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 roar of the engine tore through the night, the wind whipping past as we carved through the dark streets on my baby-the sleek, black motorcycle that felt like an extension of my own body. The cold night air bit through our leathers and gloves, but the adrenaline kept us sharp, heated under the armor of our gear.
Amir sat rigid behind me, masked and silent, his presence steady and unshakable. Neither of us spoke-words were wasted breath when every second was a countdown. The streetlights flashed by like specters, blurring as we pushed the bike faster and faster toward the port.
Fuck Dimitri. That smug bastard always had a mission ready before we could even breathe. But this one? A shipment trade. Italian Mafia. Twenty-five minutes max. In and out. If this was some simple run, it wouldn't have been this tense. And it wasn't. We both knew better. We were Angela della Morte and Morte Nero now. Not Amir and Donatella. Not family. Not anyone's pawn.
Before the reunion, Armando had asked us-more than once-if we could ever join. Be on their side. Of course, I'd turned him down cold. Angela della Morte and Morte Nero didn't do alliances, didn't do families, didn't do anything but each other. We were the deadliest assassins in the world, and the rules were simple:
Don't fuck with us. We leave you alone. Fuck up? You're dead. No exceptions. No special treatments.
Armando never gave up, persistent as a damn tick. That made it hilarious-like some twisted joke no one else got.
But here we were, anyway.
The port came into view: the dim glow of floodlights illuminating stacked containers, cranes looming like mechanical beasts in the misty darkness. We killed the engine, slipping off the bike silently, moving like shadows.
Our masks were already in place-black, expressionless. Cold. Distant. The kind of faces that promised nothing but finality.
The guard at the gate was a kid, shaking like he was about to piss his pants. Didn't help that Amir's reputation preceded us. He barely breathed as he waved us through after a quick, suspicious scan.
"Follow me," the kid stammered, his eyes darting nervously over our masked visages.
We moved without a word, following the maze of containers until we reached a sturdy metal door. The guard unlocked it and gestured inside.
I took a breath and switched my voice into cold mode-the tone that killed warmth and bred fear. "Lead the way."
Amir's eyes caught mine briefly-no flicker of recognition, just the unbreakable bond we shared in silence.
We stepped inside.
The hallway was sterile, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air. The door to the meeting room was heavy, reinforced. Behind it, I could hear the low murmur of voices.
