Cellie's POV
Three glasses of wine later, and I was finally starting to feel the edges of my panic blur. The reception had turned into a nightmare of forced smiles and whispered conversations, everyone pretending they hadn't just watched a man get his brains blown out on the lawn. Marco the waiter had kept my glass full without me even having to ask, bless him.
My bladder was protesting loudly now, a combination of all the orange juice from earlier and the wine I'd been using to self-medicate. I excused myself from a conversation with some distant DeLeon cousin who'd been explaining the family business in euphemisms so transparent they were insulting, and went looking for a bathroom.
The mansion was even more ridiculous on the inside than it had looked from outside. Marble everywhere. Crystal chandeliers. Paintings that probably belonged in museums. I wandered down a hallway lined with family portraits, all stern-faced men and elegant women staring down at me with judgment in their painted eyes.
Finally, I found a door that looked promising. I pushed it open without thinking, desperate for relief, and immediately froze.
The universe hated me. That was the only explanation.
Demetrio DeLeon stood at the sink, his back to me, washing his hands under running water that was tinged pink. Blood swirled down the drain, thick and dark against the white porcelain.
His dark grey eyes flicked up to meet mine in the mirror, annoyance flashing across his face.
Every instinct I had screamed at me to turn around and walk out. To find another bathroom, preferably in another building, maybe another city. But that would be admitting defeat. That would be showing weakness. And I'd learned a long time ago that showing weakness to predators only made them bite harder.
So instead, I stepped fully into the bathroom and shut the door behind me with a soft click that sounded impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.
Demetrio let out an irritated grunt deep in his throat but said nothing, turning his attention back to his hands. He'd taken off his rings and his expensive watch, setting them carefully on the counter. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that were all taut muscle and golden tan skin.
I hated myself for noticing. Hated the way heat pooled low in my stomach at the sight of him. This man had just killed someone. There was literal blood on his hands. And my traitorous body was responding like he was something desirable instead of something dangerous.
My bladder chose that moment to remind me why I was here in the first place. I set my wine glass down on the granite countertop with more force than necessary and headed for the stall farthest from where he stood.
I took my time, partly because I genuinely needed it and partly because I refused to let him think he intimidated me. When I finally emerged, he was still there, drying his hands on a pristine white towel and fastening his watch back onto his wrist with practiced precision.
My face twisted into a scowl, but I ignored him and walked to the sink to wash my hands. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could feel his eyes on me, that grey gaze boring into the side of my face like a physical touch.
The air felt heavy, charged with something I didn't want to name.
"Did you have to kill him?" The words came out before I could stop them, breaking the silence like a stone through glass.
His gaze was dark and lazy when it settled on me, dangerous in a way that made my pulse skip. "Did you know what he said about you?"
I froze, my hands stilling under the running water. What?
I forced my expression into something cold and uncaring, channeling every ounce of indifference I could muster. "Don't care."
"Well, I care." His voice was deep, that accent of his making the words sound even more threatening somehow. "Apparently, you go to the same school. He was telling everyone that you're easy, that you have the sweetest body on campus and he'd be happy to confirm it for anyone who asked."
My hands started trembling. I pressed them together, trying to stop the shaking as I racked my brain for any memory of Rico. The name was familiar, maybe, but I couldn't place his face. Had we really gone to the same school? Had he really been spreading rumors about me?
Of course he had. There were always rumors about me.
"You see how that can be a problem, don't you?" Demetrio asked, his voice deceptively calm.
I shrugged, reaching for a towel to dry my hands even though they were still shaking. "I don't see anything, Demetrio. And why do you even care? Just leave me alone and..."
The words died in my throat.
He was standing behind me now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Ice and animosity seemed to pour off him in waves, sinking into my bones and making my teeth want to chatter despite the warmth of the bathroom.
"That's going to be difficult, micetta." The pet name rolled off his tongue like a threat. "Seeing as you're now part of the family and you have an image to uphold. I can't have our allies and enemies thinking we can't control our women."
Fury exploded in my chest, momentarily drowning out the fear. "Hey, what do you mean control? And I'm not a part of you guys, okay? Let's get that straight right now. I'm only here because of my mother, and after today, I have exactly zero intentions of playing house with your family."
"You're not the one to make that call." His voice was quiet, deadly.
My heart sank into my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you can't keep acting like you're still some college student with no responsibilities. You need to pull yourself together and start acting like a respectable woman. You'll be fending off potential suitors soon enough, whether you want them or not."
"And what if I don't want potential suitors?" My voice came out smaller than I intended, tight with the tension of having him so close. He was stepping even closer now, invading my space until I could feel his chest graze my back when I tried to stand straighter. I could almost taste his cologne on my tongue, expensive and masculine and completely overwhelming.
"Well, that's too bad, mia Cellie."
The way he said my name made something twist low in my belly. There was possession in it, ownership, like he had some kind of claim on me.
"I'm serious, Demetrio. I can't just..."
"You can't keep wearing these kinds of dresses that make you look available to anyone with eyes." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Although I suppose that does match who you really are, doesn't it?"
"And who am I?" I challenged, even though my heart was racing.
I felt a sharp tug on my hair. He'd wrapped my ponytail around his fist, pulling just hard enough to make my scalp tingle. Something was turning my insides inside out, a mix of fear and anger and that terrible, unwanted attraction.
I eased out of his grip and turned around to face him, refusing to let him see how much he was affecting me.
God, he was even more devastating up close. My heart skipped several beats as those dark grey eyes locked onto mine, intense and searching and full of things I didn't want to examine too closely.
