11. Distraction
Chapter eleven
Distraction
(Danica)
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms as I force myself to remain silent. The ornate conference room that usually serves as our dining room feels too small for all the egos it contains—six Dons and their various guards, the air thick with cigar smoke and centuries of tradition.
At some point, Don Vinci’s wrinkled face twists with barely concealed disdain as he addresses Dante. "Perhaps if you spent less time playing house..." The insult hangs in the air like poison. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth, the urge to defend my husband-to-be burning in my throat.
But Dante doesn't need my protection.
He rises slowly from his chair, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
This isn't my Dante—the man who melts under my touch, who whispers Italian love letters against my skin, who submits so beautifully to my will.
This is Don Fera, and watching him slip into this role is like watching a sword being unsheathed.
"Careful, old friend." His voice carries the soft menace of a weapon wrapped in silk. "Your age earns you certain courtesies, but not unlimited ones."
It’s somewhat jarring to see Dante be this person. At times, I almost forget who he is. Who he was.
My darling Don has never been too forthcoming about his past sins, but the internet is awash with supposed crimes—all those rumors, those whispered stories about the bodies Don Fera left in his wake before I knew him.
Looking at him now, it’s not hard to imagine.
I've experienced the wildfire of his rage, the violence that lives in his bones.
But he’s so much more than that.
These men see only the Don, the killer, the legend. They don't know about the man who kneels at my feet, who gives me his power willingly, who found redemption in submission.
Both versions are real—the Don and the submissive, the killer and the lover, the monster and the man.
But it’s not the lover who’s in charge now.
Don Vinci sinks back in his chair, properly chastised. Dante's eyes meet mine briefly across the table, a flash of warmth in the winter of Don Fera's mask.
The meeting drones on with plans and counter-plans, alliances and threats.
Watching Dante navigate this deadly dance of power, I understand why he needs our dynamic at home.
Without a release, this job would consume anyone's soul—perhaps it already has.
But in our bedroom, on his knees, he finds his way back to himself.
I just pray the price of power doesn't break him before then.
This job is too damn stressful; it brings out the worst in my darling groom. I wish there was a way for him to get out, to start fresh, to live the life he’s always wanted but never had the luxury of living.
But I don’t have solutions, only concerns.
As the meeting carries on, Don Marino, the one with the wispy goatee and scary face tattoo, keeps looking at me strangely, but I pay him no mind. I bet he’s one of those dickheads who believes a woman’s place is in the kitchen. Well, I have news for him—I’m absolutely shit in the kitchen.
But I have other skills.
As Dante tells them the improvised plan of attack, I watch closely to gauge everyone’s reaction. Even though I was initially all for immediate action, I still can’t shake the thought that this is a bad idea; Emilio’s words keep replaying in my head.
Then again, all of it is a bad idea.
But what choice do we have?
What else must the Volkovs ruin before they get what they have coming?
Besides, with so many families and so many armies, surely we’d be fine, right?
Surely…
The proceedings drag on for a bit, for almost three hours, until the grumpy old Italian men finally take their leave, their oppressive cologne lingering in the space long after their exit.
Dante closes the door behind the last guest, sighing loudly in either relief or frustration, but my guess is both.
He looks worried beyond belief, absentmindedly twisting the rings on his fingers as he heads to his office under the pretense of catching up on work.
I give him a moment, making up some excuse about needing snacks. When Dante gets like that, he either needs space to figure it out or something to distract him altogether. I’ve learned it’s best to give him a few moments to figure out which one it is.
When I walk into his office 15 minutes later, munching on an apple, Dante seems even more restless than when I left him.
Biscotti demands an ear scratch before trotting off, the purple dinosaur in his mouth. He clearly senses things are about to get intense.
“You can’t come,” Dante says without any context, fidgeting with his pinky ring, his mom’s.
“Not this again. Come on, Dante. Aren’t you tired of having this conversation? I am.”
He looks away from me, refusing my gaze. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
My face softens. “Baby, the chances of you getting hurt are way higher. I’m in peak physical form. Maybe you should stay home.”
Dante's quiet for a long time, mulling over my words before finally conceding. "Fine," he grunts, slumping his shoulders as he exhales.
But something's off. I've spent four years learning to read every flicker of emotion that crosses that face.
Right now, his eyes are darting around the room, unfocused, pupils slightly dilated.
His right hand has started that familiar twitching as he toys with the rings—the tell he gets when his mind is spinning too fast. The air is thick with the words he's not speaking.
"It's going to be okay, my love," I try to reassure him, taking his hand in mine. His skin is clammy, pulse racing beneath my fingers. This isn't just stress—it's the beginning of one of his spirals.
"I don't know. This is different. We need to prepare immediately." His voice has that hollow quality, the one that appears when he's disconnecting from himself. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth, a habit that always precedes his darkest moments.
Dante tries to leave but I hold onto his hand, keeping him in place. I've seen this before—when he gets like this, he'll work himself to exhaustion, make reckless decisions, put himself in danger. As his Domme, as the person who promised to take care of all of him, I can't let that happen.
"I don't think that's a good idea, baby.” I raise my voice slightly, injecting some assertiveness. The soft approach isn't working—he needs his anchor right now, not a supportive spectator. “I think you should get some rest first. Else, you'll be no use to anyone."
