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:
Steam still curled around the chandelier in lazy spirals as I stepped out of the bathroom and into the pale, gold-lit bedroom. The thick towel clung to my skin, and the cool air hit me like a reminder—I was still here. Still breathing. Still living in a fucking castle with people who would probably murder me if they ever found out who I really was.
The marble floors felt colder tonight. Or maybe that was just me.
I pulled the towel tighter and crossed the room to my vanity, dragging the chair out with one foot and collapsing into it like my bones were liquid. My hair was damp, curling at the ends, sticking to the nape of my neck. My skin was flushed from the heat, cheeks warm and pink under the light. I looked... normal. Soft, even.
Gross.
“You always look so serious when you’re about to do that,” Amir said from behind me.
His voice was lazy, somewhere between teasing and fond. He was stretched across the little velvet couch in the corner like a painting, one leg thrown over the armrest, wearing those gray joggers he always stole from me and an old hoodie that didn’t even match. His head was tilted against the back like he hadn’t a single care in the world, but I knew him better than that. The twitch in his jaw. The way he’d been tapping the side of his phone for the last twenty minutes without unlocking it.
I rolled my eyes. “Do what?”
“Your skincare routine,” he said, gesturing vaguely at me with a lazy flick of his fingers. “You always have that ‘don’t talk to me unless you want a serum bottle thrown at your face’ look.”
I leaned closer to the mirror, picking up my cleanser. “Because if you do talk to me, I will throw a serum bottle at your face.”
“See?” he grinned. “Hot and hostile.”
“Keep talking. You’ll find out if this jade roller doubles as a weapon.”
Amir laughed, soft and warm. But he didn’t stop watching.
He never did.
He’d been doing it for years now—just silently sitting there while I went through the routine. The world could be burning, and he’d still be there, arms folded, watching me put on moisturizer like it was the most important thing in the world.
I smoothed the cleanser over my skin, massaging it in slow circles. It felt good—reminded me that I had a face under all the masks I wore. That I was still human under the blood and the names I didn’t ask for.
Rinsed. Pat dry.
Next—serum. A little on the fingertips. Pressed in, not rubbed. Downward motion. Light hands. Don't forget the neck.
“You’re staring again,” I said, not looking at him.
“I always stare,” he replied.
I glanced at his reflection. His head had tilted, arms crossed over his chest now, ankle bouncing.
