Phychopaths
1205 Words
Cellie's POV
"She's absolutely breathtaking," the woman to my left gushed, her champagne breath washing over me in a sickly sweet wave. I rolled my eyes hard enough to see my brain. "Such a natural beauty. Those cheekbones could cut glass."
Another woman scoffed, her Chanel No. 5 preceding her like a weapon. "Please. She's nothing but a shameless, penniless gold digger. Those shoes are positively tragic. I mean, look at them. They're from last season. Or maybe the season before that. Or perhaps she found them in a dumpster behind Forever 21."
I glanced down at my boots. Okay, so they weren't Louboutins. Sue me. They were vintage, they were comfortable, and they didn't require me to sell a kidney on the black market.
"I heard Manuel refused to contribute a single euro to her wedding dress," the first woman whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. Her diamond tennis bracelet caught the cathedral light, throwing prisms across the marble floor. "Some sort of loyalty test. If she truly loves him, she'll marry him in burlap."
The second woman snorted, a sound that probably cost less than her nose job. "Well, that explains the ill-fitting disaster she's wearing. I can see the outline of her Spanx from here. And that sequin situation? It's giving discount disco ball. It's giving clearance rack at a strip mall. It's giving 'I found this in my grandmother's attic and decided to wear it ironically.'"
"Shh! Quiet. Demetrio is watching us."
Demetrio.
The name alone made my skin prickle with unwanted heat. It crawled up my spine like a physical touch, hot and demanding and completely unwelcome. I whirled around, my gold sequin dress catching the afternoon light that streamed through stained glass windows, and found exactly what I'd been avoiding all day.
He wasn't glaring at the gossiping harpies. No, Demetrio DeLeon had his molten grey eyes locked directly on me, searing holes into the side of my head while one of his men whispered urgently in his ear. The man's lips moved fast, his face pale, but Demetrio didn't blink. Didn't break eye contact. Whatever the message was, it couldn't wait until after his father said "I do" to my mother.
I frowned. Just a tiny one. Small enough that he couldn't accuse me of blatant disrespect and redecorate the church with my brain matter. What the hell does he want now? I thought. Does he want to finish what we started? Or does he want to put a bullet in me for being stupid enough to let it happen in the first place?
If I were him, I'd happily pretend last night never happened. I'd forget my existence entirely rather than broadcast to this entire cathedral that something had transpired between us. Something hot and reckless and completely, utterly forbidden. Something that had involved his hands on my thighs and his mouth on my neck and his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
People staring at me? That I could handle. Sometimes they stared in admiration, their eyes tracking the curve of my hips, the fall of my dark hair. Most times they stared in horror, like I was a car crash they couldn't look away from. A trash fire they needed to watch burn. But Demetrio's stare was different. It was possessive. Dangerous. Hungry. It made my pulse race and my thighs clench and my rational brain scream at me to run while my traitorous body begged me to stay.
I knew how to ignore ordinary stares. I'd perfected the art of continuing on my merry way while people whispered and pointed. But fending off Demetrio's glare required herculean effort. Every cell in my body was hyperaware of his presence, of those broad shoulders straining against that custom Tom Ford suit, of those hands that had gripped my hips just hours ago with a desperation that had matched my own.
Stop it, Cellie. Just stop. He's your stepbrother now. Your dangerous, murderous, impossibly sexy stepbrother. This is not a rom-com. This is a horror movie, and you're the i***t girl who decided to investigate the noise in the basement.
Thankfully, the ceremony ended without bloodshed. Small mercies. The priest pronounced them husband and wife, and Manuel kissed my mother with a possession that made my stomach turn. The congregation applauded. The organ played. And I bolted for the exit like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.
I found myself on the sprawling lawn of the DeLeon estate, surrounded by marble statues that looked like they'd been stolen from a museum and manicured hedges that probably cost more than my yearly rent. The mansion loomed behind us, all white columns and old money and secrets buried in the foundation. I snagged a flute of orange juice from a passing waiter in white gloves, trying desperately to pretend I was enjoying the reception even though my stomach churned and I wanted nothing more than to go home. To my apartment. To my bed. To anywhere that didn't smell like expensive perfume and impending doom.
But Penelope had warned me. Her perfectly manicured nails had dug into my wrist that morning as she'd hissed, "You will stay until you've introduced yourself to the family. You will smile. You will be gracious. You will not embarrass me. Do you understand me, Cellie? Do you understand what will happen if you do?"
And I knew better than to chase away my misery with alcohol. Not yet, anyway. I needed to keep my wits about me. Needed to stay sharp. In a world of predators, only the alert survived.
Gossip flowed as freely as the Dom Pérignon that cascaded into crystal flutes. Blatant stares followed me like shadows, heavy and judgmental. I was becoming more miserable with each passing second, second-guessing every life choice that had led me to this moment. This family. This world of blood money and designer gowns and casual violence.
The only reason I hadn't lost my stomach contents all over the perfectly trimmed grass was because Demetrio had finally stopped hovering. Knowing who he was, knowing the kind of work he did, he was probably off somewhere conducting "business." The kind that involved knives and screams and shallow graves. The kind that happened in soundproof rooms with drains in the floor.
The reality of the family I'd just been absorbed into made me scowl. Hopefully, after today, I wouldn't be expected to play happy family with the DeLeons. Hopefully, I could go back to my life of relative obscurity and forget that men like Demetrio existed.
I couldn't look at the obscene wealth dripping off this place without thinking of blood. Red, splotchy, still-warm blood. The sharp crack of gunshots echoing through the night. I was convinced that if someone peeled back the paint on those pristine walls, the blood of enemies and victims would pour out in its place, thick and accusing and endless.
I closed my eyes against my racing heartbeat and drained more juice. The bubbles tickled my nose. The sweetness turned sour on my tongue.
Just get through today. Just survive this. One foot in front of the other. Smile and nod and don't make eye contact with the psychopaths.
- Writer
