22. After Party
Chapter twenty-two
After Party
(Danica)
They say Vegas weddings are supposed to be quick, messy affairs—drive-through chapels and Elvis impersonators. But nothing about loving Don Dante Fera has ever been conventional.
A surprised squeal escapes my lips as Dante sweeps me off my feet, the layers of my black dress rippling around us like a dark ocean.
His arms are steady, secure, but his face is pure joy—so different from the man who was fighting for his life at our first wedding attempt just months ago. Amazing how much can change between one almost "I do" and the next.
“What are you doing?” I laugh as we enter the mansion Alessio arranged for our reception. The space is clean and sparkling with money, a far cry from the blood-stained garden where our first ceremony ended in gunfire. I wanted something more private than the hotel.
"Practicing for home." Dante's eyes sparkle with mischief before he captures my lips with his. I melt into the kiss, my arm tightening around his neck.
Behind us, I hear the murmur of guests filing in, their footsteps and voices creating a soft symphony of celebration.
When we finally part, I open my eyes to find Dante gazing at me with an expression that makes my heart flutter. His usual sharp edges have softened, replaced by something almost boyish—a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes him look years younger.
“What is it?” I whisper, though I already know. I've never seen him this unguarded, this openly happy.
“Nothing. Just can’t stop looking at you.” His voice is rough with emotion. “How did I get so lucky?”
"You're being so mushy." I press a kiss to the tip of his nose, feeling him smile against my skin. "Put me down."
His arms lower me gently, but he keeps one hand on the small of my back as I find my footing. The marble floor is cool beneath my feet, even through my shoes.
We made it.
Despite Russian attacks, despite family disapproval, despite a lifetime of scars telling me I didn't deserve love—we're here.
"I can't help being mushy. It's your fault," he says with a shrug that does nothing to diminish his grin.
“Come, let’s go find something to drink. I’m thirsty as fuck.”
I take his hand as I lead him into our wedding reception.
It’s been an insane few months, but tonight we celebrate.
Tonight, we prove that sometimes the most beautiful love stories start with bloodshed rather than "once upon a time.
" That the most devoted hearts often beat in the chests of those society calls monsters.
That in our world, happy endings aren't given—they're taken, with both hands, whatever the cost.
Twin staircases sweep upward like arms reaching for the sky, their dark wood railings gleaming under crystal chandeliers. The space is all marble and abstract art, wooden surfaces with black metal finishes, expensive shit.
I’m sure long-term rich people or those journalists who write 15-page features on houses for a living could describe it way better, but to me, it is spacious and open and so classy—that’s all I need to know.
The rooms are huge, the ceilings high, and the furniture made of brown leather that feels (and smells) real. Through the back, the entire wall opens like an accordion, sliding away onto a massive patio that leads into a garden the size of a small public park.
The property, all eight rooms and 12 bathrooms of it, belongs to one of Alessio’s friends, a mansion realtor with access to incredible places like this.
It was far more intimate than hanging out at the hotel or any of the casinos or clubs; it was exactly what I wanted for my first night as a married woman.
Around us, waiters waltz around carrying trays of drinks and canapés, but I’m not hungry for anything available on a platter.
I snag two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, the bubbles racing to the surface like my pulse when Dante looks at me that way. Golden liquid catches the light as I raise my glass to his.
"To Missus Danica Fera," he says, his voice low and intimate despite the grand space around us. The title makes my whole body tingle—not because of the power it carries in our world, but because of the way he says it.
“That’s Madame to you.” I grin as I toast him.
Dante takes a sip. “Madame Danica Fera, hmm, that sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” It sounds right. “Speaking of, I don’t think you need all those buttons anymore.” I tug at Dante’s shirt to open the top three buttons, revealing his beautiful collar.
Slowly, I trace the edges of the leather band before slipping my forefinger through the metal hoop and tugging, pulling his face down to my eye level.
“Are you going to be a good boy today?” I whisper seductively, and Dante groans in response, his whole body softening like it’s melting.
He looks around quickly. “Please, don’t…You’ll make me hard in no time.”
“Well, darling, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” I gesture around the room where our guests enjoy their drinks while lightly swaying to the music.
“We haven’t even met half these people yet,” Dante says with a hint of nervousness, looking at the two dozen bodies around us.
“Not yet. But they all know what kind of party this is.” I wink at him, my stomach knotting in little butterflies at the mere thought of the excitement to come.
When Alessio asked about my preference for the reception, I told him all I wanted was a fuck-you to societal norms, something that was truer to us.
He suggested we go to one of the sex clubs, but I wanted something more exclusive.
A few days later, Alessio sent me a voice note with an alternative suggestion, one that sounded oh-so-perfect.
Describing it in detail, he told me about this massive house on the outskirts of the city, about his various friends and partners he would like to invite, about the type of parties they had at houses such as these, about the fully-equipped playroom that’s included…
I was sold. Immediately. “Yes!” I squealed in an unnecessary voice note that definitely could’ve been a text.
Dante was nervously excited for our reception party—he had told me as much before—but I was just excited.
The consent forms were detailed. We all knew what was on the table, the rules of engagement. The game had been set; all that was left was to play it.
