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:
I dried the last bit of water behind my ear with the towel and tossed it on the bed as I padded across the room. My hair was damp, pulled into a low braid to keep it from dripping onto the collar of my fitted black shirt. The morning sunlight poured through the windows like a spotlight, warming the stone floor beneath my bare feet. The castle was always quiet in the mornings. Almost... reverent. Like it was holding its breath.
Unfortunately, I wasn't. I was still very much breathing-and thinking-about that thing Amir said.
*"Wouldn't be the worst thing."*
It had haunted me from the second he said it. The way he said it, soft but certain. And the kicker? He probably didn't even know I heard him. Or maybe he knew and didn't care. Either way, I hadn't said anything. Because what *could* I say?
We weren't the soft kind. We weren't hearts-and-flowers people. We were knives and bullets and whispered names that made grown men flinch.
But now? Now that little sentence was echoing in my head like a damn curse.
I made my way downstairs barefoot, the pads of my feet silent against the marble as I descended the grand staircase. The air smelled like bacon, espresso, and something slightly burnt-probably Enzo trying to cook again. I rolled my eyes and followed the scent toward the dining hall.
And there they were. The picture-perfect mafia family.
Armando at the head of the table, stoic and sharp in a dark suit even at breakfast. Leonardo beside him, sipping black coffee like it had personally betrayed him. Dante, Enzo, Nicolo, Gino, and Luca scattered around the long table in various stages of sleep deprivation and irritation.
Oh, they were pissed.
I could tell before I even opened my mouth. The tension hung thick over their heads like a storm cloud waiting for a reason to strike.
And me? I was the sun.
I plastered on my sweetest, most oblivious smile and waltzed into the room like I hadn't a care in the world.
"Morning," I chirped as I sat down and reached for a piece of toast. "How was the *family business* last night?"
Cue the orchestra of forks pausing mid-air.
Every single one of them went still.
Leonardo's coffee mug paused just before his lips. Luca blinked. Enzo scoffed. Dante raised a brow. Nicolo looked like he wanted to throw his plate across the room.
Only Armando stayed still. That man could win poker with a blank sheet of paper in his hand.
I took a slow bite of toast, chewing carefully. Amir slid in beside me a second later, his bedhead somehow still intentional, and shot me a look that screamed *please behave*.
