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The Calm Before the Strike

作者: Ria Rome
last update 公開日: 2026-01-03 20:03:56

Candice's P.O.V.

Three days later, after my reconciliation with Mom, the villa did not seem as it was: it was still a fortress, but a villa with open windows.

Mom had been coming to the procession of the morning coffee in the terrace. She did not talk at first--she was simply sitting there with her cup, watching the sea in the distance--but she was there. Sanna would draw out her chair and not make a fuss. Conti, in his turn, jokingly mocked her due to her espresso method, being

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    Candice’s P.O.V.The gallery in Lisbon had transformed into a living canvas that night. Soft lighting spilled across Isabella’s paintings, turning the white walls into windows into her soul. I stood near the entrance with Mantovani’s arm around my waist, watching our niece move through the growing crowd with a quiet confidence that made my chest swell with pride. At twenty-two, Isabella had become a force of color and courage, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid, her black dress simple yet striking. She paused to speak with visitors, her hands gesturing animatedly as she explained the stories behind each piece.One large canvas dominated the far wall: a stormy sea crashing against jagged rocks, waves foaming white with rage. At the top of the cliff stood two small figures, hand in hand, their silhouettes outlined in gold against the darkness. In the foreground, white lilies bloomed impossibly among the stones, glowing like beacons of defiance. The

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    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

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    Candice’s P.O.V.The hospital discharged Mantovani on a Thursday morning that smelled like rain and fresh coffee from the cart down the hall. The doctors had argued for another week—internal bleeding, cracked ribs, the lung that still wasn’t inflating the way they wanted&

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    Candice's P.O.V.The very first time that Mantovani opened his eyes after the third crash I believed I was dreaming.The room we were in was dark--blinds half-open to the mid-morning sun, machinery clammering its constant, mechanical lullaby--and I had been staring at his face so lo

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    Mantovani's P.O.V.The initial inhalation that I made in the absence of fire in my lungs caused me to feel like robbing something holy.Slow--deliberate--as though I had to relearn the operation of air. The hospital room smelled of bleach and coffee that was old and stale and the ki

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    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

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