Danica, the Don's Queen

1. Wedding

Chapter one

Wedding

(Danica)

When I imagined walking down the aisle one day, I never pictured myself marching toward a dangerous man with a nefarious empire—not willingly, at least.

Yet, I want nothing more than to become Mrs. Danica Fera today.

I could’ve done without it being such a lavish affair, though. Our backyard looks preferable without the rows and rows of strangers cranking their necks awkwardly to catch a glimpse of me as I journey toward the rose-laced arch where my Don awaits.

But Dante asked nicely, so here we are.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten my posture, smoothing out my dress for the umpteenth time.

The garment is heavier than I thought it would be; I’m wrapped in layers of silk, tulle, and other materials I never learned the names of. All I know is that it’s a lot of white—so much white on white. I look like one of those shower scrunchies.

It’s a beautiful dress, nonetheless.

Initially, Dante wanted me to wear his mother’s wedding dress today, but it wasn’t my style—not at all.

Sadly (or perhaps fortuitously), moths had gotten to the antique garment before we did, destroying it beyond repair.

As much as that sucked, at least it meant I got to have this modern princess dress specially made for our grand wedding bonanza, as I like to call it.

If it were up to me, we would’ve had an intimate gathering somewhere in the forest or on a beach instead.

But it wasn’t up to me.

It turns out the crime families have some sort of code, and it’s custom to invite everyone to weddings. An entire garden filled with the most dangerous criminals in this city, all here to watch my short ass walk down the aisle.

I bet they don’t even want me to marry Dante. I’ve heard the gossip. These mafia wives are vicious. I don’t see myself ever joining their pompous tea parties (if I even get invited in the first place). These are not my people.

But hey, cake and champagne sounds fun.

I just need to get through this next bit, and then it will be all over; I will be Missus Fera.

That’s if I don’t freeze to death first.

The autumn breeze is nippy, sending shivers down my exposed back. I suppose having a February wedding outside was risky, but luckily, the rain spared us today.

We had to make it cute and get married on Valentine’s Day—the one-year anniversary of our engagement.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since then.

Dante didn’t object to my choice of date. He had no opinion on most wedding-related matters, only the guest list.

The last time I counted, that list was more than 300 people strong. But once you exclude the “business contacts” and people on our payroll, only Alessio and Adira are truly here for me.

It’s not like I didn’t invite my family.

They should have been here.

My brother’s cruel words still ring in my ears, but I quickly push them out of my mind to focus on putting one step in front of the other.

Remember to smile, Danica.

The thought barely forms before piano notes fill the air—System of a Down's Chop Suey! transformed into something almost unrecognizable. Almost. My little act of rebellion, hidden in plain sight. A touch of chaos wrapped in wedding-appropriate packaging.

It’s my cue.

Emilio's arm is solid under my grip, anchoring me as we commence our voyage down the makeshift aisle.

The grass crunches softly beneath my heels, already scattered with dried rose petals that two children I've never met are enthusiastically adding to.

I strain to see over the sea of unfamiliar faces, all these people who claim to be "family" but whom I wouldn't recognize in a lineup.

Designer suits and couture dresses, diamonds glinting like warnings in the afternoon sun. You’d think they’re here to show off outfits rather than celebrate my union with Dante. Likely.

As we walk, I recognize Don Greco and a few other familiar faces that I must have met at some charity event. (Always with the charity events.)

Then suddenly, through a gap in the crowd—Dante.

The world shifts. Realigns.

Everything else falls away—the strangers, the politics, the weight of tradition.

There's just him, standing tall at the altar, looking at me like I'm something miraculous.

Besides my groom, Alessio radiates joy in his role as my person of honor. My boyfriend standing up for us at our wedding—another tradition bent to fit our strange, beautiful reality.

Let them whisper.

Let them judge.

Some loves don't fit into conventional boxes.

At least nobody can say shit about how cute Biscotti looks with his freshly washed white-and-brown coat and the little bow tie that matches his daddy’s.

Yes, I called our Vegas rescue dog Biscotti, much to my future husband’s dismay. At least it’s Italian. Dante says that makes it worse. But see if I care.

Biscotti is so cute. The little shit tried to eat my flower arrangement earlier. But who can stay mad at our increasingly spoiled only child? His begging is much more effective than my groom’s.

As the song reaches its crescendo, my steps find purpose now, though Emilio maintains our dignified pace.

The white dress flows around me like water, a costume for a role I never thought I'd play. Hours of professional styling have transformed me into someone who looks like they belong in this world of power and privilege.

The subtle makeup, the intricate braids crowned around my head like something from a period drama…I look straight out of Downton Abbey!

