dark, his eyes weathered by age and probably by things he'd seen and done. A thick beard and mustache covered the lower half of his face, making it impossible to read his expression. He looked like he was constantly glowering at someone, perpetually disappointed in the world around him.
Despite my best intentions to appear calm and collected, my hands started trembling as I got closer. My vision swam for a second, darkness creeping in at the edges as my mind conjured up images of guns and blood and violence.
"This is my daughter, Cellie," Penelope said, her voice cutting through the panic trying to claw its way up my throat.
I clenched my free hand into a fist and forced myself to focus on her face, on the present moment, on anything but the fear threatening to overwhelm me.
"It's nice to meet you," I managed to say, my voice steadier than I felt. The words came out just in time to prevent an awkward silence from settling over the group.
Manuel's dark eyes studied me for a long moment before he spoke. "This is your daughter?" His accent was thick, his English heavily influenced by his native Italian. "She looks nothing like you, stellina."
Stellina. Little star. A pet name for Penelope that sounded almost sweet if you didn't think too hard about the man saying it.
Penelope laughed, the sound dry and rehearsed. She patted Manuel's chest affectionately, playing the role of loving wife to perfection. "That's because Cellie was adopted when Theo was desperate for a girl child. He'd always wanted a daughter."
"Theo," Manuel repeated slowly. "That is your ex-husband, yes?"
"Yes." Penelope's expression shifted into something that might have been sadness if I didn't know better. "We lost him in a car accident several years ago. You remember me mentioning it?"
Manuel nodded and pressed a kiss to Penelope's forehead, the gesture surprisingly tender for a man who ran a criminal empire. "Of course I remember, tesoro. My condolences for your loss, even now."
Then he turned his attention back to me, and I had to resist the urge to fidget under that intense stare.
"You are welcome to the family, Cellie," he said, his tone making it clear this was more command than greeting. "I trust you won't be giving us any problems. You are part of the family now, and we DeLeons must uphold a certain image. You understand this, yes?"
The implied threat hung in the air between us. Behave. Don't embarrass us. Don't step out of line.
I gave him what I hoped was a respectful smile, wondering what exactly Penelope had told him about me. Probably nothing good. "I won't cause any trouble, sir."
"Manuel," he corrected, cutting me off before I could continue. "Call me Manuel. We are family now, and there is no need for such formality between us."
"Manuel," I repeated, nodding. "Thank you for welcoming me."
He seemed satisfied with that response and turned back to Penelope, already moving on to greet other guests who were approaching to offer their congratulations.
I took that as my dismissal and turned my attention to the young woman standing a few feet away, completely absorbed in her phone. Georgiana DeLeon, Manuel's daughter. My new stepsister.
She was beautiful in that effortless way that came from good genes and expensive skincare. Her dark hair was styled in perfect waves, her makeup flawless, her dress probably cost more than three months of my rent. Everything about her screamed money and privilege and a life I would never understand.
"Hi," I said, trying for friendly and approachable. I gave her my best 'we're in this together' smile. "It's really nice to meet you. I'm Cellie."
Georgiana slowly lifted her eyes from her phone, and the look she gave me made my skin crawl. She studied me like I was something unpleasant she'd found stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe. Her expression shifted from bored to coldly amused in the span of a heartbeat.
"The pleasure is all mine, Cellie," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Her eyes dragged down my body, taking in every detail of my dress with obvious judgment. "Your dress is very interesting."
I glanced down at the gold sequin dress I was wearing. It was a little tight, sure, and maybe the sequins were a bit much for a wedding, but it had been on sale and I'd thought it looked cute. I'd paired it with my favorite ankle boots, going for something that felt like me rather than trying to fit into the mold of what these people expected.
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, genuinely confused by her tone.
Georgiana's smile widened, showing teeth. "Oh, nothing at all. If your intention is to look like a cheap slut, you've absolutely nailed it."
The words hit me like a slap. Before I could formulate a response, she turned back to her phone and walked away, effectively dismissing me like I was beneath her notice.
My left eye twitched. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to chase after her, to wipe that superior smirk off her perfect face, to show her that I wasn't someone she could just insult and walk away from.
But I couldn't. The old Cellie, the one who didn't take shit from anyone and always had to have the last word, would have started a fight right here on the lawn in front of everyone. The new Cellie, the one trying desperately not to make things worse than they already were, knew there would be hell to pay if I caused a scene.
I'd already messed up once this week in spectacular fashion. I just had to get through today without any more disasters. Just smile, nod, keep my mouth shut, and then I could go home and never interact with these people again.
A loud shout erupted from across the courtyard, followed by screams that cut through the pleasant classical music and polite conversation like a knife.
My head whipped around toward the commotion, my heart already sinking because I knew, I just knew, this wasn't going to be good.
The crowd had parted near one of the garden areas, creating a circle around two figures. Demetrio stood in the center, his suit jacket open and his expression carved from ice, holding a gun pointed directly at a young man's head.
The man looked terrified, his hands raised in surrender, his face pale and sweating. I recognized him vaguely, maybe from campus, though I couldn't place his name.
Silence fell across the entire reception like someone had flipped a switch. The band stopped playing mid-song. Conversations died. Even the breeze seemed to still as everyone turned to watch the scene unfold.
Demetrio's voice cut through the quiet, deadly and cold despite being barely above a whisper. "Repeat what you just said about her."
"Don, I don't... please, I can't..." The man's voice was shaking so badly I could barely understand him. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear, I was just..."
"Don't waste my time, Rico." Demetrio's finger moved to the trigger, and my blood turned to ice in my veins.
One second passed. Two seconds. Rico opened his mouth but no words came out.
He was wasting Demetrio's time.
BANG.
The explosion of the gunshot made me jump so hard I sloshed orange juice all over my hand. The glass nearly slipped from my grip as the sound echoed across the lawn, impossibly loud in the shocked silence.
Women screamed. Men shouted. And Rico's body crumpled to the ground as blood and brain matter splattered across the perfectly manicured grass.
My ears were ringing. My hands were shaking. My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest as I stared at the scene, unable to look away from the body lying motionless on the ground.
See? This was exactly what I'd been afraid of. My new stepbrother was a trigger happy madman who killed people at his own father's wedding reception like it was nothing more than swatting a fly.
Several men rushed forward to deal with the body, moving with practiced efficiency that suggested this wasn't the first time they'd had to clean up after Demetrio's violence. Guests were already turning away, resuming their conversations like nothing had happened, like a man hadn't just been murdered in front of them.
This was normal for them. This was just another day in the DeLeon family.
I was only fooling myself thinking I could get through this day sober. I needed alcohol. I needed it right now.
Sighing, I drained the rest of my orange juice in one long swallow and went to look for the nearest bar. I was going to need something much stronger than juice to survive the rest of this reception.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a terrible thought was forming. Rico had said something about "her." Demetrio had killed him for saying something about a woman.
What if that woman was me?