Ceasefire

Candice’s P.O.V.

Dawn broke over the scorched compound like a bruised apology.

Smoke still curled from the blackened skeleton of the clubhouse. Brothers moved among the wreckage in silence—covering the fallen with club cuts, salvaging weapons, loading bodies into vans for the kind of burial the law never saw.

I sat on an overturned crate near the gate, Mantovani’s hoodie pulled tight around me, AR slung across my lap. My hands had stopped shaking hours ago, but the adrenaline crash left me hollow.

Mantovani walked the perimeter with Conti, voice low, planning retaliation. Every line of his body was coiled for violence—until he looked over and saw me watching. Something softened in his eyes. He said something to Conti, then came straight to me.

He crouched in front of me, blood-crusted hands gentle as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You should sleep,” he said quietly.

“I can’t.” My voice was raw from smoke and screaming. “Every time I close my eyes I see you getting shot.”

He exhaled, rested his forehead against mine. “I’m right here, piccola. Not a scratch that matters.”

We stayed like that for a long minute, the war momentarily distant.

Then Conti approached, phone in hand. “Call for you, Ro.” He glanced at me. “Both of you.”

Mantovani took the phone, hit speaker.

Sanna’s voice filled the quiet—calm, commanding, but threaded with something I’d never heard from him before: exhaustion.

“Mantovani. Candice.”

We both stiffened.

“I’m told the clubhouse is gone,” he continued. “And that my son’s woman stood in the courtyard and dropped a man to protect him.”

Mantovani’s arm slid around my waist, possessive and proud.

Sanna went on. “I’m also told Elena hasn’t stopped crying since she got home last night.”

My throat tightened.

“I want you both at the villa. Today. No guards at the door. No guns on the table. Just family.”

Mantovani’s jaw worked. “After what happened—”

“After what happened,” Sanna cut in gently, “we remember why we fight. To keep what’s ours. And you two are mine, whether you like it or not.”

Silence stretched.

He added, softer, “Bring Conti. Bring whoever you trust. But come.”

The line went dead.

Mantovani stared at the phone like it might explode.

I touched his arm. “We should go.”

He looked at me, eyes searching. “You sure? After everything your mother saw—hears—”

“I’m sure.” I stood, handed him the AR. “War’s coming. But if there’s even a chance to have them in our lives without hating each other… I want to take it.”

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded once.

“Alright. We go. But on my terms.”

Mantovani’s P.O.V.

Four hours later we rolled up the villa drive in a convoy—three bikes, blacked-out SUV. No one spoke.

The gates opened before we reached them. Servants stood at a distance. No visible security—an intentional show of trust.

Sanna waited on the front steps alone, hands in his pockets, looking older than I’d ever seen him.

Mom—Elena—stood just inside the open doors, eyes red-rimmed, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding herself together.

When I killed the engine and helped Candice off the bike, Elena took one involuntary step forward, then stopped.

Candice walked straight to her.

They stared at each other across five feet of marble that felt like miles.

“I’m not leaving him,” Candice said quietly. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

Elena’s chin trembled. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to watch you live in a world that could take you from me tomorrow.”

Candice closed the distance, took her mother’s hands. “Then don’t watch from the outside. Be part of it. Or at least… be part of me.”

Elena’s tears spilled over. She pulled Candice into a fierce hug, rocking her like she was small again.

I stayed back, throat tight.

Sanna approached slowly, stopped beside me.

“You look like hell, son.”

I huffed a humorless laugh. “Feel like it.”

He studied me. “You protected what’s yours last night. Stood in fire for her.”

“She stood in it for me.”

He nodded slowly. “Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending this family is broken.”

He held out his hand—not for a handshake, but palm up. An old gesture from when I was a kid and he’d offer to carry whatever weight I couldn’t.

I stared at it, chest aching.

Then I took it.

He pulled me into a rough embrace, one I hadn’t let myself have in years.

“Welcome home,” he said against my shoulder.

Behind us, Candice and Elena were still holding each other.

Conti leaned against his bike, watching with a small, hopeful smile.

For the first time in years, the villa didn’t feel like a battlefield.

It felt like a truce.

War was still coming—the sheriff wouldn’t stop.

But today, we had something worth fighting for that wasn’t just territory or pride.

We had each other.

And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough to win.