9. Interlude
Chapter nine
Interlude
(Danica)
The bedroom door closes behind us with a soft click that echoes through my bones. For the first time since we woke up on our wedding day yesterday, Dante and I are truly alone.
Like a good boy, he devoured my cunt in his office after our depressing debrief with Emilio. The release was glorious, necessary, and exactly what I needed to distract myself from our reality.
It’s like I can only think of it in little bursts at a time, before it gets too much, too heavy, and I have to find something else to do with my thoughts.
Carlo keeps coming back to me, though…
As soon as my heart rate returned to its post-orgasm norm, I dragged Dante out of the office and back to the bedroom. It was a Sunday, after all, and there would be plenty of time for work soon enough.
Our room looks as fresh as an unlived-in hotel room.
The staff has cleared away the evidence of our celebration—no more cake crumbs in the sheets, no sticky champagne flutes on the nightstand. But they can't erase the invisible weight that hangs so heavy in the air.
Dante walks to the window, shoulders rigid, one hand absently rubbing the base of his neck where that Russian thug hit him. He's trying to hide the wince, but I see it anyway. My fierce, stubborn Don, always pretending to be indestructible.
"Come here," I say softly, patting the bed beside me. "Let me look at that."
"It's nothing, Tesoro. Just stiff." But his voice lacks its usual conviction.
The click of Biscotti's nails against hardwood announces his arrival before he pushes through the door. He's been extra clingy since yesterday, on high alert.
He beelines straight for Dante, nosing at his hand until my darling boy finally cracks a smile.
"See? Even Biscotti knows you're hurt." I raise an eyebrow. "And he's smarter than both of us."
Dante sighs but allows himself to be coaxed to the bed.
His attempt to hide another wince as he sits doesn't go unnoticed.
I position myself behind him, fingers gentle as they explore the angry bruising at his nape.
"Christ, darling, this needs ice." The swelling is worse than yesterday. "Why didn't you say something before?”
"More important things to worry about." His words end in a hiss as I find a particularly tender spot. "The other Dons will be here soon. We need to be ready."
"And you need to be able to turn your head." I press a kiss to his shoulder. "Stay put."
The kitchen is eerily quiet as I gather ice and a clean towel. Everything feels suspended, like the whole house is holding its breath. Waiting for the next explosion, the next attack.
I push the thought away.
Not yet.
Not today.
When I return, Dante has stretched out on his stomach on the bed, Biscotti curled against his side. Our dog's head rests on Dante's lower back, those soulful eyes tracking my movement. Keeping guard, as always.
"This will be cold," I warn, settling beside them. The makeshift ice pack draws a sharp breath from Dante, but he doesn't pull away.
We stay like that for a while, the only sounds being Biscotti's contented sighs and the occasional drip of melting ice.
My free hand cards through Dante's hair, noting the silver starting to thread through the black at his temples. When did that happen?
"What are you thinking?" he murmurs into the pillow.
"That we should order pizza." The words surprise even me, but suddenly, it's all I want—something normal, something that has nothing to do with failed weddings or Russian threats or family obligations.
Dante turns his head just enough to look at me, amusement flickering in those green eyes. "Pizza?"
"With extra cheese. And those stuffed crust things you pretend to hate but always steal from my plate."
"I do not—" he starts to protest, but Biscotti's tail thumping against the bed makes us both laugh.
"Even the dog knows you're lying, Don Fera."
His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Pizza it is. But please, for the love of god, please don’t order a pineapple topping again. It’s an insult to my people. My mother would turn around in her grave.”
“You can pick it off,” I tease.
“It’s disgusting,” Dante insists, but he orders me the bacon-pineapple combo I love so much anyway. As if he would deny me, ha!
The rest of the day passes in a haze of deliberate normalcy we haven’t had for weeks as the wedding planning frenzy swept the house.
We eat in bed, the fresh sheets already collecting casualties of our impromptu feast. Strings of molten cheese stretch between slices, defying gravity until they snap.
