The Devil Wears Armani: Step-Brother of Sin

Cellie's POV Rrrring. Rrrring. A lethargic groan escaped my lips as my head throbbed with the kind of pain that only top-shelf liquor and bad decisions could deliver. I rolled over onto sheets that felt like liquid silk against my bare skin - softer, larger, and far more expensive than anything in my cramped studio apartment. Rrrring. Rrrring. That godforsaken cell phone was drilling into my skull like a jackhammer on concrete. I fumbled blindly for it, desperate to silence the noise, but my palm landed on something warm and solid. A hard, naked chest. Every muscle in my body locked up. My thoughts scattered like roaches when the lights flick on, and my heart stuttered before kicking into overdrive. Fragments of last night crashed through my consciousness in vivid, mortifying detail. The champagne. The heated glances. The way his hands had felt on my waist. I spread my fingers across the expanse of muscle beneath my hand, mapping the terrain. Too smooth. Too broad. Definitely not Kevin, my perpetual mistake of a boyfriend who I crawled back to whenever I needed to scratch an itch. RRRRING. RRINGGG. RRR - "What is it?" The voice that answered was pure gravel and impatience, thick with an Italian accent that could make a grocery list sound like a threat. My eyes snapped open. That voice. Deep, commanding, utterly unfamiliar until yesterday. Until last night, to be brutally precise. Humiliation burned through my chest while ice-cold fear flooded my veins, and my heart plummeted straight into my stomach. The memories weren't just coming back anymore. They were avalanching. No. No. No. I could already hear the accusations echoing in my head. *You filthy slut. Dirty w***e. Your own stepbrother, and you only just met him yesterday. How the hell did this happen?* I bolted upright, clutching the Egyptian cotton sheets to my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought they might crack, pumping pure dread through every vein. *This cannot be happening.* Blinking rapidly against the morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, I took inventory of the crime scene. My vintage Dior dress lay crumpled by the door like a discarded skin. My La Perla bra dangled from the arm of a leather chair. My Louboutins had been kicked into opposite corners of the room, red soles pointing accusingly at the ceiling. I desperately tried to piece together how I'd ended up in bed with Demetrio DeLeon - my soon-to-be stepbrother, the don of the entire Italian mafia, and the most dangerous man in Chicago. My mother, Penelope, was marrying his father, Manuel DeLeon, the retired godfather who still commanded respect with a single look. She'd insisted I attend the intimate gathering Manuel had thrown to celebrate their union. "Intimate" in DeLeon terms apparently meant two hundred of Chicago's most powerful criminals sipping Cristal in a Gold Coast mansion. As usual, Penelope and I had clashed within the first fifteen minutes. "You look like you're going to a funeral, not a celebration," she'd hissed, eyeing my black dress with disgust. "Maybe I'm mourning your taste in men," I'd shot back. "Why can't you just try to fit in for once? Is that so difficult?" I'd drowned her incessant criticism in glass after glass of champagne, then graduated to the good whiskey when the bubbly stopped doing its job. Worthless. Piece of s**t. Mistake. The accusations piled on top of me now like bricks, crushing the air from my lungs. I could feel his lips on my neck, his hands gripping my hips, his teeth grazing my shoulder as he'd whispered things that had made me come apart. The used condoms scattered on the marble floor were the final nail in my coffin. Anxiety clawed up my spine. A scream built in my throat. Nausea churned in my stomach and I choked down bile as I wrapped the sheet around myself, rocking slightly as the full weight of this disaster settled over me. Whore. w***e. w***e. I need to get the f**k out of here.