The Sheriff’s Answer

Candice’s P.O.V.

Two weeks of fragile peace.

Two weeks of cautious family dinners, late-night strategy sessions in Sanna’s study, and stolen moments with Mantovani where the world felt almost normal. Mom had started speaking to me without tears. Sanna and Mantovani had even shared a drink without arguing. Conti taught me how to strip and clean a handgun on the kitchen island while Mom pretended not to watch.

We knew it couldn’t last.

It ended on a Tuesday morning.

I was in the garden practicing cello—something I’d picked up again because Sanna had quietly moved my instrument into the sunroom. The bow felt foreign after so long, but the notes were coming back, slow and sweet.

Mantovani leaned in the doorway watching me, arms crossed, small smile on his face that he only ever wore when he thought no one was looking.

Then his phone buzzed.

The smile died.

He stepped outside, listened for ten seconds, face going stone-cold.

“Get inside,” he said quietly. “Now.”

I set the cello down carefully. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer—just took my hand and led me through the house to Sanna’s office.

Sanna, Conti, and three capos were already around the desk, staring at a laptop screen.

On it: local news footage.

A bombing.

Not our warehouse. Not a club property.

My old high school in New York.

The camera panned across the front entrance—shattered glass, smoke still rising, police tape fluttering. The ticker read: NO FATALITIES. DEVICE DETONATED AFTER HOURS. MESSAGE LEFT AT SCENE.

Sanna turned the volume up.

The reporter’s voice: “…authorities confirm a note was found pinned to the doors. It reads: ‘Tell the d’Agostino princess happy birthday from the Sheriff. Next time, it won’t be empty.’”

My knees buckled.

Mantovani caught me before I hit the floor.

“My dad,” I whispered. “He’s in New York. The school—”

Conti was already on his phone. “Checking flights, hospital records, NYPD chatter. Give me two minutes.”

Sanna’s face was grim. “This is a declaration. He’s telling us he can reach anywhere. Anyone.”

Mantovani’s voice was lethal quiet. “He used her birthday. He knows exactly when she turns eighteen. He’s counting down.”

I straightened, anger burning through the fear. “He wants me scared. Wants us looking over our shoulders.”

Sanna looked at me—really looked. “And what do you want to do, Candice?”

I met his eyes. “I want to stop running. I want to hit back where it hurts him.”

Mantovani’s hand tightened on mine. Pride and fear warring in his expression.

Conti hung up. “Your dad’s safe. He’s at home—NYPD has a car outside now. But the school… they found traces of the same explosive used on our Miami shipment last year. Same signature.”

Sanna closed the laptop. “He’s not just coming for territory. He’s coming for family.”

He turned to Mantovani. “Your move, son.”

Mantovani looked down at me.

“This ends one of two ways,” he said. “We escalate and risk everything. Or we find his brother—the one at your school—and use him to shut this down quietly.”

I thought of my dad alone in that quiet house. Of Mom finally smiling at dinner last night. Of the fragile peace we’d built.

Then I thought of the sheriff thinking he could terrorize us into submission.

I looked at Mantovani, then at Sanna.

“We do both,” I said. “We protect what’s ours. And we make him bleed for touching it.”

Sanna’s slow smile was proud and dangerous.

“Then we plan,” he said. “Together.”

Mantovani pulled me close, lips brushing my temple.

“Happy early birthday, piccola,” he murmured. “This year, you get a war won in your name.”

Outside, the garden was quiet.

Inside, the family closed ranks.

The sheriff had fired his shot.

Now it was our turn. dangerous.