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 bell rang like a slap to the soul.
I groaned as Amir and I stared down at the schedules that Satan himself must've written. Different classes. All day. What kind of evil joke was that? I looked at him like he'd just died, clutched the paper to my chest like it was a death certificate.
"You okay?" he asked, even though his schedule looked worse than mine.
"No," I said flatly. "I'm about to be thrown into a war zone. Alone."
He chuckled and ruffled my hair-rude-before nudging me toward the direction of my first class. "Don't bite anyone."
"No promises."
I dragged my feet to history, which was tucked away in some old wing of the school that smelled like dust, ink, and pure disappointment. I already hated it. I was late too-of course I was. Of course. The classroom door was closed, the windows fogged from the rain outside, and I could hear the teacher talking inside.
Perfect.
I adjusted my blazer, smoothed my skirt, and knocked once like a polite little demon.
"Come in," the teacher called.
I opened the door slowly, stepped inside, and immediately regretted it. Every single person turned to look at me like I had walked in with a knife and a bad attitude. Okay-maybe the attitude part was right. But the knife was in my backpack.
The teacher-a tall man with a receding hairline and an 'I hate my job' face-lowered his reading glasses and narrowed his eyes.
"You're late," he said, because he clearly had no regard for peace or my mood.
I nodded, unbothered. "Yeah."
He squinted. "Name?"
I stared at him for a beat too long.
"...First and last, please."
I gave him only the first.
"Donatella."
Silence.
He waited.
I didn't budge.
"...Just Donatella?" he repeated, already annoyed.
"Yup."
Someone in the back snorted. I didn't look. I didn't care.
