Alive in the Wreckage

Mantovani’s P.O.V.

Pain was the first thing that registered--sharp, white-hot, blooming across my chest like someone had driven a red-hot poker through my ribs and left it there to twist. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass, shallow and ragged, each inhale dragging fire deeper into my lungs. The world came back in fragments: the low hum of an engine, the metallic taste of blood on my tongue, the faint scent of pine and gun oil clinging to the air. And then—her.

Candice.

Her hand was wrapped around mine, small but fierce, fingers locked so tight it hurt in the best way, grounding me when everything else wanted to pull me under. I could feel her trembling through the contact, could hear the soft, broken sound of her breathing—like she was trying not to sob and failing. My eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, but I forced them open anyway, blurry green meeting blurry green, and there she was, face streaked with dirt and tears, hair wild, eyes red-rimmed and terrified, but still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Piccola…” The word scraped out of my throat, barely sound, more air than voice, but her whole body jerked like I’d shocked her with electricity.

“Mantovani—” Her voice cracked, fresh tears spilling as she leaned over me, forehead pressing to mine, careful not to jostle the tubes and bandages taped across my chest. “Oh God, you’re awake. You’re awake.”

I tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace, pain spiking so hard my vision grayed at the edges, but I didn’t care. She was here. She was alive. That was enough.

“Don’t… cry,” I rasped, the effort stealing what little air I had. “Hate… seeing you cry.”

She laughed—a wet, shattered sound—and pressed her lips to my forehead, trembling. “Too late. You almost died in my arms, you idiot. You don’t get to tell me how to feel right now.”

I wanted to argue, wanted to tease her, wanted to pull her down and kiss her until neither of us could breathe—but my body wasn’t cooperating. Every muscle felt like lead, every heartbeat a hammer blow against cracked ribs. Still, I lifted my free hand—slow, shaking—and cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing away the tears that kept falling.

“Worth it,” I whispered. “Every bullet… worth it… if it kept you safe.”

Her sob broke free then, raw and ugly, and she buried her face against my neck, careful of the bandages, shoulders shaking as she clung to me like I might vanish if she let go. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. I need you alive, Mantovani. I need you here. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.”

The words hit harder than the bullet had.

I’d spent my whole life believing love was a weakness, something to be cut out before it could be used against you. I’d built walls of violence and control, convinced myself that caring too much would get me killed. And then she came along—stubborn, fierce, soft in all the places I was hard—and tore every brick down without even trying.

Now here she was, crying into my neck, telling me she needed me.

Me.

The bastard son of a mafia king. The man who’d killed without blinking. The one who’d dragged her into this war and almost gotten her killed more times than I could count.

And she still chose me.

I swallowed hard, throat burning, and managed to get my arm around her, weak but stubborn, pulling her closer until her heartbeat thumped against my side, strong and steady where mine was faltering.

“Never… leaving you,” I murmured against her hair. “Promised… forever. Meant it.”

She lifted her head, eyes searching mine, red and swollen and so full of love it hurt to look at. “You almost broke that promise tonight. Don’t do it again.”

I tried to laugh. It came out as a cough, blood flecking my lips, but I forced the words out anyway. “Not… going anywhere. Got too much… to live for. You. Us. That stupid beach house… with the ugly yellow kitchen you’ll insist on.”

A watery laugh escaped her. “I said sage green.”

“Still ugly.”

She kissed me then—soft, careful, tasting of salt and fear and relief—and I kissed her back with everything I had left, pouring every unsaid word, every broken vow, every future I wanted into that single point of contact. When she pulled away, forehead resting against mine, she whispered, “We’re almost to the clinic. Just hold on a little longer. Please.”

I nodded—barely—too tired to speak, but I squeezed her hand once, twice, letting her feel the rhythm of my pulse even if it was weak.

The van lurched suddenly, tires screeching, Conti shouting from the front, “Roadblock ahead—feds! Hold on!”

Sanna’s voice cut through, calm and lethal: “Ram it if you have to. We’re not stopping.”

The engine roared, the van accelerating hard, and Candice threw herself over me protectively, arms shielding my head as the world tilted violently. Metal screamed against metal—impact—glass shattering somewhere up front, the whole vehicle shuddering like it might tear apart. Pain exploded through my chest, white-hot and blinding, stealing my breath, stealing my vision, but I clung to her, fingers tangled in her hair, refusing to let go even as darkness rushed in again.

“Stay with me,” she sobbed against my ear, voice shaking. “Please, Mantovani—stay with me.”

I tried.

God, I tried.

But the pain was too much, the blood loss too deep, and the last thing I felt was her lips on my temple, her tears falling onto my skin, her voice breaking on my name like a prayer.

Then everything went quiet.

Black.

Nothing.

Just the faint, fading echo of her heartbeat against mine.

And somewhere in that endless dark, I thought:

If this is the end…

At least I got to love her first.