The Devil Wears Armani: Step-Brother of Sin

Till Death Do Us Part

I was already fantasizing about my dingy apartment across town. About climbing into bed in nothing but my underwear and an oversized t-shirt that had belonged to my father once, a lifetime ago. About spending the rest of the holiday binging The Devil Wears Prada for the millionth time, where the worst thing that could happen was getting fired, not getting fitted for cement shoes.

"Cellieaa!"

Penelope's shrill call shattered my cozy daydream like a brick through glass. "Come here, baby. Come say hi to the family."

Baby? She'd never called me that before today. Not once in the twenty-three years since she'd adopted me. Not when I'd skinned my knee. Not when I'd graduated. Not when I'd cried at my father's funeral. But now, suddenly, I was her baby. Her precious daughter. Her prop in this twisted theater of the damned.

I swallowed hard, the orange juice suddenly acid in my throat. I plastered on a smile so fake it could've been purchased at a dollar store and turned to meet my new family.

Manuel stood tall and imposing, his arm wrapped possessively around Penelope's slim waist. The man intimidated me on a cellular level. He radiated violence like heat, like a furnace that burned bodies instead of coal. He had thick, dark eyebrows that looked like caterpillars had died on his forehead, eyes weathered by age and violence and decades of getting away with murder, and a beard and mustache so severe he appeared to be perpetually glowering at the world and finding it wanting.

Despite my good intentions, despite the blank stare Manuel currently aimed my way, my hands began to tremble. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision like ink bleeding into water. All I could hear was the bang of a gun. All I could see was red staining my shoes. All I could feel was the ghost of that night pressing in on me, suffocating me.

Not now. Please, not now. Not here. Not in front of these people.

"This is my daughter, Cellie." Penelope's voice cut through the murky waters of my panic attack, sharp and demanding. I clenched my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm, trying to stop myself from fidgeting like a terrified schoolgirl about to be chastised by her worst teacher. "Cellie, this is Manuel. Your new father."

Father. The word tasted like ash.

"It's nice to meet you." The words came out steadier than I felt. Small victories. Fake it until you make it. Or until they bury you.

"This is your daughter?" Manuel's voice was thick with a Sicilian accent that made every word sound like a threat wrapped in velvet. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my boots with obvious disapproval. "She looks nothing like you, stellina."

Penelope laughed, the sound dry and brittle like autumn leaves underfoot. She patted Manuel softly on his chest, her hand trembling just slightly. "That's because Cellie was adopted when Theo was desperate for a girl child. We couldn't have our own, you know. Medical issues. But Theo wanted someone to spoil. Someone to dress up."

"Theo. Your ex-husband."

"Yes. We lost him to a car accident. Remember? I told you. Three years ago. Drunk driver."

Manuel nodded, pressing a kiss to Penelope's forehead. The gesture was surprisingly tender for a man rumored to have personally executed seventeen people. "Of course I remember, tesoro. I remember everything about you."

He turned those dark, calculating eyes on me. They were like stones. Like bullets. Like the end of the world. "You are welcome to the family, Cellie. I trust you won't give us any problems. You are part of the family now, and we DeLeons must uphold a certain image. We are not animals, despite what the newspapers say. We are businessmen. We are respectable. And you will be respectable too, yes?"

A certain image. Right. The image of organized crime wrapped in Armani and soaked in blood.

I gave him a tight smile, wondering what exactly Penelope had told him about me. Wondering if she knew about last night. Wondering if I was already being sized up for my own shallow grave. "I won't, sir."

"Call me Manuel." He cut me off smoothly, his voice brooking no argument. His hand tightened on Penelope's waist, his knuckles white. "We are family now. There is no need for formality. Only loyalty. Only obedience. Only blood."

I smiled and nodded, already exhausted from the interaction. My face hurt from the forced pleasantry. Manuel and Penelope drifted away to entertain other guests, leaving me with Georgiana.

