LOGINMantovani's P.O.V.
I needed to clear my. Most importantly, I had to leave that house before I snapped.
I didn’t know why I was driving to Conti’s, but I needed to talk to someone. My father had sent me to pick up his new wife and her daughter, Candice, this morning. He told me to behave, hide the mafia side, and act like the perfect older brother—the same lecture I’d heard too many times.
I was already mad about it all, so I made a dumb plan last night. I wanted to make Candice’s life miserable, to make her regret entering our world. I couldn’t kill anymore because of rules. Torturing was my only escape. But now, because of Candice, I had to pretend to be good.
But when I saw her, everything crumbled.
Last night, Conti warned me I’d be teaching at her school. I should have known she was a teenager. But I didn’t listen. I was too annoyed to care. My plan to torment her turned to ash the moment I laid eyes on her.
This morning, while I was deep in business talk with Mariano, I caught sight of Candice through the window. She stepped into the garden, standing quietly among the lilies. She wiped at her eyes, looking fragile and soft—too much like someone who didn’t belong in this harsh world.
When Dad called me to meet her, I turned, ready to be cold and distant. But the moment I saw her, all that changed. Those beautiful green eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, I forgot everything else.
She wasn’t the spoiled brat I’d imagined. She was hot!
Her messy dark curls framed a face that looked tired but real. The oversized sweatshirt hung loosely on her, and her pouty lips gave her an innocent, vulnerable look that hit me harder than any punch.
My stomach twisted, and worse—something deeper, darker inside me stirred. I hadn’t been touched in years. I didn’t care about women. But one look from her made me feel like a wild animal trapped in a cage.
The thoughts in my head weren’t right. They weren’t brotherly. They were twisted and wrong. She was too young, too innocent... and she was my stepsister.
That was why I ran from the house like a coward, my hands gripping the wheel as I drove like a man possessed, trying to drown the disgusting hunger clawing at my mind.
I reached Conti’s house after fifteen minutes, slammed the car door shut, and pounded on the door like a madman. After a few seconds, Jane opened it.
“Mantovani? You okay?” she asked with a soft voice.
I didn’t like it when people called me “Ro.” Only Conti did that when we were kids. But I swallowed my irritation and forced a polite nod.
“Need to talk to Conti.”
“Of course, come in,” she said, stepping aside.
Conti’s house was always warm and comfortable, unlike my cold mansion. I walked straight into the living room and sat on my usual spot, the couch they kept just for me. My chest tightened remembering old times, but I pushed the feeling away. I wasn’t here to get sentimental.
Conti walked in with two glasses of wine, Jane right behind him. They didn’t ask questions, just handed me a glass. They knew me too well.
“So, who pissed you off this early?” Conti grinned as he settled beside me.
I didn’t bother hiding it. “Candice. I met her today. I had this whole plan of making her life hell just to entertain myself. But then I saw her, and the plan went to shit.”
Conti raised a brow. “Mantovani… she’s a kid.”
“Don’t interrupt me,” I snapped, then sighed. “I know. I realised it after seeing her. Father doesn’t want her to know anything about our business, and I get it now. She’s just a kid.”
But I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t mention the worst part. The part where my mind drifted into places it never should have gone.
Conti leaned back, shaking his head. “I told you yesterday. She’s a senior, Mantovani. She’s nineteen. Still a damn kid.”
I clenched the glass tighter. Conti was right, but it didn’t change the fact that my brain betrayed me in the most shameful way possible.
He kept talking, voice softer now. “She’s not part of our mess, Mantovani. She’s just a teenager who got dragged into this.”
I looked at him, ready to tell him the truth, but my chest tightened when I saw the excitement on his face.
“I mean, she’s our sister now,” Conti said, smiling. “Yours and mine. Finally, a little sister. I always wanted one, but instead, I got stuck with you.”
I gave him a dry glare, but he just laughed.
He went on, voice full of hope. “We’ll protect her, teach her self-defence, maybe even let her join the business when she’s old enough… if she wants to. She deserves a normal life, Mantovani.”
I stayed quiet. Conti didn’t understand. He never saw what I saw, never felt what I felt just by looking at her. He wanted to protect her, and all I could think about was claiming her.
Conti’s eyes lit up, already planning ways to spoil her. He missed his little sister, and I knew Candice had filled that hole in his heart without even meeting him.
I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t ruin this hope he finally had. Maybe one day I’d get rid of these dirty thoughts, bury them deep and never let them see the light of day.
But one thing was clear- no one would hurt Candice...
Not even me...
