19. Opulence
Chapter nineteen
Opulence
(Danica)
Today is the day I become Missus Fera.
Fucking finally.
Three months after the initial wedding that ended in carnage, I'm ready to try again. Three months of rebuilding, of fighting, of clawing our way back to this moment.
Outside the tinted windows, Vegas shimmers like a mirage. The autumn sun beats down mercilessly, creating ripples of heat that dance above the asphalt as we glide toward the hotel.
Even in May, Vegas doesn't believe in subtle weather. When our private jet touched down around 10 AM, the air already clung to my skin with oppressive intensity, promising a scorcher of a wedding day.
Alessio was waiting for us on the tarmac, his tall frame cutting an elegant silhouette against the desert backdrop.
The moment he saw me, his face broke into that smile that still makes my stomach flutter.
He held the limo door open with a flourish, then pulled me into a kiss that tasted of mint and promise.
We both kissed Dante goodbye—him with passion, me with the tingling anticipation of separation before reunion—and left him and Emilio to get ready at another location.
I wanted the look on his face to be genuine when he first sees my new dress.
The only shitty part is that we couldn't bring Biscotti with us.
But Dario is looking after him, so I know he's in good hands.
I've caught that mountain of a man sneaking the little mutt treats when he thinks no one is watching, seen how the statue of a guard breaks character to give soft head scratches that make Biscotti's tail thump against the marble floor.
The two of them will be just fine—probably having more fun than they would admit.
I can’t believe the day has finally arrived. After everything we’ve been through…
Involuntarily, my thoughts turn to Tolya Volkov currently enjoying our hospitality in the basement back home.
Such a slimy guy; still makes my skin crawl just thinking of his little cock.
The girls at the club have been keeping his cover story intact—telling everyone he went off-grid for a while, which apparently isn't unusual for him.
He was instrumental in helping us take down the rest of the Volkovs.
All I had to do was threaten to staple his balls to the table with an industrial stapler, and he quickly sang to my tune.
I was ready to do it too, stapler in hand, his pathetic shriveled-up balls on the splinter-rich wooden table in our basement.
Convenient for us, the asshole had high-level access that allowed us to dismantle the syndicate from the inside much quicker than anticipated, crumbling their businesses, their connections, before they had a chance to catch on.
The extended plan of taking down the Volkovs required minimum violence and maximum patience, not my idea of fun.
We moved quickly—the accountant first, then Dimitri. He didn’t talk as easily as his slimy baby brother, but he sure spilled all his secrets once we threatened his secret lover—a tall, elegant red-headed pole dancer with a huge cock (if the hype was to be believed).
Piece for piece, we took them apart swiftly, effectively, until it was just that main dickhead, Boris, left—the eldest brother, the one calling the shots.
There was no reasoning with that cunt, so hardened, so cruel. Dante’s patience finally wore thin, and he just shot the guy right there in the basement, putting a bullet between his eyes without so much as changing his expression.
I don't feel an ounce of remorse. Not after what they did at our first wedding. Not after everything they've done to countless innocent people.
We're keeping the other two brothers alive, tied up in our basement but alive. Insurance, Dante calls it. Something tells me we haven't seen the last of the Russians' network, regardless of what we've accomplished.
For now, though, we've earned this moment.
The sleek black limousine glides to a halt, bringing an end to my wandering thoughts.
For a moment, I'm frozen in disbelief at the view. My eyes widen as they trace the contours of the towering structure before us, its gleaming facade reflecting the crisp sunlight.
"We're...here?" I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. Even I know the reputation of this hotel. Only the elite get to walk through those doors.
Alessio's warm chuckle fills the air as he opens the door, offering his hand. "Indeed we are, cara."
As I step out, the desert heat hits me like a physical wall.
"Alessio, this is..." I trail off, struggling to find words that adequately capture the grandeur before me.
My lover squeezes my hand gently, his touch grounding me. "Nothing is too much for Donna Fera," he murmurs, soothing my frayed nerves. “Time to get ready for your big day.
