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 castle was somehow both freezing and humid. Like a haunted icebox. I was shivering in the kitchen despite wearing a hoodie that cost more than my soul, trying to heat up leftover pasta in a gold-accented microwave that had no business being so bougie. I had survived a day of being spoiled, pampered, borderline smothered, and now I just wanted carbs, peace, and maybe to scream into the fridge about how expensive fancy water shouldn't taste like wet air.
Amir was somewhere in the east wing yelling about losing a sock and arguing with Dante over the moral implications of glittery cologne. Daniela and Diego had taken over the upstairs theater to stream something loud and probably illegal. Gino was brooding in the shadows like a part-time vampire. Luca was playing hide and seek by himself. Leonardo had vanished to “meditate,” which likely meant he fell asleep in the weapons room again. Enzo was probably in the corner of a dark hallway sharpening knives and glaring into walls.
And me? I was about to eat cold tortellini out of a designer bowl with a literal gold spoon.
Classy.
I took one bite, then nearly dropped the fork as the kitchen door creaked open.
And in walked Aleksander.
In slow motion.
Backlit by the hallway chandelier, long black coat sweeping behind him like some villain straight out of a fantasy film, eyes glinting with cold disapproval and something vaguely lethal. The air dropped by seven degrees just because he entered. He didn't say anything. Just… stood there. Towering. Brooding. Radiating "I’ve strangled people for less" energy.
I shoved another tortellini in my mouth because chewing was the only power I had left.
He walked to the fridge with the same energy one might use when planning a coup. Opened it. Pulled out a water bottle. Closed the fridge.
Still hadn’t said a word.
Still hadn’t looked away from me.
Still looked like he knew seventeen ways to kill someone with a spoon.
Mine, specifically.
I blinked. “Are you… hungry or…?”
No answer.
I pointed at the pasta like I was offering a peace treaty. “There’s some left. Unless you don’t eat carbs. You look like the type who chews protein powder and regret.”
He raised one eyebrow. Barely. But that counted as a reaction.
“I’m not afraid of you, by the way,” I added quickly, for reasons even I didn’t understand. “I’ve been through worse. I survived Catholic school. And one time, I watched Amir eat sushi from a gas station. I’ve seen things.”
He still didn’t speak.
Just opened the water bottle and took a slow sip, never looking away.