I reached up and straightened his jacket, my fingers finding the button that had come undone and slipping it back through the hole with deliberate slowness. "Is that really what you think I am? Just some easy girl you can push around?"
"No." His voice was rough, strained.
"No?" My hands stilled against his chest as I looked up at him, genuinely surprised by the answer.
"I think you're far worse than that." His accent had gotten thicker, heavier, each word dripping with something that might have been disdain or might have been desire. I couldn't tell anymore.
I scoffed, but the sound came out breathier than I'd intended. My hands slid down his chest slowly, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. They came to rest against his abdomen, just a few inches above his belt.
"And does that turn you on?" I asked, proud of how steady my voice was even though my pulse was going crazy. "Thinking about how terrible I am?"
"You rate yourself a little too high, micetta." But his voice betrayed him, rough and wanting.
"Do I?" My hand slipped between us, finding the hard length of him pressing insistently against his pants. I rested my palm against the bulge, feeling him twitch under my touch. "So would you care to explain this?"
He let out a curse in Italian, his body going rigid. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as I stroked him through the fabric, watching his face contort with something between pain and pleasure.
"Cellie." My name was a warning and a plea all at once.
He pushed into my hand, seeking more friction, and I gave it to him. I rubbed him slowly, deliberately, keeping my eyes locked on his face so I could watch every micro-expression that crossed his features. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes went dark and hazy. The way his control started to slip.
There was something intoxicating about it. This powerful, dangerous man who killed people without a second thought was coming undone from just my hand on him. I was bringing him to his knees, metaphorically if not literally, and the rush of power that gave me was addictive.
He wasn't stopping me. If he'd told me to stop, I probably would have come to my senses and realized how incredibly stupid this was. But he didn't. He just kept pushing into my hand, his breath getting harsher, his control fraying at the edges.
"Don't stop." His voice was commanding, firm, that aggressive tone that suggested he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. "I'm close."
Something about that command, that assumption that I would just do what he wanted, flipped a switch in me. The rebellious part of my brain that had gotten me into trouble my entire life reared its head.
So naturally, I did the opposite.
I squeezed gently, feeling him pulse under my palm, and then leaned up on my toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Not his mouth, just his cheek, soft and almost affectionate. Then I brought my lips close to his ear, so close I could feel the heat of his skin.
"You see, Demetrio," I whispered, letting my breath ghost across his ear and making him shudder, "the problem is that I like being in control a lot more than I fear you. And there's not a single man alive who's going to tell me what to do with my life or my body. Looks like I'll be staying exactly who I am for a long time to come."
I dragged his earlobe between my teeth, tugging gently before releasing it. Then I patted his chest almost condescendingly and stepped away, putting distance between us.
His eyes were wild, furious, glazed with frustrated desire. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
I grabbed my wine glass from the counter where I'd left it, and before I made my escape, I turned back to look at him one more time.
The sight almost made me laugh. There were lipstick marks on his cheek and his neck, smudged and obvious. His jacket was askew, his shirt rumpled from my hands. And the bulge in his pants was even more prominent now, impossible to miss, a testament to exactly how affected he was.
But it was his face that really got me. The mixture of rage and frustration and unfulfilled need written all over those handsome features.
I tipped my wine glass toward him in a mock toast, letting a slow smile spread across my face. "Thanks for the entertainment, fratello."
Then I turned and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me and leaving him there with his anger and his unsatisfied desire.
My hands were shaking as I walked down the hallway, adrenaline and something else pumping through my veins. What the hell had I just done? I'd pushed him, taunted him, left him wanting. And Demetrio DeLeon wasn't the kind of man you played games with and walked away unscathed.
But god, the look on his face had been worth it.
I made it back to the reception and immediately downed the rest of my wine in one long swallow. Marco appeared at my elbow within seconds, ever the attentive waiter.
"Another glass, miss?"
"Make it a double," I said, my voice only shaking a little. "Actually, just bring me the bottle."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, disappearing toward the bar.
I stood there in the middle of the reception, surrounded by DeLeons and their associates, and tried to calm my racing heart. People were laughing and talking like nothing had happened, like there wasn't a body being disposed of somewhere on the property, like the world hadn't just tilted on its axis in that bathroom.
Penelope caught my eye from across the lawn and gave me a look that clearly said "behave yourself." I raised my empty wine glass to her in acknowledgment and watched her turn back to Manuel with that fake smile plastered on her face.
Marco returned with a full bottle of red wine and a fresh glass. "Rough day?" he asked sympathetically.
"You have no idea," I muttered, pouring myself a generous amount.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening, "you're handling it better than most people would. This family can be... intense."
"That's putting it mildly," I said, taking a long sip.
He smiled and moved away to attend to other guests, leaving me alone with my wine and my thoughts.
I'd crossed a line in that bathroom. Multiple lines, actually. And Demetrio wasn't the type to just let that go. He'd retaliate, somehow. Men like him always did. They didn't tolerate being challenged, especially not by women, and especially not by women who were supposed to be family.
But I couldn't bring myself to regret it. The look on his face, the way I'd made him lose control, the power I'd felt in that moment... it had been exhilarating.
Dangerous, stupid, reckless, but exhilarating.
I drained half my glass and refilled it, settling in for what was clearly going to be a very long afternoon. The reception showed no signs of ending anytime soon. People were still eating and drinking and networking, making deals and forming alliances while pretending to celebrate a wedding.
And somewhere in this crowd was Demetrio, probably furious, definitely planning some kind of revenge.
I should have been terrified. Any sane person would have been terrified.
But all I felt was a strange, twisted anticipation for whatever came next.