It seems crazy to get a hotel this fancy just to get ready. The reception later will be at a whole different venue.
But I have zero intentions of overthinking this; I’m going where Alessio takes me. Most of the plans are still a surprise to me. It’s way less stressful than the first time around.
A rush of cool air envelops us as we step inside the building, the air conditioning working overtime. Taking off my sunglasses, I blink rapidly, adjusting to both the temperature and the dazzling interior.
The lobby is a feast for the senses—crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across marble floors while the gentle tinkling of a nearby fountain mingles with soft classical music.
I'm so entranced by the surroundings that I nearly collide with a pillar. Luckily, Alessio's quick reflexes save me from embarrassment, his strong arm wrapping around my waist to pull me aside.
"Careful, darling," he teases, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We can't have the bride with a bruised forehead, can we?"
I shake my head, grateful for his presence—not just to keep me from injuring myself, but also to distract me from my intrusive thoughts.
As we make our way across the lobby, I can't help but feel out of place in my casual jeans and blouse combo. Around us, people glide by in designer dresses and impeccably tailored suits, their heels clicking rhythmically against the polished floor.
"How did you manage this?" I whisper, leaning close to Alessio. The subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely him—fill my orbit. "Isn't this place fully booked for months?"
A knowing smile plays on Alessio's lips as we approach the reception desk.
The woman behind the counter hands him a key without a word, her eyes lingering on him a moment too long.
I've grown accustomed to the effect Alessio has on people, but it still stirs a complex mix of emotions within me—pride, amusement, and just a hint of possessiveness.
“Cara mia," Alessio begins as we step into the elevator, "in Vegas, everything has a price. And for the Santoros, that price is often quite negotiable."
I roll my eyes playfully, but there's no real annoyance behind the gesture.
As the elevator doors close, sealing us in our private bubble, I intertwine my fingers with his. "Thank you," I say softly, meeting his gaze. "For all of this. You didn't have to—"
Alessio silences me with a gentle kiss to my forehead, his lips warm and comforting against my skin. "I wanted to," he assures me. "Your wedding day will be unforgettable for all the right reasons this time."
The mere hint at our previous nuptial attempt sends a cold shiver down my spine. Unbidden, the image of Carlo's lifeless body flashes before my eyes, and I feel the phantom sensation of his blood on my hands. My breath catches in my throat.
Alessio, ever attuned to my emotions, pulls me closer. "It wasn't your fault, dear," he murmurs into my hair.
I know he's right, but the weight of guilt and grief still presses heavily on my chest.
I take a deep breath, inhaling Alessio's comforting scent, and try to focus on the present. On the man holding me. On the fact that I’ll be marrying Dante in a matter of hours.
The doors ping open on cue, forcing me to untangle from Alessio and step into the spectacular space that is way too lavish to even dream about.
The elevator took us all the way to the top—oh, Alessio and his endless penthouses. This one is big enough to fit a whole football team, I swear!
Such good taste. So modern. Bold colors. Dark hues and aesthetics. Rich emerald couches and abstract artworks hung from too-big frames off textured walls. And the lights…What is it with rich people and fucking chandeliers?
There’s even a grand piano in the corner of the massive space. Like, who comes to Vegas to sit around playing the piano in your bedroom? I’ve never met such a person.
The master bedroom has an extra-long king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer stunning views of the Las Vegas skyline. I put my handbag down on the bed.
Outside, on the expansive terrace, the view gets even better. Is that a firepit and a jacuzzi? So extra.
“It’s too much, Alessio.”
It’s overwhelming. Even after all these years of spoils and luxury since entering the Fera household, I still couldn’t get used to living this way. Growing up, my idea of luxury was getting to order a large pizza instead of a medium or buying name-brand cereal from the grocery store.
The Vegas Joker smiles as he watches me fan-girl over my surroundings, his empire, technically. “No such thing.”
“Seriously, though. This is probably where Beyonce stays when she comes to Vegas.”
