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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Donatella POV:
The docks reeked of blood, oil, and salt. Smoke curled through the morning haze like it had nowhere better to be. I leaned against a blood-slicked shipping container, arms crossed, one boot casually resting on the twitching body of the Greek bastard I’d left alive.
My lip curled.
“You’re lucky I haven’t started skinning you yet,” I muttered to the groaning man underfoot, just loud enough so he’d whimper again. It was therapeutic.
I glanced up as the sound of tires screeched across gravel. The Koreans had arrived.
A sleek black van rolled in like a panther, followed by two matte bikes and a modified black SUV—because of course they needed to be dramatic too. Out jumped armed men in tactical gear, guns up, stance military.
And then Amir hopped out behind them, muttering something about “fucking finally” as he jogged toward me. His eyes scanned the scene, narrowing slightly when he saw the blood trail leading to my boots.
“You seriously went in solo?”
I popped a bubble of gum, unfazed. “Oh, I didn’t go in alone. I had a whole welcoming committee.”
“You’re gonna get us both killed.”
I shrugged. “Correction. I’m gonna get me paid. If you happen to die along the way, I’ll shed a tear. Maybe. If there’s whiskey involved.”
He shook his head and kept walking.
Then they approached.
The big shots from the Korean Mafia. Sharp suits. Sharper eyes. Serious energy. They barely nodded, already inspecting the scene with tight lips and furrowed brows. A few mumbled things in Korean. One of them, an older man with silver hair and murder in his eyes, gave a low grunt of approval.
“Thank you,” he said, tone stiff.
I twitched like someone had fired a gun.
“Woah, woah. Don’t start getting all warm and fuzzy on me. Keep your gratitude to yourself, gramps. I didn’t do this to make friends, I did it for cash and because I like breaking bones before breakfast.”
Then one of the younger guys—probably some suck-up trying to impress the brass—walked up with his arms wide like he was gonna hug me.
I backed away like he had leprosy.
“Try it, and I swear to God, I’ll break your spine and use it as a coat hanger.”
He froze. Awkward silence.
“Smart man,” I said, patting him on the cheek with my blood-stained glove.
That’s when he stepped out.
Jeong Do-Yoon.
And everything around me just… dulled for a second.
Seventeen? Seventeen? I did a double take. That wasn’t a teenager—that was a goddamn manga protagonist.
