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 second I heard the bathroom door creak open, steam pouring out like a horror movie fog machine on steroids, I launched into action like a rabid squirrel on a Red Bull bender.
“AMIR!”
A muffled curse. A towel hit the floor. “Jesus—can I dry off first?!”
“No time!” I howled, stomping across the room and grabbing him by the wrist like I was dragging him into a war zone. “We’ve got bigger problems than your damp ass!”
He yelped—actually yelped—and tried to pull away, dripping water across the hardwood, clutching at the towel wrapped around his waist like it was his last shred of dignity.
“Dona, I’m naked, woman—”
“Yeah, yeah, modesty is dead. Move, Agent Bond,” I growled, yanking him toward the bed like it was an interrogation chair.
I shoved him down, the mattress squeaking in protest as I flopped next to him, hands flying, eyes wild.
“Okay. So. First of all—you smell amazing, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I just eavesdropped on the Italian Mafia having a meeting about whether or not to tell us they’re in the Italian Mafia.”
Amir blinked at me. “What.”
“They were in Leonardo’s office—all of them, bro—Armando, Dante, Enzo, Gino, fucking Luca with the gelled hair that looks like it’s bulletproof, and Nicolo who smells like musk and war crimes—and they were going feral trying to decide if they should tell us they’re in the mafia.”
Amir blinked again.
“Amir,” I hissed, grabbing both his shoulders, “they think we don’t know. They think we don’t know, man. They’re in there sweating bullets over their ‘business secrets’ like I haven’t known this since I hacked into their offshore accounts at seven.”
Amir rubbed his face. “Dona. I just got out the shower.”
“I know! And I’m thrilled you smell like lavender and violence, but focus! They’re losing their minds thinking we’ll be scared of them. Scared. As if I didn’t delete a Yakuza kill order off your back while eating Doritos in our bunker.”
He groaned and tried to lie back, but I yanked him upright again.
“And get this—get this—they tried to make excuses when I asked to visit one of their ‘offices.’ Enzo said the buildings are filled with asbestos. Nicolo said they all caught a mysterious case of… Dubai. And Gino signed something so fast it looked like he was having a seizure, and Nicolo translated it as: ‘All the buildings burned down.’ All of them. Last week. At the same time.”
He sat up, towel still somehow defying gravity. “Okay. So what do we do? Confront them? Send an email blast? Leave a bloody note on a spaghetti plate?”
“Oh no, no, no.” I leaned in close, grinning like a raccoon about to steal someone’s debit card. “We don’t do anything.”
“…What.”
I flopped onto the bed, arm over my eyes like a tragic, dramatic heroine. “We act oblivious.”
“Excuse me?”
I sat back up, very serious. “Listen to me. They don’t know what we are. They don’t know what we’ve done. They don’t know about the bounty, the files, the French Don, the black site in Bucharest, or the fact that I own three separate burner phones in this house alone.”
Amir blinked again. “…You own three burners here?”
“One in the vent, one in the lamp, one taped under the toilet tank. Like the mafia roach I am.”
He just nodded slowly. “Right. Carry on.”
I scooted closer, deadly serious. “We act dumb. We act confused. We smile and giggle and say things like ‘what’s a shell company?’ and ‘isn’t the Don some kind of pastry?’—”
“Stop,” Amir said, shaking with silent laughter.
“We play innocent. Because the moment they find out we’re not just some tragic kidnapped kids who grew up eating dirt in the wilderness—they’ll ask questions. And if they ask questions, we’ll either be dead, disowned, or drafted into a family war we can’t control yet.”
He nodded, leaning forward like I was giving the sermon on the mount.
“And,” I added, deadpan, “I like being alive. And I like this bed. And I really like Armando’s chef, so I’m not risking shit.”
Amir held up a hand. “Preach.”
I smacked it with a high five so loud it echoed.
“We’re gonna smile. We’re gonna play dumb. We’re gonna be cute and tragic and mysterious.”
“We’re gonna pretend not to know Gino has fourteen confirmed kills and a pet turtle named Lucifer.”
“We’re gonna act surprised when Nicolo ‘accidentally’ breaks someone’s kneecaps in the garden.”
“We’re gonna clap politely when Dante talks about ‘importing goods’ like he didn’t just launder thirty million in cartel money.”
“And we’re not gonna blink—not once—when Enzo calls in an airstrike via WhatsApp.”
We both sat there, grinning.
Silent.
Then Amir said, “What if they make us wear little mafia suits.”
I blinked. “...Like pinstripes?”
“And gold rings. Real dramatic.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “If they try to teach us how to intimidate someone with a cigar and a meat cleaver, I’m quitting life.”
“Promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“If Leonardo offers you a gun with your espresso again…”
I sighed. “I’ll say thank you and pretend I don’t already have two strapped to my thighs.”
“Good girl.”
I fell back onto the bed again, wheezing into a pillow.
This was gonna be fun-wait.
What did he just call me?
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