Demetrio's POV
I had never let a woman get under my skin like this. Not since I was fourteen years old and learning what it meant to be a DeLeon, what it meant to have power and use it without hesitation. I'd built my entire life on control, on calculated decisions and strategic moves that always put me three steps ahead of everyone else.
And then Cellie Bianchi walked into my life and destroyed twenty years of discipline in less than a week.
I sat in my car outside her apartment building, my hand pressed against the aching hardness in my pants that refused to go away no matter how many times I'd tried to take care of it myself. Nothing worked. Cold showers didn't work. Other women didn't work. The thought of touching anyone else made my stomach turn with disgust that I couldn't explain and didn't want to examine too closely.
She wasn't even my type. I'd always preferred brunettes who knew how to follow orders, women who understood their place and didn't talk back or challenge me at every opportunity. Cellie was blonde, mouthy, reckless, and completely incapable of doing what she was told.
She was also the only thing I could think about.
I'd tried to stay away. For three days, I'd thrown myself into work, handling business with the Mexicans and dealing with the Bratva's latest attempt to encroach on my territory. I'd gone to meetings and made deals and killed a man who'd tried to cheat me out of half a million dollars. I'd done everything I normally did, everything that usually consumed my entire focus.
But every night, I found myself driving past her apartment. Watching her windows. Wondering what she was doing and hating myself for caring.
Today, I'd finally given in to the obsession and followed her to that coffee shop she visited every morning. I'd watched her walk out with her ridiculous coffee order and that smile she gave the barista who was clearly in love with her. The kid gave her oat milk for the price of regular, probably hoping she'd notice him one day and give him a chance.
I made a mental note to have a conversation with him about keeping his distance.
She was wearing practically nothing. A thin white tank top that showed off curves that had no business being that distracting, and black shorts so short they might as well have been underwear. Her long blonde hair caught the sunlight as she stood on the sidewalk, looking upset about something after a phone call.
I'd wanted to go to her, to demand to know what was wrong, but that would have required admitting that I'd been following her like some kind of obsessed fool.
So I'd waited. And watched. And told myself I was going to leave any minute now.
Then she'd started walking, and I'd found myself following her at a distance, my fingers drumming against the steering wheel as that irritating itch of possessiveness crawled up the back of my neck. When she'd stopped to hail a cab, I'd been ready to drive away and forget this whole stupid obsession.
But then some preppy college boy had appeared out of nowhere, walking up to her with a smile that was way too friendly. Tony, I'd heard her call him. They'd talked for a minute, making plans to watch a movie together, and when he'd reached out to touch her hair, something in me had snapped.
I was out of my car before I'd made a conscious decision to move, slamming the door with more force than necessary. The sun burned hot against my back, but it was nothing compared to the molten fury flowing through my veins as I crossed the distance between us with long, angry strides.
The boy had seen me coming and backed up immediately, tension radiating from him as he recognized danger when he saw it. Smart kid.
Cellie's shoulders had tensed, and she'd turned around with a scowl on her face that should have warned me off but only made me want her more.
"Well, if it isn't my fratello," she'd said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she smiled that sharp, cutting smile that could slice through ice.
Brother. The Italian word sounded fascinating on her tongue, foreign and unpracticed, like it was something she hadn't grown up with.
I'd walked closer, getting right in her space, and lowered my voice so only she could hear. "Do brothers know what their sisters taste like?"
She'd flinched, terror and annoyance warring in those cornflower blue eyes, and I'd felt a dark satisfaction at getting a reaction from her.
"Your brother?" Tony had asked, confusion evident on his face.
"Stepbrother," Cellie had corrected firmly, shooting me one last icy glare before turning back to him. "I'll see you later, Tony. Don't start that movie without me."
He'd nodded and left, practically running away, and I couldn't blame him. I'd been radiating violence.
Cellie had sighed and juggled her coffee and grocery bag while fishing for her keys. She'd unlocked her door and walked inside without looking back, clearly hoping I'd take the hint and leave.
I'd followed her in instead, pushing past her before she could close the door in my face.
Her apartment was worse than I'd imagined. Tiny and cramped, with peeling paint and furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from the street. This was where she lived while my father showered her mother with money and gifts. This was the reality she kept trying to escape back to.
"Well, what can I do for you, DeLeon?" she'd asked, setting her groceries on the small counter that passed for a kitchen.
"This thing with Tony," I'd said, my voice harder than I'd intended. "End it. You can't be alone with men anymore, since it's obvious you can't be trusted around them."
She'd leaned against the wall with her left shoulder, her expression challenging. "And what about you? What do you say for yourself?"
I'd moved closer, closing the distance between us until the tips of her breasts grazed my chest. "But I thought I was your fratello."
