Blade

Chapter 65: A Gamble with Trust

Sienna

Why does the universe always feel the need to torture me?

It’s like my life is some twisted sitcom thrown together for the amusement of whoever’s watching.

I left this mansion a little over a week ago, swearing I’d never come back to the place where my heartbreak began. The plan was to stay away until Blade decided it was time for us to walk down the aisle and finally tie the knot.

When Blade and Franco insisted we return, I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. Not after what happened to Camilla. She was shot right in front of me, and according to Franco, I was the target. Camilla just happened to be in the line of fire. I’m already wrecked by everything that’s happened, and the last thing I want is for my stubborn pride to cause her more harm.

Whether I like it or not, Blade’s mansion is the safest place for us to be.

As soon as we got back, I settled into a guest room one floor below Blade’s. It gave me the privacy I needed and helped me avoid him at all costs, even if we were under the same roof again. Staying in our old room would only drag me back to memories I’ve been trying so damn hard to erase.

For the next three or four days, Blade and I didn’t see each other. Either I caught sight of him before entering a room and made myself scarce, or he stayed holed up in his room or office doing god knows what. The last time I saw him was when he and Franco dealt with the guards who failed to protect us—thankfully, they stopped short of killing them—and when we almost ran into each other while visiting Camilla. He excused himself, and since then, I haven’t seen him.

During those days, Manuelle visited a few times to check on Camilla and spend time with her as she recovered.

The past few days have been hectic, and I’ve become more alert than ever since I realized I was the real target of the shooting, not Camilla. It makes me wonder if the person sending those threats is the same one who pulled the trigger. The thought won’t leave my head no matter how hard I try.

One thing’s for sure, I’m not about to sit around while some bastard roams free, plotting to kill me. I’ll make sure whoever it is ends up buried six feet under, screaming. I’ve been forgetting who I am lately, forgetting the training I went through as the daughter of a mafia boss. Not anymore. It’s time I take matters into my own hands, because I’ll be damned if I let Camilla or anyone I care about get caught in this mess.

“Franco,” I call out, striding across the stretch of green, the crunch of grass sharp beneath my heels with every step.

He doesn’t answer right away. He stands near the flag, dressed in tailored slacks and a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos on his forearms. A cigarette burns between his lips as he takes his position, lines up his shot, and swings. The ball arcs smoothly through the air before dropping cleanly into the hole.

He smirks and says a few things in Italian to the men seated in low leather loungers arranged in small groups around marble tables on the stone terrace that overlooks the green, shaded by wide white umbrellas fluttering lazily in the afternoon breeze.

“Franco,” I call again, irritation slipping into my tone as the private bartender from the pavilion near the course hands him a glass of bourbon.

“What is it, Sienna? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he mutters, lining up another shot while one of the men—likely one of their mafia associates—steps forward for his turn, his gold club resting on his shoulder.

Since I started living at the Armani estate, I’ve never come across the golf course. I didn’t even know Blade had one, and what’s even more surprising is that Franco actually knows how to play. It seems to be something he genuinely enjoys.