I didn't exactly choose to be stolen at four years old.
But the French underworld isn't big on consent.
One minute I was Donatella Acardi, Mafia royalty. The next? Just another stolen kid bleeding in someone else's basement.
That's where I met Ami...
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Third Person POV:
Thirteen Years Ago
The Acardi estate basked in the late afternoon sun, wrapped in the golden glow of summer. Laughter rippled through the courtyard, spilling over from every stone wall and tiled rooftop. Today wasn’t just another celebration—it was the day. Donatella and Luca’s shared fourth birthday. And for a family as big and bold as the Acardis, that meant one thing: a party that could shake the heavens.
Every inch of the property had been transformed into a festival. There were long tables under vine-draped pergolas, glittering with glass pitchers of fruit juice, platters of fresh bruschetta, fried arancini, and mounds of gelato beginning to sweat under the Sicilian sun. A small stage had been built just for music and skits the children insisted on performing, with white curtains that flapped lazily in the breeze.
Donatella darted between chairs, pink dress flaring like a flower, curls bouncing wildly as she chased a runaway balloon. “LUCA!” she squealed. “It’s getting away!”
“I’ve got it!” Luca shouted, his little legs pumping, his bow tie crooked, one shoe untied.
Their older brothers were scattered around, taking their roles in the celebration more or less seriously. Leonardo, at ten, leaned against a column with arms crossed, trying to look disinterested but keeping his eyes on everyone. He was always the quiet watcher, the one who noticed when a knife was missing from the kitchen drawer or when Enzo had snuck cookies.
Dante, eight, was halfway up a tree with a slingshot and a smug grin. “I see the balloon! I’ll shoot it down.”
“No!” Gino yelled. “She wants it, not to kill it, dummy!”
Nicolo cackled beside him, already scooping up a handful of cannoli from the dessert table. “Five cannoli in one minute. Watch me.”
“You’re gonna throw up again,” Enzo warned, poking him with a fork. The triplets were five now—three indistinguishable whirlwinds of chaos and sticky fingers.
Their mother moved through it all like the eye of a storm. At just thirty years old, she looked like something out of a painting—soft features, commanding presence, honey-gold earrings catching the light. She kissed cheeks, refilled glasses, wiped mouths, and threatened to ground her sons with a sweet smile that made grown men step back.
Armando appeared from the back garden, his deep laugh booming across the yard. “Who stole the cake knife? I’ll shoot whoever touches that tiramisu before the candles are out!”
“Nonna did it!” Nicolo snitched immediately.
“She’s eighty-three, you coward!” Gino barked. “Take the fall like a man!”
