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:
I paced back and forth in my room, the rug underneath my feet damn near worn down from how much I'd been walking in circles. The post-dinner buzz had long died down, and I was back in my element—obsessing, overthinking, and plotting. Their answers had been so vague. “We don’t talk about competition.” “Everyone’s got their place.” Blah. Blah. *Bullshit*.
They were dodging, weaving around every question I threw like I didn’t notice. I noticed. I *always* notice. That’s half the reason I’m still alive. But if they were gonna be secretive little snakes about everything, fine. I could play that game too. I *invented* that game.
I sat down at my desk, cracked my knuckles, and pulled up my private files again. Still nothing new on the French Mafia. It was like chasing a ghost—no names, no faces, no concrete locations. And most importantly, *nothing* on *HIM*. The Don. The one who ruined everything.
I clenched my jaw, dragging a hand down my face. “Ugh, I’m gonna throw my laptop out the damn window.”
From the bathroom, the door cracked open, steam spilling out as Amir walked into the room towel-drying his curls, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “Again?” he asked without looking, already hearing the frustration in my voice. “I swear, you threaten that laptop like it's an actual person.”
“Maybe if it had feelings, it’d try harder.”
He snorted. “What’s got you growling like a feral cat this time?”
I turned to him, leaning back in my chair. “We need to break into Leonardo’s office.”
He froze mid-dry. “Come again?”
“You heard me.” I crossed my arms. “Leonardo. Office. Break in. Tonight.”
He blinked. “You do realize that’s *your brother*, right?”
“No, he's my "brother".” I do quotations with my hands.
“That's exactly the same thing.”
“Barely.”
Amir threw the towel over a chair and walked toward me slowly, eyebrows furrowed like I’d lost every damn brain cell. “Leo. Leonardo ‘Ice-in-his-veins’ Moretti. Mafia Don. Probably has lasers, landmines, heat sensors, and a literal death button under his desk. That Leonardo?”
I grinned. “That’s the one.”
He stared at me, mouth slightly open, before throwing his hands up. “Oh my God. You’ve finally lost it. You’ve been spending too much time around the Russians and the cappuccino machine. You’re cracked.”
“I’m *focused*.”
“You’re *insane*.”
I stood up and walked over to him. He tensed as I placed both hands on his shoulders and looked up at him, my expression serious.
