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:
My blood went ice cold.
I stared at the screen for what felt like forever, barely breathing, like blinking too hard would make the nightmare worse. The words were there-black background, red font, typical edgy underground forum formatting. Anonymous handles. VPN routes that bounced all over the globe. It was the digital underworld's version of Times Square, and in the middle of it all...
Our names.
Not our real ones.
But the ones that mattered more.
Angela della Morte. Morte Nero.
A bounty poster. Bold. Beautiful. The kind of thing you almost had to respect-if it weren't about your own death.
Wanted. Dead or Alive. Barely Dead.
Targets: Angela della Morte & Morte Nero Known aliases: Unknown Last seen: Rome, Venice, Madrid, Kyoto, Monaco, Marrakesh. Danger Level: "High" is an understatement.
Reward: $10 million USD each.
My mouth dried up. My lungs? Gone. Organs? Useless. Brain? Still rebooting.
They knew.
They knew.
"Ohhh shiiiii-Amir!" I screeched.
He nearly broke his spine trying to stand up from the floor, kicking over a chair, stepping on his laptop. "What? What happened?! Is it Aleksander again? Did he text you?! Is he shirtless?!"
"No-what-no! Amir, we're gonna die!"
"From Aleksander's shirtlessness?"
"NO!" I jabbed the screen so hard the cursor stuttered. "Look!"
He squinted. Then froze.
"Ohhh... oh my god."
"Yup."
"Ten million?" he whispered. "We're worth ten million?!"
"Why does that sound like you're flattered?!"
He looked at me, eyes wide. "Because I am?? That's a lot of zeros! Like, we're premium hits! Legendary! Platinum tier! Netflix should make a documentary!"
"You know what else has a lot of zeros? Our lifespans if this stays up!"
I started pacing the room like a feral cat. Every five steps I kicked something. My desk chair, the trash bin, a slipper, Amir's leg.
"How did they find us? We've been clean for years. We ditched the gear. Ditched the burner phones. Covered our tracks. Changed continents like five times-"
"They must've seen us that night in Venice. The casino job," Amir muttered, running a hand through his hair.