Manuel's daughter stood a few feet away, typing furiously on her phone. Her dress probably cost more than my car. Her shoes definitely did. They were Louboutins, of course, the red soles flashing like warning signs with every subtle shift of her weight. She existed in a world of her own, one where I clearly didn't register as important enough to acknowledge. Her hair was the kind of blonde that came from a very expensive salon. Her skin was the kind of tan that came from a very expensive vacation. Her disdain was the kind that came from a very expensive education in how to be a b***h.

"Hi." I tried for friendly, giving her my best girl-power smile. The one that said we're all in this together, sister. The one that was completely wasted on someone like her. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Cellie."

Georgiana lifted her eyes from her phone with the enthusiasm of someone forced to acknowledge a particularly boring piece of furniture. Her gaze went cold, calculating, assessing. Then she flashed me a smile so sickly sweet it could've caused diabetes in a healthy person.

"The pleasure is all mine, Cellie." Her eyes raked over me, lingering on every perceived flaw. On the dress that was too tight. On the boots that were too cheap. On the hair that was too dark and too wild and too everything that she wasn't. "Your dress is... interesting."

I glanced down at my gold sequin number. Okay, so it was two sizes too small. And yes, I'd bought it on sale at a department store that was going out of business. And maybe pairing it with boots instead of heels was unconventional. But it was cute, and it was mine, and I'd felt good in it this morning before I'd known I was walking into the lion's den.

"What's wrong with it?" I asked, genuinely curious about what specific aspect offended her delicate sensibilities. "Is it the color? The cut? The fact that I didn't have to mortgage my soul to afford it?"

"Oh, nothing." She shrugged, her diamond earrings catching the light. They were the size of my thumbnail. They probably cost more than my college education. "If your intention is to look like a slut who got dressed in the dark at a thrift store during a power outage, that is. It's very... downtown. Very... artsy. Very... 'I don't own a mirror and I don't care who knows it.'"

She turned back to her phone and walked away, her Valentino heels clicking against the stone pathway like gunshots.

My left eye twitched. Old Cellie wanted to chase after her, grab a fistful of that perfectly highlighted hair, and introduce her face to the nearest marble statue. Old Cellie wanted to scream that at least I had earned everything I had, that I wasn't just a parasite living off daddy's blood money. New Cellie knew there would be hell to pay if our interaction escalated into a full-blown fight. I'd already screwed up spectacularly by ending up in bed with my new stepbrother. I just had to survive today without any additional catastrophes.

Just breathe. Just get through this. Just don't commit murder in front of two hundred witnesses.

Suddenly, shouts erupted from the corner of the courtyard. Screams followed. The sound of glass breaking. Unable to stop myself, I turned and saw Demetrio holding a man at gunpoint.

Of course. Of course it was him. Of course he couldn't make it through one family event without executing someone. It was probably in his DNA. Probably written in his blood like a promise.

Silence fell across the entire garden like a suffocating blanket. It was quiet enough for every guest to hear Demetrio's deadly whisper carry across the lawn, soft and terrible and absolutely certain.

"Repeat what you said about her."

"D-Don, I don't... Please. I can't... I don't remember. I was drunk. I was stupid. Please, Don Demetrio, have mercy..."

"Don't waste my time, Rico." Demetrio's voice was ice. It was fire. It was death wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit. "You had plenty to say ten minutes ago. Say it again. Say it so everyone can hear. Say it so I know I'm not imagining things."

One second passed. Two seconds. Rico was wasting his time. Rico was wasting his life.

BANG.

The explosion of the gun made me shake, orange juice sloshing over my hand, the sticky liquid running down my wrist like blood. More than one person screamed as Rico's body hit the ground, as Rico's blood and brain matter splattered across the pristine white stones, painting them red and grey and pink.

See? What did I tell you?

My new stepbrother was a trigger-happy madman with a God complex and an apparently very short fuse. And apparently, a very specific vendetta against anyone who dared to speak ill of... someone. I didn't know who. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to be associated with any of this.

I was only fooling myself, believing I could get through today without getting completely wasted.

Sighing, I drained the rest of my orange juice and went to look for some alcohol.