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:
Dinner felt like a crime scene waiting to happen.
I sat at the table in a black hoodie and joggers, picking at the risotto on my plate like it had personally offended me. Amir was next to me, similarly dressed down, arms crossed, tense as a drawn bow. His jaw was locked. Eyes on his food. Saying absolutely nothing. Which, if you knew Amir, meant everything was on fire internally.
Across the table, Leonardo sat in his usual spot at the end—posture regal, eyes cold and slightly out of it, like he hadn’t slept in a week. He poured himself wine without saying a word. Poured a second glass. Then a third.
He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But I could tell he wanted to be.
Dante, ever the perfect host, passed the breadbasket our way and made sure everyone had enough food on their plates. Luca was talking a mile a minute, as usual, his voice echoing off the walls like a one-man circus.
“No but seriously, I don’t get sushi. Like why would I want my fish raw? What am I, a cat? Also—Nicolo! Tell her I was right about the lasagna ratio, she’s not listening—”
“Shut up, Luca,” Nicolo muttered, not even looking up from his plate.
Gino, seated silently at the edge of the table, gave me a brief glance and a small thumbs up when I made eye contact with him. It was the quietest form of approval imaginable, but coming from him? Practically a standing ovation.
And then there was Enzo. Sitting across from me like a brick wall in a turtleneck. Staring like I’d kicked his dog and then demanded inheritance money.
I offered him a polite, closed-lipped smile.
He blinked at me like he was debating whether to smother me with a napkin or just wait for me to “mysteriously disappear.”
Amir leaned over and whispered, “If he looks at you any harder, his eyeballs are gonna dry up and fall out.”
I suppressed a laugh and whispered back, “You should start wearing a Kevlar hoodie to dinner.”
“Already am.”
Figures.
Armando, sitting at the head of the table, dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then looked at me—really looked at me. Not with suspicion. Not with disdain. But that weirdly gentle way he always did. Like I was made of glass and nobody had told me yet.
“Are you eating enough, tesoro?” he asked.
I paused, blinked. “Uh... yeah. Just not that hungry.”
He hummed and leaned forward, cutting off a chunk of his own steak and sliding it onto my plate.
“There. Try mine. Medium rare. You’ll like it.”
I stared at the meat like it might explode. Then looked at Amir. Then back at Armando. “You want me to try your steak.”
He nodded, taking a casual sip of wine. “You need more iron. Your hands are cold.”
