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:
My blade twisted between my fingers, glinting in the dim lamp light like it was flirting with the shadows. I wasn't really paying attention to it—just spinning it, over and over, the way I always did when I was thinking too much or trying not to. The point brushed across my knuckle, just enough to let me feel the bite without drawing blood.
Amir was between my legs, hunched over his laptop like some demon-possessed coder with a death wish and too much caffeine in his veins. His elbows pressed into the mattress, his back curved, muscles flexing every time he typed something fast. Which was always. The glow from his screen lit up the bottom half of his face, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—lips slightly parted, tongue sometimes peeking out when he was concentrating too hard.
My hand rested in his hair, almost lazily. Absentminded.
Or at least it was supposed to be.
I wasn't even sure when it ended up there. Maybe when he dropped down onto the bed, muttering something about needing a stable Wi-Fi signal and "real damn emotional support for this firewall." Maybe when he cursed for the fifth time in thirty seconds and I yanked him closer by the back of his head just to shut him up.
Whatever. It was there now. My fingers tangled in his curls, combing through them slowly, like I wasn’t even aware I was doing it.
But I was.
God, I was.
Something felt…off.
No. Not off.
Different.
We’d done this a hundred times. We’d shared space. Air. Secrets. Blood. I’ve had my leg slung over his shoulder while he rewired cameras in crawl spaces. He’s pulled me onto his lap during recon to get a better angle on his scope. We’d slept in the same bed, back to back, weapons between us and trust heavier than the silence.
But now? With him between my thighs like this, shoulders shifting with every movement, the heat of him pressing against me through my leggings—
My heart kicked once. Sharp. Fast. Stupid.
I stared down at him, lips parting like I was about to say something—then snapped them shut.
Nope. Not doing this. Not catching feelings like a freshman at prom.
I focused on his arms instead. That usually helped.
Except… yeah, no. That made it worse.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms were stupidly cut. Veins popping with every flex, tendons moving beneath skin like goddamn art. And for someone who spent most of his life behind a screen, his hands looked like they knew violence. Knuckles rough. Scars across his fingers, faint but familiar. I knew exactly where each one came from—fights, field work, a broken whiskey glass two summers ago when a deal went south.
