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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Armando POV:
Armando Acardi was not a man easily shaken.
He stood tall in the steel confines of the warehouse, tailored black suit immaculate despite the sweat, blood, and smoke that had once stained this very floor. His hair was slicked back, silver at the temples, the only visible sign of age—everything else about him screamed control. Dominance. Power.
And right now? He was using all of it to make damn sure not a single box in the latest shipment left without his signature.
He’d trusted the Greeks. That was his mistake. They’d let rats chew through the foundation of their loyalty, and now he had to pick up the pieces before the rest of Europe thought they could test the Della Morte name.
He checked the manifest again, eyes scanning over every crate of modified weapons, every sealed trunk of encrypted tech, every custom component. “No fuck-ups,” he muttered in fluent Italian, snapping the folder shut. “I want this sent out clean. If even one barcode doesn’t match, I’ll skin the bastard responsible.”
“Yes, Armando,” the guards and staff echoed around him.
He was about to turn to leave when his phone buzzed in his pocket—an encrypted satellite line, rarely used. Only for emergencies. Or family.
His brow furrowed. He stepped away, his polished dress shoes clicking against the concrete floor, and answered.
“Parla.”
“Mr. Acardi?” the voice on the other end was gruff, official, laced with caution.
“This is he. Who is this?”
“This is Officer Giovanni Rossi, Naples Police Department.”
Armando’s spine went stiff. “Why are you calling me on this line?”
“I… I wasn’t sure if this was even real,” the officer admitted. “We ran a routine blood test on a girl and boy we arrested. Teenagers. The girl said her name was Donatella. Matched your family's DNA markers.”
Armando went silent. Everything around him seemed to mute—every machine, every shouting voice, every hum of the dockyard generators.
“…Donatella?” he said quietly. “Describe her.”
“Seventeen. Big mouth. Olive skin. Dark hair. Sharp tongue, I mean—real sharp. Almost broke a chair in the holding room. Said she didn’t have family. Said she didn’t care to.”
Armando closed his eyes. That sounded like her. That sounded *exactly* like her even though it's been years.
“And the boy?”
“Not blood. But he’s with her. Protective. Dangerous. They’re together. She said his name was Amir.”
Of course she’d have someone with her. Armando’s chest tightened, but he didn’t let it reach his voice. “Send me a photo. I want proof.”
“Sending it now.”
His phone dinged.
He opened the message.
There she was.
Older. Angrier. Wilder. Her jaw was more defined, her posture more defiant. But those eyes… Those were her mother’s eyes. And that was his daughter.
His daughter who had disappeared thirteen goddamn years ago.
His voice cracked just slightly as he muttered, “Figlia mia…”
“Sir?” the officer said, confused by the softness in his tone.
“I’m coming to the station,” Armando said, already turning on his heel and snapping his fingers at his closest guards. “Don’t tell anyone else she’s there. Not until I get there. No questions. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up and immediately dialed another number. One ring. Two.
“Papa?” a young voice answered.
“Leonardo,” Armando said, voice low and firm. “I need you.”
“Of course. What happened? Are we under attack again?”
“No. We found her.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, like the air had been punched from Leonardo’s lungs.
“…Dona?” he whispered.
“Yes. She’s alive.”
“Dio mio…” Leonardo breathed. “Where is she? When can I see her?”
“You’re coming with me now. But no one else. Do *not* tell your brothers, not yet. I need to confirm it’s really her. That she’s safe. That this isn’t some trick.”
“I won’t say a word, I swear it.”
“I’ll be outside in five minutes. We’re going to Naples.”
Leonardo didn’t even bother replying. He was already moving.
Armando slid the phone back into his coat pocket, face unreadable, heart hammering behind his ribs. His daughter. The one he buried in his grief. The one he cursed the heavens for stealing. The one the world told him was *gone.*
She wasn’t gone.
She was here.
He got into the sleek black Mercedes idling in the lot, Leonardo climbing into the seat beside him, face pale and full of questions.
“Drive,” Armando ordered the driver.
And just like that, the Acardi men were heading toward the ghost that had haunted them for over a decade—now flesh and blood once again.
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