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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Leonardo POV:
Leonardo sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, a half-empty glass of scotch hanging loosely in one hand. The room was dim—lit only by the soft orange glow of the fireplace and the city lights bleeding through the tall windows. The girl, whose name he hadn’t even bothered to remember, lay sprawled across the other side of the bed, tangled in his sheets like some expensive but useless decoration. She giggled at something—maybe nothing at all—and he didn’t even blink.
He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t *there*. Not really.
His eyes were empty, glassy from the alcohol, but also hollow from something far worse than drinking. It was like he was constantly drowning, just beneath the surface. Every day. Every goddamn day.
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years since they took her.
Thirteen years since his little sister vanished in the night, and no one—not even the best mercenaries or the finest bloodhounds in the business—could find her.
Donatella.
And then two years later, their mother died. Right in the middle of that grief-stained war. The kind of death that didn’t leave blood, but left a hole no bullet could ever fill. She disappeared on the same night Donatella did. One body turned up. One didn’t.
He never even got to bury her. Just an empty casket and a closed ceremony. Like a fucking joke.
The weight of it all still pressed on his chest like a damn iron safe. Being the oldest. Having to take care of the others. Having to sit at the head of the table after Armando “retired” with a cigar in one hand and his usual damn smile, like he didn’t just dump an empire into Leonardo’s lap.
He hated it.
No. He didn’t *hate* the power. He *was* the power.
He just hated what it turned him into.
Cold. Sharp. Detached. A ghost of the boy he used to be.
This girl on his bed—whoever the hell she was—had just been another escape hatch. Another thing to touch and ruin. She was laughing now. Something sultry and high-pitched, dragging his mind back into the moment.
He blinked once. Twice.
Her voice coiled around the room like smoke. “You’re quiet, baby. That’s mysterious. I like that…”
He didn’t answer. He stood up slowly, every movement deliberate. The glass in his hand clinked softly as he set it down on the desk. She looked up at him with wide, cat-like eyes, trailing her hand down his abs like she was trying to memorize them.
“Don’t touch me,” he said flatly.
The smile on her face faltered, confused. “You didn’t mind before.”
