18. Vegas & Vows
Chapter eighteen
Vegas & Vows
Declan
That one night in Las Vegas.
Sasha, Anton and I…how do you say it? Our friendship goes way back.
We’re more like brothers. Since we were little boys kicking balls through the streets of Naples, eating gelato too fast, and getting yelled at by the neighbors for playing too close to the windows.
Our fathers were best friends. Not just the kind who said hello at the café.
They helped each other fix their roofs and fought like brothers over football teams and politics.
When my mother left us and disappeared out of nowhere, Sasha and Anton were the ones who stayed close.
We didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to.
I just remember sitting on the curb while they passed me sunflower seeds and said nothing.
Their fathers took mine to the bar and tried to drown the silence in cheap whiskey.
Without warning, one night, not long after my mother left, my father woke me and my older brother and told us to pack some clothes for a few nights away.
Within hours, we were on a plane to Argentina.
At first, we were told we were going to visit my nonna in a little town I barely remembered from childhood.
But it wasn’t long before me and Niko realized we would be there for much longer.
For good.
I was only eleven years old.
I was confused. Angry. Heartbroken, even. Italy was my home—my friends, my school, my life. And suddenly, it was gone.
But a week later, Sasha and Anton’s families showed up at my nonna’s door. They’d come to live in Argentina, too.
I still didn’t understand why we left so suddenly, or why they had to come too—but none of us asked questions. We were kids. All that mattered was we were together. The world still felt upside down, but at least it wasn’t lonely.
They’re my brothers—my people. The ones I’d go to war for without thinking twice. I’d follow them into any battle, no matter how reckless their decisions might be. Even when their choices are questionable. Even when they drag me into the madness with them. Especially on nights like tonight.
“She’s pretty,” Sasha says, nodding toward the photo clipped to the paperwork we’re all pretending to read.
“I noticed.”
Like the overgrown children they are, my friends have been lingering around, restless, waiting for this so-called game to end. The dare that started as a joke, a laugh, something wild to mark the end of my “freedom,” is somehow becoming the best night of my life.
We’re watching from the edge of the room as Maddy finishes signing the last of the paperwork.
Her brow furrows slightly as she reads each line, like she actually wants to understand what she’s agreeing to.
Most people don’t bother to read anything these days.
Especially not after that much tequila. But she’s sharp.
Sharp enough to scare me a little and that makes me like her more.
Sasha nudges me, whispering like an idiot. “She signs with her left hand. You know what they say about lefties…”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I mutter, but I don’t look away from her.
Because while they’re making jokes and acting like we’re still in grade school, I’m standing here watching a woman I just met become something I didn’t see coming.
Mine.
The producers made us sign all kinds of papers. One to confirm we were of sound mind—whatever that means. One to confirm we weren’t being forced. And another that said we had to stay married for a full year if we wanted the prize. One million dollars.
I kept thinking about what my dad and Nonna could do with that kind of money. Fix the roof. Pay off the debts. Get Nonna her surgeries and my dad the quiet piece of land he’s always wanted. Hell, maybe I’d even start something real for myself outside of football.
I knew this marriage contract was crazy. Everything leading up to this moment was crazy. But crazy has a name tonight. And apparently, her name is Maddy Mills.
Anton leans in, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “You don’t seem too excited. If you don’t want her—”
I grab his hand mid-sentence and squeeze. Hard enough to make him wince.
He yelps. “Okay! All yours. Got it.”
Sasha chuckles. “Should we give you the talk about the boys and the bees?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s birds and the bees, you idiot. And no—don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m going to do to her. And exactly how I’ll do it.”
It’s not that I’m not excited. I am. I just know better than to let it show.
I’m focused—on the way she bites her lip while reading the paperwork like it’s a contract to sell her soul.
On how she rises onto her tiptoes to reach certain spots on the page, too short for the counter, and too stubborn to ask for help.
She’s a vision—messy, delicate, determined.
And if I blink too long, this whole thing might be over before I can do a damn thing about it.
But if by some miracle—some wild, reckless twist of fate—I can convince her to give me the night, then I’ll take the year. Gladly. That’s the deal. That’s the contract. But the contract doesn’t say anything about how far I’ll go to earn it.
I’ll make her laugh. Make her sigh. Make her beg. I’ll learn her body like a language and make her forget every man who ever thought they had a chance. By morning, she won’t just be my wife on paper. She’ll be mine—completely. No prenup, no fine print. Just…mine.
She turns and walks toward us, and the air leaves my lungs like she’s knocked it out with nothing but a look. She left a lot out of the description of herself. Long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Big brown eyes that could undo a man. Olive skin kissed by just enough sun.
My American girl.
My Americana.
“Are… are you ready? For this?” she asks, trying to sound confident, but her voice betrays her—just slightly.
I take her hand in mine, steady, firm. “You don’t have to be nervous. There are no guns, Americana. You can say no and walk away anytime.”
“I thought her name was Maddy or something?” Sasha mutters with a smirk.
“Shut up, Sasha,” I snap, not taking my eyes off her.
“I’m not nervous,” Maddy says, chin lifting. But her hand’s trembling in mine. She still hasn’t let go. “I’m just—”
“Nervous,” I tease, giving her a smirk before bringing her hand to my mouth to kiss.
She bites back a grin. “Fine. A little nervous.”
The producer who’s been trailing us all evening walks over with a clipboard and a grin. “Are these your witnesses?”