Candice’s P.O.VTwo years after we planted those first lilies, the cliff garden had become something wild and generous.The original bulbs had multiplied into drifts of white trumpets that spilled down the slope toward the sea, mingling with wild rosemary and sea lavender that had taken root on their own. Every spring they bloomed thicker than the year before, as if the ground itself remembered how close we had come to losing everything and decided to give us beauty in return. I walked among them barefoot most mornings, coffee in one hand, the other resting on the gentle swell of my second pregnancy. This one was a boy, already kicking like he wanted to join the world early.Mantovani found me there just after sunrise, moving with the easy stride he had reclaimed over time. The limp was gone. The cane lived in the hall closet beside the old rifle we both hoped would never be needed again. He wore loose linen pants and an open shirt, the long silver scar ac
Candice’s P.O.V.Three years after we planted those first lilies, the cliff garden had become something wild and generous.The original bulbs had multiplied into drifts of white trumpets that spilled down the slope toward the sea, mingling with wild rosemary and sea lavender that had taken root on their own. Every spring they bloomed thicker than the year before, as if the ground itself remembered how close we had come to losing everything and decided to give us beauty in return. I walked among them barefoot most mornings, coffee in one hand, the other resting on the gentle swell of my second pregnancy—this one a boy, already kicking like he wanted to join the world early.Mantovani found me there just after sunrise, moving with the easy stride he had reclaimed over time. The limp was gone. The cane lived in the hall closet beside the old rifle we both hoped would never be needed again. He wore loose linen pants and an open shirt, the long silver sca
Candice’s P.O.V.Two years after the wedding, the villa no longer felt like an escape. It felt like the center of everything.I stood in the lemon grove at dusk, bare feet in cool grass, watching fireflies drift like tiny lanterns among the branches. The air was thick with citrus and sea salt, the kind of evening that made you believe summer would never end. From the terrace above came the low murmur of voices—Mom laughing at something Dad said, Sanna’s quiet rumble, Conti’s louder tone teasing Isabella about her latest art project. They were all here this week: family reunion, no agenda, just the simple act of being together.Mantovani found me in the grove like he always did when I wandered off. He moved quieter now, the limp almost gone, the cane long retired to a corner of the bedroom closet. He wore loose linen pants and an open shirt, the long silver scar across his chest catching the last of the light. He didn’t speak at firs
Candice’s P.O.V.One year to the day after we landed in Portugal, I woke to the smell of coffee and the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen downstairs. Sunlight streamed through the open balcony doors, warm and lazy, turning the white sheets gold and catching the tiny white lily charm on the chain around my neck. Mantovani’s side of the bed was empty, but the sheets were still warm, and his pillow smelled like him—salt air, clean cotton, and the faint trace of the aftershave he’d started wearing because I said it made him smell like home.I stretched slowly, smiling at the pleasant ache in my muscles from last night. We’d made love on the terrace under the stars again, slow and unhurried, laughing when the breeze made the curtains dance around us, whispering promises between kisses until the moon dipped low and we finally stumbled inside. My husband—God, that word still made my heart skip—had carried me to bed even though I t
Candice’s P.O.V.Six months after the wedding, the lilies we planted on the cliff bloomed for the first time.I found them at dawn—tiny white trumpets unfurling against the dark soil, fragile and defiant, exactly like us. I stood barefoot on the dew-wet grass in nothing but Mantovani’s linen shirt, coffee forgotten in my hand, watching the first light touch their petals until they glowed like small moons. My throat tightened with something too big for words. These flowers had no right to be alive. We’d planted them the day after we arrived—half-expecting them to wither in the salty wind or the rocky soil or the sheer improbability of two people like us daring to hope for permanence. Instead, they’d taken root. They’d waited through winter storms and spring rains. And now they were here—blooming, unapologetic, beautiful.I felt him before I heard him.Mantovani’s arms came around me from behind, warm an
Candice’s P.O.V.The first full month in Portugal passed like a slow exhale after years of holding our breath.We didn’t rush anything. Mantovani’s body still needed time—stitches dissolved, bruises faded to pale yellow ghosts, and some mornings he woke stiff and aching, pressing his palm to the scar on his chest like he could still feel the bullet there. I learned the shape of every new mark on him: the thin silver line where the surgeon had gone in, the faint pink circle where the chest tube had been, the way his left shoulder still caught when he reached too high. I kissed each one like I could erase it, even though we both knew scars don’t disappear—they just become part of the map we carry.Mornings became our ritual. I’d wake first, slip out of bed, and make coffee in the little kitchen that still smelled faintly of lemon polish and new beginnings. By the time the espresso machine hissed its last breath, Mantovani
As we split up, foreheads against each other, breathing each other's air, she said, The doctors told me you had hardly escaped a surgical operation. The bullet tore--cut your lung, your spleen. On the table they lost you twice. Sanna was screaming at them in Italian. Conti punched a wall. Mom wou
Mantovani's P.O.V.My consciousness came back in bits--sharp jagged bits that cut deeper than the bullet ever had.Then there was the pain: a living entity, red-hot and angry, wrapped around my chest like barbed wire that was tightening with each inhalation. Then the cattle, the sou
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 de
Candice's P.O.V.The interior of the van was now a mobile emergency room and the air reeked with the coppery taste of blood and the harsh sting of antiseptic wipes and each time the van went over the rough backroads, it was like a new pain in the chest of Mantovani, the chest lifting and f