The closer we get to the arch in front, the more of Dante comes into view. His dark grey suit is tailor-made for the occasion, complete with a waistcoat that fits his broad frame like a glove.

He looks dashing!

I smile at my boys, and Alessio sends me a playful wink. He looks quite dapper himself in the elegant navy suit. Though, he always looks fancy as shit. Such style.

My vision closes in on Dante. I am walking to him, to be his—now and forever, his by law.

After all the effort it took to put this event together, I am happy the big day has finally arrived.

People always say that weddings are a lot of work, but that’s an understatement. Even a year wasn’t long enough to plan all this.

I quickly realized this event-organizing business wasn’t my idea of fun, and Dante dropped some cash on a wedding planner. It’s money well spent, for sure.

Other things? Maybe not so well spent. But who gives a fuck?

Did I need an eight-tier cake for my wedding? A cake that’s taller than my 5’3” frame? Absolutely.

What about the candle-lit forest scenes as table centerpieces for the reception? Yup.

My motto was simple: If money was no object, why not go all out? I liked spending Dante’s money, and he seemed to enjoy watching me do it. Win-win.

I just want the formalities done so I can wake up Mrs. Dante Fera, La Donna Fera, as my groom likes to call me.

Queen of the Fera empire at age 27 doesn’t seem like such a bad life achievement. Sure, I finished my degree in the end and achieved some other minor milestones, but this is by far my most outstanding achievement—taming the untamable King.

After what feels like eons but what is, in fact, the length of a single song, we reach the front of the grass aisle, and Emilio takes his rehearsed best man’s position next to his Don.

Alessio reaches out to me before Dante can, kissing my cheek lightly. “Così bella, cara mia.” (So beautiful, my darling.) Finally, after almost four years with Dante, my Italian is decent enough to understand, as long as they don’t speak too fast or use too much slang.

The Vegas Joker steps aside and lets my husband-to-be, the fearless Don Fera—who, in fact, has many fears—take my hand.

“Tesoro,” is all Dante says, his eyes glistening at the corners with barely contained tears.

He brings my hand to his lips, and my heart swells. Could this moment be any more perfect?

The final notes of Chop Suey! drift from the piano, and everyone takes their seats.

Next, I have to get through the boring part where some old guy reads some holy text and makes me promise a bunch of old-fashioned things.

But anything to be Dante’s. To have and to hold, to protect—which is very important in this line of business.

Focus, Danica.

The priest in the white dress starts to speak, greeting everyone formally. I still think it’s weird that someone else gets to wear white to my wedding, but Dante said it wasn’t that weird; it was pretty standard priest attire.

I wonder—

“Get down!”

The first shot shatters the world like breaking glass, cutting off the priest (and my thoughts) mid-sentence.

For a split second, my brain refuses to process it.

Tries to catalog it as something else.

A car backfiring.

A champagne cork.

Anything but what it is.

Then Alessio's hands are on me, yanking me down with such force my knees hit the grass through layers of white silk.

The bouquet explodes on impact, rose petals scattering like drops of blood.

Around me, all I hear is screams and more gunshots—so many gunshots.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Alessio's weight half-covers me. I can smell his cologne, sharp and familiar, mixed with gunpowder.

Time stretches like taffy. Through the chaos, I see them—dark figures flooding in from the garden entrance, weapons raised. Twenty of them? More?

Their faces are masked, but their intent is clear. My wedding dress suddenly feels like a target, bright white against the green lawn.

Where's Dante? The thought repeats through my mind, urgent, relentless. I try to twist around to find him, but Alessio holds me down. "Stay here, cara," he hisses in my ear as he surveys the perimeter.

More shots.

Someone screams—high-pitched, terrified.

Biscotti's frantic barking cuts through the noise, incessant, urgent. But the sound is far away. I hope that means he’s safe.

What the fuck is going on?

The perfect wedding transforms into a war zone in heartbeats.

Guests diving under chairs, men in expensive suits pulling weapons from hidden holsters, screaming women clutching designer bags like shields.

My hands press against damp grass, fingers digging into the earth. The elaborate braids pull at my scalp. Everything feels too sharp, too real—the weight of the dress, the smell of dirt and gunpowder, the sounds of mayhem.

And somewhere in this chaos is Dante. My almost-husband. Fighting or wounded or—

No. I can't think like that. I can’t—

A body falls nearby with a dull thud.

I don't look.

Can't look.

But I know that sound will haunt my dreams.

This was supposed to be our perfect day.

Our fairy tale ending.

Instead, it's become a nightmare in white lace, our happily ever after hijacked at the last minute.

Where the fuck is Dante?