Blade

Chapter 66: The Roots of My Ruin

Blade

The tall iron gates open, and I drive down the long driveway lined with cypress and lemon trees, their thin shadows stretching under the late sun. My hands tighten around the wheel with every turn, the air growing stale and heavy in my chest.

As soon as I park, I step out, slam the door shut, and press the key to lock it. My gaze lifts to the enormous manor towering on the Sicilian hillside, overlooking the turquoise expanse of the Mediterranean.

The property sprawls endlessly, ancient yet powerful, with every entrance guarded by armed men dressed in sharp black suits.

It’s my first time stepping into the Armani family home in decades. Nothing has changed. Everything looks exactly the same, and the memories tied to this manor linger like ghosts in the walls. I spent my miserable childhood here, and the moment I had the chance, I left. I built my own estate in the heart of Milan and swore I’d never return. But every fucking promise is meant to be broken.

My heart beats hard against my ribs as I pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, take one out, light it, and exhale a cloud of smoke.

As I approach the main doors, the guards stationed there bow their heads in respect and pull them open for me. My lungs tighten the moment I step inside, and memories crash into me with brutal force, blinding me for a moment before I manage to regain control and move deeper into the manor.

The halls that once carried the faint scent of cigars, aged wine, and polished wood now reek of death and sorrow. The stench turns my stomach. The ember of my cigarette glows as I take a drag, flaring briefly before fading again.

Chandeliers hang from arched ceilings, and portraits of my ruthless ancestors line the walls—men who ruled before my father, including the bastard himself—each face etched with the same cold cruelty. The main hall opens into a grand staircase and an expansive sitting room with towering ceilings, deep leather couches, a piano untouched for decades, and shelves crammed with old books and even older secrets.

Normally, dust would have claimed every surface, but I have the housekeeper come by to scrub the place clean, leaving it spotless. Still, no matter how much it shines, this house remains tainted by its ghosts and the horrors it refuses to forget.

I crush the cigarette and toss it aside before heading up the staircase. My body goes cold as the sound of his voice hits me.

“Guarda me quando ti parlo, ragazzo.”
(Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.)

Even with him locked away, he somehow always finds a way to crawl back into my mind and ruin everything.

It doesn’t take long before a long-buried memory drags me back into its trap.

I’m ten again, sitting in the dim dining hall lit by a single chandelier swaying slightly from the rising heat. My father sits at the head of the table in a tailored suit, a glass of wine in his hand. His cold eyes flick toward my mother across the table.

“You’re late,” he says in a menacing tone.

My mother doesn’t lift her gaze. Her hands tremble as she sets down the breadbasket. “I apologize for the delay, Leandro. I had something important—”

“More important than dinner with your husband and son?” he cuts in, his grip tightening around his utensils.

She swallows hard, staying silent so she won’t provoke him further.

I keep my eyes on my plate, careful not to meet his gaze. I’ve learned the hard way that my father hates being looked at when he’s angry.

The sharp sound of glass breaking makes me flinch. When I look up, my mother is trembling, and my father’s gaze is fixed on the shards of his fallen wineglass.