Fragile Ground

Candice’s P.O.V.

The villa dining room felt too big and too quiet that evening.

No bodyguards at the doors. No weapons on the table. Just the five of us, Sanna at the head, Mom beside him trying not to cry into her wine, Conti on my left, Mantovani on my right with his hand resting possessively on my thigh under the linen tablecloth.

We were eating pasta that none of us tasted.

Conversation started and stopped like a bad engine.

Sanna tried first. “Candice, your father in New York—how is he?”

The question hung in the air. Mom’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

I swallowed. “He’s… the same. Quiet. Waiting for me to turn eighteen so I can visit without permission.” I glanced at Mom. “I was going to fly back for his birthday next month.”

Mom’s eyes filled instantly. “I bought the ticket already,” she whispered. “Before everything… I thought we could go together.”

Mantovani’s fingers tightened on my leg—not jealousy, just grounding me.

Sanna nodded slowly. “You should go. Both of you, if you want. I’ll send the jet.”

Mom looked at him like he’d spoken another language.

Conti cleared his throat. “We can make it safe. Quiet escort, no colors, no drama. Just family.”

I felt Mantovani tense beside me. He hadn’t said more than ten words since we sat down.

I turned to him. “Will you come with me?”

The room went still.

He met my eyes, something raw flickering there. “If you want me there… yeah. I’ll come.”

Mom made a small, wounded sound. “You’d bring him to meet your real father?”

Mantovani’s voice was low, steady. “I’m not there to start a war, Elena. I’m there because she asked me to be.”

Sanna leaned forward. “We’re trying something new here. Honesty. Truce. The sheriff wants blood—that doesn’t mean we have to bleed our family dry to give it to him.”

Mom wiped her eyes. “I just want my daughter alive. And… happy.”

I reached across the table, took her hand. “I am alive. And I’m trying to be happy. But I can’t do that if I have to choose between you and him.”

She squeezed my fingers, trembling.

Conti broke the tension with a small smile. “So… birthday trip to New York. We’ll behave. Promise no shootouts in Times Square.”

A tiny laugh escaped Mom. The first I’d heard from her in weeks.

Mantovani’s thumb traced slow circles on my thigh—silent support.

Mantovani’s P.O.V.

Later that night, Candice and I stood on the balcony outside our bedroom, city lights glittering far below.

She leaned against the railing, wearing one of my shirts, hair loose in the warm breeze.

“I didn’t think this could happen,” she said quietly. “All of us at one table without someone storming out.”

I came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin resting on her head.

“Doesn’t mean the war stops,” I murmured. “Sheriff’s brother goes to your school. He knows who you are now. Retaliation’s coming.”

She turned in my arms, hands flat on my chest. “Then we plan for it together. But we don’t let it steal this.” She gestured back toward the house. “Family dinner. My mom laughing, even for a second. You agreeing to meet my dad. That’s worth protecting too.”

I exhaled, tension bleeding out of me. “You’re turning me soft, piccola.”

“No,” she smiled, rising on her toes to kiss me slow and deep. “I’m reminding you why you fight.”

My hands slid down to grip her hips, pulling her tighter against me. “And when the fighting’s done?”

“Then we come home,” she whispered. “To this. To them. To us.”

I kissed her again, harder this time, backing her against the balcony door until she was arching into me.

Inside, the house was quiet—Conti laughing at something Sanna said, Elena’s softer voice joining in.

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

It felt like a home worth defending.

Tomorrow we’d plan the counterstrike—find the sheriff’s weak points, tighten security, prepare for blood.

Tonight, we held the fragile peace we’d carved out.

And I’d kill anyone who tried to take it from us.

War was coming.

But so was family.

And for her, I’d fight for both.