But it’s like he doesn’t hear me at all.
"I can't. This is all my fault. I've been slacking on my duties—" His breathing has quickened, words tumbling out faster than he can control them. The dark circles under his eyes make him look haunted, almost feverish. His hands are shaking now.
I recognize this pattern. If I don't intervene, he'll disappear into his head entirely, lost in a spiral of guilt and responsibility that will leave him raw and broken. As his Queen, I need to pull him back before he falls too far.
“Stop!” Before he can even finish his sentence, I slap his cheek, hard. Not in anger, not to hurt—but to shock his system, to break the circuit of thoughts threatening to drown him. Like hitting the reset button on a machine that's overheating.
Dante growls at me angrily, the sound primal, instinctive—but his eyes focus for the first time since we started talking.
He lowers his head, and I watch the shift happen: his breathing slows, his shoulders drop from around his ears, the frantic energy draining from his body.
His knuckles go white as he grips the desk, breathing slowly, deeply. "I'm sorry, Tesoro."
Relief floods through me. The slap did exactly what I needed it to do—jarred him out of his downward spiral and back into his body, back to me. It's not something I do lightly, but in our dynamic, it's sometimes exactly what he needs. The physical sensation cutting through the mental chaos.
"Your mind is a mess, baby. Perhaps I can help you clear it?" I gently touch his cheek, caressing the warm skin my fingers bruised moments before. The redness will fade, but the grounding touch—the reminder that he's here, with me, not lost in his guilt—that will stay.
"I don't think I can sleep now, Danica." His shoulders slump even further as he finally meets my imploring gaze. But there's clarity there now, awareness rather than blind panic. He's back with me.
“I’m not talking about sleeping…boy.”
The boy instantly triggers his submission, his entire posture changing. “Ah.” Dante finally grasps what’s on offer.
Playfully, I smack his ass, and my tired Don jumps. “Maybe a quick session…” He looks at the open door nervously, but we’re alone, alone enough for me to grab his crotch, caressing his hardness that’s noticeably pressing against the non-stretch pants.
“Someone seems ready,” I tease, spinning the web of seduction around him. My darling boy’s cock instantly responds to my touch despite the various fabrics separating our skin.
“I don’t want to think anymore.” His voice is small, almost pleading. The big Alpha-hole mask is gone, and it’s just Dante, the little lost boy, my little lost boy.
Without another word, I take his hand and lead him upstairs, straight to the playroom.
With a single snap of my fingers, the well-trained Dante strips out of his clothes until he stands before me in only his socks. It’s a ritual that instantly brings out his submissive side, undressing under my watchful gaze.
Like I’ve done hundreds of times before, I put my hand out, and he brings me his cock, placing it in my palm, surrendering his body to me.
“So pretty when you’re being obedient,” I praise my big boy, leading him to the large St. Andrews Cross in the corner, pulling him along dick-first.
When every limb is secured to the cross, custom-built for Dante’s extra tall physique, I slowly drag my nails down his bare back. He’s facing forward.
“You have your safe word, right?” I check in like I always do, even after all this time.
“Yes, Miss.”
“The flogger?” I ask, aiming soft, but Dante shakes his head.
“The whip, please, Miss,” he asks, needing more.
I fetch the implement in question, trailing the leather over Dante’s exposed flesh when I return, watching him shiver.
“Ten lashes, okay?” I tell him as I take a step back. I used to be wary of the whip, of doing too much damage. But I’ve been practicing, just as Adira taught me, whipping glass bottles off high walls with expert precision.
Dante nods as he whispers, “Please.”
As I swing the elegant black whip through the air like I’m commanding a serpent, my darling husband-to-be counts like he’s been trained, sputtering numbers from hurried breaths until he can’t anymore.
We get to number eight, and then, for the first time in over a year, Dante utters his safe word, barely audible in a broken voice.
I stop immediately, dropping the whip to the floor.
“There you go, baby; it’s okay,” I coo in a soothing voice as I kneel to unclasp his ankles. “Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed.”
The big man doesn’t say anything, just whimpers softly as I free his limbs, helping him to the bathroom.
Careful not to hurt him, I treat his fresh cuts properly, covering his body in ointment as he flinches, gritting his teeth.
In this moment, the fearless Don of the meeting earlier now looks so vulnerable, and I know it will take more than just a whipping to calm his mind.
“It’s going to be okay,” I try to reassure my broken sub as I lead his hunched-over figure to our bed, tucking him without bothering to clothe him. Dante doesn’t speak, just balls the duvet up in his fists and pulls it over himself tightly.
Stripping out of my clothes, I slide in next to him on the bed, pulling his face to my bosom.
Slowly, I stroke his hair, barely touching him, holding him close to my body, his face nestled between my naked breasts.
With a heavy exhale, Dante presses his body against mine fully, wrapping himself in my skin, holding on like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t.
Not a word leaves his lips, but I know his mind is anything but quiet. There is nothing else I can do for him, though. As much as I want to fix this, I know I can’t. All I can do is be here, hold him, try again tomorrow.
I don’t let go until my husband-to-be’s breathing turns slow, his chest falling into a sleep rhythm against mine. Only then do I allow the nagging sleep to overcome me, to take me to dreamland as well.
It will be okay, right?
It has to be…