“Do we even know what we’re getting into?” Dante asks, looking around suspiciously. “I think I need to go to the bathroom again.”
“Go. I’ll be by Alessio.” I give him a quick kiss, smacking his bum as he walks away.
I find Alessio by the bar and he leads me to the couches outside on the patio to enjoy the incredible Vegas sunset as it tints the sky in pinks and oranges—for once, not from a penthouse balcony.
“Your glass is empty, cara, let’s fix that.” He takes a swig from my glass, finishing it himself, before grabbing another one from a floating tray that appears with the mere click of his fingers.
“Are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?” I trace my fingers over his crotch, following the outline of his cock.
Alessio laughs, reaching over for a kiss. “We both know I don’t need to get you drunk for that.”
“That’s true. Though you have to be careful, I’m Missus Dante Fera now…My husband might get jealous.” My husband. I’ve never had a husband before. The thought is amusing. It all still feels so new.
The Joker smirks. “I still can’t believe you took his surname. So much for feminism.”
“Why be another Matthews when you can be Queen of the Fera empire?” I wink at him, my hand still resting on his crotch. “This is my destiny.”
“Fair point, dearest Danica, fair point. Good catch, hey?”
“The best,” I beam, looking at the new ring on my finger. “Are you jealous?”
“Oh no, I’m not about jealousy. I have the best deal; I still get to have you both.”
“And you don’t want someone of your own, just yours?” Strangely enough, we’ve never had this conversation before. Our time together is always so limited, so rushed, so feverish with need and lust.
“You know I’m a relationship anarchist; things like that don’t appeal to me. I need my freedom. The mere thought of co-dependence is enough to give me grey hair.” Alessio laughs.
“So you just fuck everyone all over?”
“Sometimes. But it doesn’t take away anything from my other intimate relationships. Many of them are here today. The beautiful misfits. There is a lot to say for platonic love, you know. I never understood what was so wrong about fucking your friends.”
“I would need friends before I could fuck them.” I laugh despite the sting of the truth. Sometimes, I did miss having other people around. But not the friends I used to have; they were all two-faced vain bitches who chose my ex’s side.
"Well, cara," Alessio's eyes sparkle with barely contained excitement, "there's no time like the present. My crew is dying to meet you properly." His fingers brush my arm, gentle and reassuring. "We may not pick our blood, but that doesn't mean we can't have family."
"I like that." I take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue. "People always did get that blood is thicker than water saying wrong."
"Well, they just left out the second part, completely giving it the opposite meaning." His smile is knowing, intimate.
"Found family, hmm." I fidget with the leather strap on my bodice. "I hope they like me..."
"Who wouldn't like you, dearest Danica? You are a Queen! I—"
A familiar voice cuts through the air, and I snap my head around. "There she is, the woman of the hour!"
My heart skips as I turn to see Adira gliding toward us, her presence commanding attention like gravity itself.
Her blue dress ripples like liquid gold in the fading light, the fabric clinging to every curve before flowing to the floor.
My breath catches at the sight of her generous cleavage, memories flooding back—the taste of her skin, the softness of her breasts against my lips.
“Adira!” The name bursts from my lips as I practically leap from my seat. She catches me in an embrace that smells of sun-ripened peaches and something darker, more primal—a scent that ignites a familiar heat low in my belly. Her lips find mine in a brief but electric kiss.
"Congratulations, honey." Her words brush against my skin like velvet.
"Thank you so much for coming."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." She pulls back slightly, her eyes dancing. "Plus, I wanted you to meet my Rani." Adira gestures to her partner behind her.
The 30-something woman who steps forward is all sharp angles and quiet power.
Her black suit jacket hangs open, revealing a leather bra that catches the light like obsidian.
The severe cut of her fade haircut emphasizes her striking features—high cheekbones, angular jaw, dark eyes that seem to see right through you.
Silver hoops climb her ears like a constellation.
"Nice to meet you." I pull her into a hug, feeling the cool press of her jacket buttons against my chest.
"Congratulations." Rani's voice is slow and deliberate. There's an energy about her that makes the air feel charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Through the windows, the last traces of purple surrender to the Vegas night, city lights beginning to sparkle like earthbound stars. The conversation flows around us like wine, easy and warm, until Adira's hand finds mine. Her touch sends electricity racing up my arm.
"You look incredible," she murmurs, and despite everything—despite being a newly crowned Queen of the underworld—I feel my cheeks flush.
"Thank you."
"May I kiss the bride?" Adira’s eyes hold a promise that makes my pulse quicken.
"You didn't ask before..."
"That wasn't a kiss." She winks, and suddenly, the room narrows to just us, the sounds of the party fading to a distant hum.
I manage a nod, and then she's drawing me in. Her lips part mine with practiced skill, tasting of champagne and steamy memories. I surrender to the kiss, to the familiar perfume of peaches and desire, to the way the world seems to tilt on its axis when Adira kisses me like this.
For a suspended moment, I am weightless, caught between past and present, between what was and what will be. And somehow, impossibly, it all feels right.
Oh god, I’m wet already.