“We didn’t see anything,” Sasha growls.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “He means are you willing to stand up as witnesses to this shit show,” I clarify, giving the producer a look that says sorry for my idiot friends.
Maddy leans in, close enough I catch a hint of tequila and something sweeter on her breath. But not before she lets out the softest, tiniest burp that makes me snort with laughter.
“Your friends are weird,” she whispers, her voice husky and amused.
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter back, and we follow the producer toward the chapel—if you can call it that.
My so-called groomsmen trail behind.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this! This is so not like me,” Maddy slurs, half-laughing, half-panicking as she stumbles slightly on the carpet.
“Oh yeah?” I glance at her, tightening my grip around her waist. I like that she’s leaning on me. “What’s making you do it? This…marrying me?”
She giggles. “Maybe it’s the tequila. Maybe it’s you.”
She says it like she’s guessing at the answer, like she might regret it later—or maybe never at all.
She doesn’t really know. But I don’t care.
Not when she’s standing here.
Not when I’ve got her hand in mine.
Not when the next words out of my mouth might be I do.
I’m about to be Mr. Maddy Mills.
Or however you say it in America.
***
The ceremony lasted all of five minutes. Barely enough time to process what we’d just done. There were vows, ring-like things, and the kind of forced smile from the officiant that screamed get out while you still have time.
By the time the ink dried and the cheap bouquet hit the floor, Sasha and Anton were already halfway to the blackjack tables, high-fiving.
Finally alone, me and Maddy lock eyes for a second—long enough to feel everything we’re both thinking but don’t say out loud.
No hesitation. No words.
We just move—fast—through the hallway, toward the private suite Xavier let me borrow for the week. Her heels dangle from her fingers, and the hem of her black dress catches the light with every step like it’s teasing me.
I think I know what comes next.
And she doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve already made up my mind: If this is going to be a one-night story, I’m going to make it the kind that lives under her skin forever.
The kind that doesn’t fade.
The kind neither of us will ever forget.
The elevator climbs, floor by floor, each ding hitting me harder than the last. My heart thuds heavier, like it’s bracing for something it knows is coming but can’t name.
Yes, it can. Maddy.
I glance down at her—the black dress hugging her curves like it was designed just for tonight. Just for this. It’s technically our wedding night, even if tequila and a dare are the only witnesses that matter.
The tension between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s electric. Like the split second before lightning strikes.
“A nickel for your thoughts, Americana?” I ask, breaking the silence.
We’re passing the eighth floor. Twenty-two more to go.
She smiles. “It’s a penny, actually. A penny for your thoughts is how the saying goes.”
I reach into my pocket, pull a penny out, and with a grin, do the old magician’s trick—pretending to pluck it from behind her ear.
“For your thoughts,” I say, holding it out like it’s worth everything. Like her thoughts are.
“I don’t do things like this,” she repeats.
“You’ve said that already,” I reply, grinning. “Three times now, if we’re keeping track.”
She lets out a breath and looks up at me, eyes wide and honest. “Is it crazy that this doesn’t feel crazy at all?”
Relief breaks through my chest. “I was hoping it wasn’t just me.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not just you.”
Floor thirteen.
“Maybe it’s because we don’t know each other,” I offer.
“Maybe,” she echoes, but there’s a note of uncertainty in her voice, like even she’s not sure that’s the reason but she entertains it anyway.
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, tell me something about you.”
She laughs, light and tipsy. “Why do people always ask that? Nobody walks around with an elevator pitch ready for that kind of question.”
I furrow my brow. “Elevator pitch?”
She nods, a little unsteady. “Yeah. Your question’s too vague.” She squints at me. “What’s your name again?”
I chuckle. “For the fourth time, Declan.”
“Right.” She draws it out like she’s tasting it. “That’s a pretty name. Declan. Sexy.”
I shake my head, trying not to grin. “You were saying?”
“Hiccup! Right. ‘Tell me something about you’ is too broad.” She blinks, trying to steady herself. “Ask me something specif… pacif…”
She’s teetering. Drunk, but still cute as hell.
“Okay,” I say. “Something specific. Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
Her eyes widen like I’ve just dared her. “Oooooh. Good one.”
The elevator dings—our floor.
“Go on,” I urge as we step off. “I won’t tell if you’ve murdered anyone before.”
She bursts out laughing. Loud. Carefree. “No murders. I promise.”
We round the corner, stop in front of the suite. It’s sleek and massive—bigger than the house I grew up in with my dad and Nonna in Argentina.
She’s still holding my hand, still in that ridiculously sexy black dress that tonight has transformed into a wedding gown. Her fingers are warm. Her grip hasn’t loosened once.
And as I reach for the keycard, it hits me—I don’t care how we got here. I just care that we are here. Now.
I swipe the key and open the door.
She pauses at the threshold, turning to me. “Aren’t you supposed to carry me?”
I grin, stepping toward her. “What was I thinking?” I scoop her into my arms. “Come here, wife.”
When I scoop her into my arms, her shoes hit the floor with a soft thud—but all I hear is the wild pounding in my chest. We lock eyes, and for a split second, everything slows. Craziest fucking thing in the world, and yet… it doesn’t feel crazy at all.
“Kiss me, Americana. Kiss your husband.”
And she does. Sweet and sinful, all in the same breath. Her lips taste like tequila and trouble. Like something I never knew I’d crave until just now.