𝔄𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔞 𝔇𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔢

Chapter 23~Amateurs

Donatella POV

I shouldn’t be laughing. I really shouldn’t be laughing. I should be like—horrified. Scandalized. Pretending to clutch my nonexistent pearls like some wide-eyed Victorian orphan.

But nope.

I was folded in half behind the dumb-ass statue in the hallway like a criminal raccoon, hands over my mouth, shaking so violently I nearly chipped a tooth trying not to bark out laughter.

“They pass the salt like a grenade,” I whispered to myself between wheezes. “Like a fucking grenade—” and I promptly lost it again, doubling over and smacking the marble base of the statue like I was slapping my knee at a stand-up special.

These men—these grown-ass, allegedly terrifying mafia men—were in there having a damn meltdown over whether to tell me and Amir they’re mobsters. Like it’s not the worst kept secret in Italy. Like I didn’t hack my first police database when I was seven years old. Like I don’t have their entire operation—including three secret fronts, two laundering networks, and a fake olive oil business—mapped on a secure encrypted drive under my mattress.

I’m Donatella, bitch. The hacker formerly known as Angela della morte. I’ve blown up banks with emails. And these fools think I believe they sell olive oil and own shipping companies?

Enzo cut Amir’s apple with a switchblade at breakfast last week. A gold-plated switchblade. Said nothing. Just cleaned the blade with his shirt and winked. Like a Bond villain crossed with a frat boy. And they think I’m buying the whole “family business” bullshit?

Oh, I’m gonna die. I’m gonna laugh myself into a coma.

They started moving inside—chairs scraping, voices rising—and I bolted like someone lit a firecracker under my ass. I nearly slipped on the polished floor in my socks, caught myself on a vase, and whispered, “Sorry, nonna,” like the damn porcelain ghost was gonna smite me.

I sprinted down the hall, hair flying, almost tripped on the rug with the weird wolf embroidered into it, and skidded around the corner like I was in the Fast & Furious: Sicilian Drift.

“Tesoro!” someone bellowed behind me.

Shit.

Armando.

The man who looks like he wrestled God for custody of the moon.

I whipped around mid-run, slapping the most innocent, wide-eyed, baby doll look on my face like I hadn’t just been speed-running through the hallway like a raccoon on bath salts.

“Yes, papino?” I chirped, batting my lashes.

He was walking toward me now, gold cufflinks sparkling, hair slicked back, sunglasses on indoors like it was 2007 and he was about to drop an R&B album.

“Why were you running, bella? Like the devil himself was chasing you.”

“Exercise?” I offered, voice higher than my GPA used to be.

He raised an eyebrow. “Exercise. In the halls. In socks.”

“…Cardio’s important?”

He gave me that squinty-eyed Italian dad look like he knew I was full of shit but also adored me too much to press further. Which is exactly why I pushed my luck.

I spun a little on my heel and leaned forward, resting my chin in my hand like an innocent little lamb with a bloodstained knife behind her back.

“Actually, I’ve been super curious lately…” I began slowly, dragging the words out like honey over broken glass. “About your work.”

Armando blinked. “Work?”

“You know,” I said, all breezy and innocent. “The family business. I’ve always wondered about it. I mean, I’ve been back for a while now and it’s all so mysterious. All these offices and meetings and unmarked black vans coming and going at 3 a.m…”

He was sweating. Actually sweating.

“I just thought maybe I could visit one of the buildings,” I said sweetly. “Y’know. Get a feel for what y’all do. I could shadow someone! Do a little internship!”

The silence was immediate.

Then chaos.

Leonardo’s voice: “We’re renovating all the buildings right now.”

Dante: “They’re being sprayed for… termites.”

Enzo: “I think there’s asbestos. Everywhere. Can’t breathe in asbestos. Bad for the lungs.”

Nicolo: “We’ve all got... meetings. In… Dubai.”

Gino signed something frantic, and Nicolo added, “Gino says one of the buildings burned down. All of them, actually. Simultaneously. Last week.”

Armando: “No, tesoro, no. You must rest. You’ve been through so much. Your body is precious. Like a delicate flower. Or an endangered bird. You shouldn’t be near… industrial buildings.”

They all looked horrified.

Like I’d just asked to personally execute a tax audit on their souls.

“Ohhhh,” I said slowly, nodding. “Got it. Right, yeah. Termites and asbestos and mysterious fires. Super normal. Definitely not suspicious.”

They looked like deer caught in headlights. Except instead of headlights it was like a semi truck of truth barreling toward them and they were all flat-footed in the middle of the emotional highway.

“I’ll just go…” I gestured vaguely toward the staircase. “Y’know. Sit quietly. Knit something. Think about flowers. Girl stuff.”

None of them said anything. Armando just gave me two thumbs up like he had no idea what to do with his hands anymore.

I speed-walked out of there like the hallway was on fire, trying so hard not to burst out laughing again. I heard someone whisper “She suspects,” behind me and I actually snorted.

I slammed the bedroom door shut behind me, leaned against it, and finally let the laugh rip out of my lungs like a damn banshee.

They think we’re the ones who’d be scared if we found out?

Oh, no, no, no.

They’re the ones who should be scared.

They had no idea who I was. Who we were.

And that was the best part.

Because I’ve known since I was seven. When I hacked their files while eating animal crackers in a stolen tech closet.

And they’re just now debating whether to tell me?

Idiots.

Adorable, dangerous, completely screwed idiots.

I flopped onto my bed, grinning like a fox in a chicken coop.

Oh, Amir is gonna love this.