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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Donatella POV:
The streets of Naples were nothing like the polished, prim cities i'd seen in movies. No, this part of town was a goddamn warzone of oil-stained asphalt, chain-link fences, cracked sidewalks, and the thick stench of gasoline. Just my kind of paradise.
I sat on the hood of a stolen black muscle car, twirling a crowbar in one hand, gum in my mouth, and a plan in my eyes. The street race was just getting started-engines roaring, tires squealing, music blasting from busted speakers duct-taped to folding tables. Neon lights strobed off rusted metal and concrete walls, making the whole scene look like hell's rave party.
Amir was beside me, already in character. Black hoodie, black jeans, smudged eyeliner like some off-brand rockstar, and that goddamn smug look that screamed "I'm about to commit a felony and look hot doing it."
I cracked my gum. "You ready, dimwit?"
He rolled his neck, eyes scanning the crowd. "Born ready. But, uh, remind me again-how are we getting arrested? 'Cause this place looks like nobody gives a single flying fuck what anyone does."
I grinned. "That's the fun part. We gotta make them give a fuck."
I hopped off the hood and grabbed my duffel bag-inside, spray paint, smoke bombs, a couple of fireworks (because why not?), and some flash drives. I handed one to Amir.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Footage," I said, biting down on my gum. "Of the race organizers selling illegal weapons out the back of that janky-ass van over there. You're gonna plug that into the speakers and blast it."
He stared. "You made a fucking expose?"
"I have layers, thank you very much."
"Like an onion."
"Like a landmine."
He snorted. "And while I do that?"
I grinned. "I'll be tagging every cop car and building in sight, blowing up some smoke bombs, maybe kiss a few racers' girlfriends just to start a fight."
"...You've been planning this, haven't you?"
"Since the plane."
He sighed, grabbed the flash drive, and jogged off toward the music booth.
I pulled my hoodie up, secured my crowbar, and disappeared into the crowd like a ghost with a vendetta.
Fifteen minutes later, all hell broke loose.
The illegal footage of the race organizers played full volume across the speakers, overlapping with Cardi B and some Italian DJ screaming into a mic. Shouts erupted. People pointed. A guy tried to cut the wires, but Amir shoved him and ran.
I, on the other hand? I was already ten buildings deep, tagging "FUCK THE SYSTEM - D" in massive red letters on the front of the police substation near the lot. A cop car nearby got a matching spray job before I tossed a smoke bomb under it and booked it back toward the race.
