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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Donatella POV:
He didn't say anything for a while.
Just laid there on his back like the ceiling held the secrets of the universe and he was too drunk to decode them. I stayed exactly where I was-crossed arms, legs up on the couch, one ankle balanced on the other, the very definition of petty patience.
The quiet was better. Not peaceful. Not soft. But heavy, dense. Like the aftermath of a hurricane no one prepared for. I didn't mind it. Quiet told you more than noise ever did.
Leonardo's chest rose and fell like it was trying to remember how to breathe properly. I could still smell the perfume-cheap, too floral, and clinging to the sheets like guilt. The whole room was humid with regret and sweat and the last fumes of whiskey. It smelled like desperation.
He shifted again, groaning as he turned to the side. "Don't you have better things to do?"
"Mm," I hummed, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. "Three forty-two in the morning. Let me think. Nope."
"I wasn't that loud."
I snorted. "You were so loud the paintings in the hallway started crying."
He made a low noise that might've been a laugh. Or a burp. Hard to tell at this point.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. Hair a mess, lip split slightly-probably from earlier, maybe from a punch, maybe just a drunken stumble. His arms were flung wide across the bed like he'd given up on having dignity and just surrendered to the void.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," I said dryly.
"Probably did," he muttered.
I leaned my head back. "Was her name 'Natalie' or 'Courtney' or some other name you won't remember tomorrow?"
"Both, actually."
"Oh. Lucky you."
He groaned and covered his face with a pillow.
I let him suffer in silence for another minute before sighing and sitting up straight. "Seriously though. What the hell was that?"
"What?" his voice was muffled now.
"Dragging two girls up here like it's a damn brothel. Drinking yourself into oblivion. You've got bags under your eyes so deep they have rental property."
He yanked the pillow off his face and glared at me through the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with alcohol. "Why do you care?"
"I don't." I shot back. "I care about peace and quiet. And I care about you not embarrassing the last shred of self-respect you have left."
He didn't respond. Not right away.
Then: "You think I care what I look like to anyone right now?"
"You should," I said, staring him down. "Because right now you look like a cautionary tale."
