Flames of Home

Candice’s POV

The villa—our home, the place where Mom and I had rebuilt trust, where Mantovani and I had first confessed love on a moonlit piano—was engulfed in flames on that screen, and I felt my world fracture again, the war striking when we were halfway across the country, the sheriff’s revenge perfectly timed to split our forces and break our spirits. Dad’s apartment suddenly felt too small, the air thick with shock as Mantovani grabbed the phone, trying to call Sanna, Conti, anyone, but getting only static and voicemail, his face paling beneath the stubble, and I clutched Dad’s hand, promising him he was safe now, even as my own safety crumbled thousands of miles away. Mom sank into a chair, whispering, “We left them alone; this is my fault,” guilt eating at her, but Mantovani knelt in front of her, voice firm, “It’s the sheriff’s fault, Elena; we finish this for all of us,” and the passion in his eyes reignited our resolve, turning grief into action.

We secured Dad in a safe location with trusted New York allies—old friends of the family who owed Sanna favors—and boarded the jet again, this time headed back west, the flight endless as we pieced together what fragments we had: a text from one surviving capo saying the attack came from the sea, speedboats unloading mercenaries while we were gone, and Ryan’s information confirming the sheriff had planned it as retaliation for the grab. I barely slept, curled against Mantovani, his arms around me like armor, whispering plans and promises, his lips brushing my temple, “When this is over, I’m taking you somewhere quiet; just us, no war, no blood,” and I kissed him softly, tasting salt from tears I didn’t remember crying, the passion between us a lifeline in the darkness.

Landing at a private airstrip near the coast, we met club reinforcements—brothers who’d ridden through the night—and raced to what remained of the villa, the horizon glowing orange even from miles away, and my heart shattered seeing the gates twisted, gardens charred, the beautiful white walls blackened and crumbling. Fire crews battled the blaze, but it was too late for much of the house, and we searched the grounds frantically, finding wounded men, bodies of attackers, but no sign of Sanna—until a weak voice called from the rubble of the east wing, and we dug frantically, pulling him free, burned and bleeding but alive, his first words rasping, “They took the cellar records… everything on the Miami project.”

The intrigue hit like ice water: the sheriff hadn’t just wanted destruction; he’d wanted leverage, the files that could expose our entire operation to federal eyes, and Sanna, clutching Mantovani’s arm, whispered, “He’s going for the kill shot; he knows where we’re weakest now.” Mom, arriving minutes later with medical supplies, tended Sanna’s wounds with steady hands, their eyes meeting in silent understanding, love forged stronger in loss, and I held Mantovani as he stared at the burning home, his childhood, our future, going up in smoke.

We relocated to a secondary safe house, planning the counterstrike, passion and grief fueling late-night strategy sessions, stolen kisses in dark hallways keeping us human, but as dawn broke over the smoldering ruins, a new message arrived—video this time—of the sheriff himself, standing in front of our burning villa, holding Sanna’s signet ring, smiling coldly: “Come find me, d’Agostino; or I finish what I started with your princess next.”