The van rolled into the Hill district of St. Louis just as dusk painted the sky in purple and orange. They parked in front of Pizzeria da Gloria, the locally beloved wood-fired spot praised for its light, crispy crust and top-tier sauce—often mentioned as one of the best in the city.

Stepping inside was like entering a warm hug: rustic brick walls, soft candlelight, and the smell of bubbling provel-blend cheese—St. Louis’s signature, melt-in-your-mouth topping .

The band clattered into the place—still fang-flashed and fur-wild—prompting a hush.

The owner, a broad-shouldered father-figure type, offered a grin and boomed:
“Saw your story online — heard about the mansion gig, the fan, the check. Hell of a day. You’re getting dinner here, on me.” He waved to the counter. “Your victory feast is covered.”

Cue the pizzas:

  • A Margherita with baked basil and sliced tomatoes.
  • A House Special loaded with sausage, peppers, caramelized onions
  • A Provel Rush—classic, gooey, unapologetically St. Louis-style

They collapsed into a long wooden table, plates steaming, the air thick with relief.

While they were digging in, a group of three fans entered—a mixture of teens and parents, trekking in from the Gateway Arch tour. Their jaws dropped the minute they saw Gabriel and Thane’s unmistakable silhouettes.

“Are you guys really them?” a teenage girl asked, voice trembling.

Cassie laughed while tossing hair behind her ear. “Yup. Just us, no magic tricks.”

Phones whipped out. Autographs were scrawled on napkins, setlists, even the wood table. They shared stories, laughed off the mansion gig trauma, and posed for enough selfies to fill half the night.

The owner winked and slid another pie across the table. “You earned this, folks. Consider it gratitude—for music that fights for survival.”

By the time the night wound down, everyone was full and glowing. Fandom had warmed them deeper than any pizza. Jonas and Rico were signing band merchandise. Maya traded barbs with the owner. Mark leaned back in his chair, muzzle tucked, genuinely relaxed for maybe the first time in months.

Thane caught Gabriel’s eye across the table. Their paws brushed under the table, and a low growl rumbled in unison—simple, warm, peaceful.

They’d lost five grand in gear.

They’d turned down cultists with claws.

They’d just been rescued by a kid’s millionaire dad.

And now, surrounded by applause and provel-charged pizza, they felt it all: exhaustion, elation, disbelief. All those savage nights seemed worth it for this — connection, recognition, renewal.

As they filed out into the cool night, bellies and hearts full, Cassie looked back and waved.

“Thanks,” she called.

The owner raised a slice. “Anytime. You’re always welcome.”