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 stood just inside the grand entrance of the castle, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him with a final, echoing thud that seemed to reverberate through the silent halls. The air was thick with the weight of what had just unfolded-still settling like a stubborn fog that refused to lift. His dark eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the familiar space but saw it differently now. It felt... charged. As if every shadow was holding its breath, every corner whispering secrets he wasn't yet ready to hear.
He dropped his keys onto the marble side table, the clink loud in the quiet room. His hands clenched into fists briefly before he forced himself to relax, running one hand through his unruly black hair. The evening had been one long spiral of tension, a meeting loaded with unspoken truths, silent challenges, and veiled threats. Yet, beneath it all, there was something more - something that kept gnawing at the edge of his mind.
Angela della Morte and Morte Nero.
The names echoed in his thoughts, not like strangers, but as legends - the deadliest assassins the world had ever known. He'd heard the stories for years, whispered in hushed tones by men and women who knew better than to cross them. The kind of people who could make entire organizations crumble with a single move, shadows so lethal they barely left traces behind.
And tonight, those legends had walked into his world.
Leonardo rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension ripple through his muscles. He tried to piece together the fragments of the meeting - the cold professionalism, the razor-sharp exchanges, the way they'd locked eyes with him and the others. No fear. No hesitation. Just an unshakable confidence that came from knowing exactly who they were and what they could do.
He glanced at the others moving about the room - Dante's jaw tight with barely concealed frustration, Enzo's cautious glances, Gino's silent, unreadable presence. Even Luca, the usually bubbly and carefree one, seemed subdued, weighed down by something invisible. They were all feeling it - that electric undercurrent of danger lurking just beneath the surface.
Leonardo paced slowly down the hallway, boots echoing against the polished stone floors. His mind ran over every detail - the way Angela had looked at him, that flicker of recognition or challenge in her eyes; Morte, calm and deadly beside her, like a shadow perfectly matched; Armando's usual composure cracked just a little, betraying the respect and fear he held for them both.
Yet, despite all of this, Leonardo couldn't put his finger on what exactly had unsettled him the most.
Was it their refusal to join forces? Their icy declaration that they answered to no one but each other? Or the way they effortlessly flipped the power dynamic, reminding everyone in the room that these two were the real kings and queens of the underground world?
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of thoughts. None of it made sense - and that only made it more dangerous.
He stopped in front of a tall mirror, catching his reflection for a brief moment. The man staring back at him was tired, lines of worry etching his face deeper than usual. The weight of responsibility pressed down hard, and for the first time in a long while, doubt crept in.