Dante tries to maintain some dignity, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, but there's something wonderfully human about watching Don Fera battle with stubborn mozzarella. He keeps telling me that pizza should not have that much cheese on it, but he doesn’t stop me from ordering it either.
"You've got sauce..." I gesture to the corner of his mouth. When he misses it completely, I lean in to kiss it away, tasting tomatoes and herbs and him.
Biscotti's head appears between us, right on cue, those pleading eyes working overtime. "No," Dante says firmly, then immediately contradicts himself by offering a crust. "Just this once," he adds like he doesn't say that every time.
"You're getting soft, Don Fera," I tease, watching our dog delicately accept the offering with saliva dripping down his chin.
"Slander." But Dante’s smile is gentle, even as he tries to suppress a yawn. The pain meds are hitting hard now—I can see it in the slight glaze of his eyes, the way his shoulders finally release their tension.
I put on an action movie on the TV for us. All explosions and car chases. The kind where the heroes always win and the violence is cartoonish enough to feel fake. Nothing like the real thing. Nothing like yesterday.
Dante fights sleep for a while, making occasional comments about the impossible physics of the stunts. His words get slower, softer, until they trail off entirely. His head droops against my shoulder, breath evening out into the rhythm I know better than my own heartbeat.
Biscotti settles at our feet, pizza crust victory achieved, ever-watchful even in this peaceful moment.
On-screen, the hero delivers another corny one-liner before diving away from an explosion. I turn the volume down, letting the flickering light cast shadows across Dante's sleeping face.
In his slumber, he looks younger. The constant mask of Don Fera slips away, leaving just my Dante—the man who feeds our dog under the table, and steals the covers, and loves me with a fierceness that still takes my breath away.
The bruising on his neck has spread like spilled ink, a violent reminder that tomorrow isn't promised. Not in this new life I've chosen.
I brush a strand of hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him.
Tomorrow, we'll have to be strong again.
But for now, in this quiet space between chaos and retribution, we're just us.
Biscotti shifts closer, resting his head on my lap as the sun begins to set outside, casting our room in shades of gold and purple.
Dante's breathing is deep and even, his hand still tangled with mine even in sleep.
I should be plotting revenge. Should be burning with rage about our ruined wedding, about Carlo, about all of it. Instead, I find myself memorizing this moment—the warmth of our dog against my legs, the weight of Dante's hand in mine, the soft evening light making everything feel soft and safe.
Because tomorrow, I know, the real war begins.
Tomorrow, the other Dons will arrive with their agendas and their armies, and my husband will have to put on his armor again.
Tomorrow, we'll plan revenge in wood-paneled rooms that smell of cigars and power, and I'll stand beside him as his Queen, not just his partner.
I trace the lines of Dante’s sleeping face with my eyes, committing every detail to memory. The way his tattoos look in the fading light, the slight crease between his brows that never fully smooths away, the tiny scar above his lip from some long-ago fight.
I could have fallen for someone safe.
Could have found a nice accountant or teacher or literally anyone whose daily concerns didn't include territory disputes and rival families.
Someone who didn’t need bodyguards.
But I fell in love with a Don.
With this man who carries the weight of an empire on his shoulders but still sneaks our dog extra treats when he thinks I'm not looking.
Who can order destruction with one breath and quote Italian song lyrics with the next.
Who looks at me like I'm something precious, even when I'm holding a weapon.
He's my Don, though.
My warrior, my protector, my beautiful contradiction.
And I would burn down kingdoms for him.
Would wade through blood and bullets and whatever else this life throws at us.
Because that's what we do—we survive, we fight, we protect what's ours.
Biscotti shifts in his sleep, letting out a tiny whimper. Dante's fingers tighten around mine reflexively, protective even in dreams.
Outside our windows, night creeps in like a tide, and somewhere in the darkness, our enemies are plotting.
Let them come, I think, as the last of my sadness turns to rage.
They don't know what it means to threaten something a Queen loves.