She'd sniffed and looked up at me, blue eyes bluer than ice. "What do you want, DeLeon?"
I'd grabbed her hand and pressed it against the aching hardness straining against my pants, hissing at the contact. "I want you to finish what you started."
For a second, I'd thought she might actually do it. She'd fitted her body against mine, all soft curves and defiant heat, and gazed up at me with those eyes that promised everything while delivering nothing.
Her blue-tipped nails had raked down my torso as she'd leaned up to whisper in my ear. "And what exactly do you want, Demetrio? You want me on my knees for you? Want my mouth on you? Or should I bend over right now? Would you like that?"
She'd stroked me through my pants, her hand eager and deliberate, and I'd gripped her fiercely as a deep groan tore from my throat. "You're still this hard for me. It's pathetic, you know. You're pathetic."
Then she'd stepped away, and the loss of contact had been like a physical blow.
"Go to hell, Demetrio."
Rage had flooded through me, hot and violent and all-consuming. I'd grabbed her shoulder and hip before she could walk away, spinning her around and bending her over the counter. Her backside pressed against me, and I'd yanked her head back by her ponytail, my lips at her ear.
"Want to repeat that, sweetheart?" I'd growled, pressing myself hard against her and letting her feel exactly what she did to me.
She'd struggled beneath me, yelling. "What the hell is wrong with you? Get off me!"
"I don't think so," I'd rasped, my hands finding the waistband of those ridiculous shorts. "How about I teach you a lesson about finishing what you start?"
"Demetrio..." Her voice had held a warning, but also something else. Something breathless.
"If you want me to stop," I'd said, my control hanging by a thread, "call me fratello. Say it, and I'll walk away right now."
She'd opened her mouth, and I'd waited for the word that would end this. But it hadn't come.
Instead, she'd gasped when my hand had slipped beneath the fabric, finding her ready and wanting despite all her protests. "Look how wet you are," I'd taunted, my voice rough. "Seems like I'm not the only pathetic one here."
"I hate you," she'd breathed, but her body had been telling a different story entirely, responding to every touch like she'd been made for it.
"Actions have consequences, Cellie," I'd growled against her neck, my hand working her slowly, deliberately, building her up until she was trembling and incoherent.
Just when she'd been close, I'd pulled back, denying her what she needed most.
"What the hell, Demetrio," she'd rasped, her knuckles white against the counter. "Finish it."
"Beg for it," I'd demanded.
"Go to hell!"
"With pleasure," I'd growled, undoing my belt with shaking hands. But even in my fury, even with every instinct screaming at me to take what I wanted, I'd held back that final line. Instead, I'd pressed between her thighs, the friction almost enough to undo us both but not crossing into territory we couldn't come back from.
She'd been so warm, so ready, that I'd almost lost control immediately. My hips had moved against hers with desperate urgency, chasing the release that had been building for days.
"Put it inside me, Demetrio," she'd commanded, her voice trembling with desperation, her nails clawing at my arms.
But I'd pushed her down against the counter instead, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand while the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks. I'd moved against her with increasing urgency until the tension had finally snapped, spilling my release across her skin instead of inside her, marking her in a way that satisfied something dark and possessive in me.
Mine, that part of me had whispered as I'd looked at her flushed skin and trembling body. But it couldn't be true, because now that I'd gotten this out of my system, I could move on with my life.
She'd turned around and glared at me, fury and frustration written all over her face. "Really? That's it?"
I'd shrugged, pulling myself together and forcing my voice to be cold. "If you're looking for an apology, you're not getting one."
"I expected that," she'd growled. "Go to hell, Demetrio."
I'd lost my patience then, my hand wrapping around her throat and pressing her back against the counter. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to make a point.
"Be careful how you talk to me, how you look at me," I'd said, my voice deadly quiet. "I've killed for far less, and no one would miss someone who can't keep her mouth shut."
Something vulnerable had flickered in her eyes then, something that looked almost like hurt beneath the anger, and I'd forced myself to let her go and walk away before I did something even more stupid.
Now I sat in my car, staring up at her building and trying to understand what the hell I'd just done. I had territory negotiations with the Polish. The Bratva were pushing boundaries that needed to be reinforced. The Mexican deal was reaching a critical point that required my full attention.
And instead, I was here, obsessing over my stepsister like some kind of fool chasing after a woman who made me lose every shred of control I'd spent years building.
I raked my hands through my hair and made myself a promise. This was the last time. I'd gotten her out of my system now. Tomorrow, I'd go back to my regular life and forget Cellie Bianchi even existed.
It was a lie, and I knew it even as I started the car and drove away.
But I'd keep telling myself that lie until I believed it, because the alternative was admitting that she'd gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever had, and that was a weakness I couldn't afford.