“Perhaps. But we both know you’re the real Queen.” Alessio winks at me playfully.
“I’m not worthy.” I try to curtsy, but the move carries little grace, and I nearly lose my balance. Alessio catches me before I can topple over, kissing the side of my head.
“Nonsense. Now, come, we’re already late for our spa booking.”
“But we just got here.” The outside seating looks so inviting; I don’t want to go anywhere. It’s been such a busy day, such an early morning, just to get here.
“We’re on a tight schedule, dear. So leave all your things, and let’s go.”
“I thought we were going to relax, have some drinks, ease into it…”
“We’re having all of those, but just at the spa. Come. Vamos!”
“Spanish? You’re just trying to confuse me now.”
“Well caught.” Alessio laughs heartily, and that’s that. Without any further explanation, we’re back in the elevator for a short three-floor ride down.
“Surely we can’t just go relax in a spa…Isn’t there stuff to do? Like arrangements that need to be made and shit?” It feels strange not having a million last-minute errands. The previous wedding was a ball-ache until the very end. But this time around, it feels like nothing is done yet.
Alessio just shakes his head, placing his hand on my arm in a reassuring gesture. “Everything is taken care of, dear. Relax. I want you to enjoy today.”
“That all depends on who’s on the guest list.” I laugh like I’m joking, but I’m not.
“Don’t worry, no family, just like you asked,” he confirms as the elevator door opens to reveal another level of luxury—this one all white marble and gold accents with luscious bamboo trees lining the entrance like we’ve somehow ended up on a whole other continent.
I exhale, relieved. “Thank you.”
“I take it your family doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Dante?” Alessio tries to fish as the spa staff ushers us into fluffy white bathrobes, shoving a mimosa into my hand.
“Something like that,” I mumble into my drink, letting the bubbles burn away old hurts.
Alessio doesn’t press.
“Well, luckily, you have a new family now.” His eyes are warm, kind, and I give him a grateful smile.
“A massive upgrade, for sure.” I attempt lightness, but the smile feels brittle on my face.
We're led into a private suite before he can dig deeper.
Two massage tables wait like altars in the center of the room, draped in linens that probably cost more than both my wedding dresses combined. The air is heavy with jasmine, tranquil music falling like mist from hidden speakers.
But my mind drifts to the last time I saw my family, to the final door I had to close to begin this new chapter of my life.
I tried. God, I tried. At Dante's insistence, I extended one last olive branch—a wedding invitation delivered in person. One last chance at being the family we pretended to be in public.
Instead, it became another scene in our lifelong tragedy.
My mother's lips twisted around the words "thug wedding" like she was tasting poison.
My father stared at his plate, silent as always—a habit learned from decades of choosing peace over protection.
The twins...well, Marko spoke for both of them.
He always did, Filip's spine long since surrendered to his brother's will.
I fled before the tears could fall, determined not to give them the satisfaction of breaking me again. But Marko followed—he always did love an audience for his cruelty.
"A slut like you deserves a man like him!" His voice chased me across the driveway, each word aimed with sniper precision. "A scumbag."
I stopped dead, fists clenched so tight my nails cut half-moons into my palms.
"You'll never be anyone," my brother continued, voice dripping with the familiar venom of childhood as he threw fresh matches at old wounds. "Just little crying Danica with nobody to listen to her. He'll throw you away like they always do."
A thousand responses burned on my tongue—about surviving their games, about finding love despite their best efforts to convince me I was unworthy, about becoming stronger than their cruelty. But I swallowed them all.
Instead, I straightened my spine. Lifted my chin. Walked away.
For good.
Some doors need to close forever so others can open. Some families need to be found rather than born into. Some names need to be changed to become who you really are. I’m done being a Matthews.
I sink into the massage table's embrace, letting warm hands soothe away old tensions. Soon, I’ll become Danica Fera—not because I'm running from who I was, but because I'm finally becoming who I was meant to be.
Can it just be tomorrow already?