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:
We didn't talk as we got dressed. No snark. No flirting. No half-smiles or cocky remarks. It was that rare kind of silence where both people knew exactly what was at stake-so they didn't waste breath on words that wouldn't matter if they got caught.
Black. All black.
Nothing flashy.
No dramatic leather or combat boots or
unnecessary gear. We were ghosts tonight, not soldiers.
I laced up my sneakers-quiet soles-and tucked my blade into the holster at my thigh. Amir was already checking his laptop bag, fingers gliding across each tool like they were his children. He looked up once to meet my eyes, nodding once.
I nodded back.
And we moved.
Slipped from my room, down the long hallway, every creak in the wood burned into memory. The house was still. Lights dim. Like it was holding its breath.
We descended the back staircase. The one that didn't groan under weight if you knew which steps to avoid. Through the shadowed hall, past portraits of dead men with colder eyes than ours. We bypassed two patrolling guards with their backs turned, their cigars lighting the dark like
tiny suns. Sloppy.
The office was up ahead. Same place as always. Same towering door, heavy wood, impossible locks. The last time we broke in, Amir ended up with metal splinters and I nearly snapped the blade on my lockpick set trying to crack the inner vault.
This time?
We came prepared.
Or so we thought.
I knelt at the door first, Amir crouching beside me, pulling the tiny black pouch from his hoodie and rolling it open on the floor. Inside: the lock set we designed. Together. Two years ago. Tested. Modified. Tested again. It could open anything. Safes. Fingerprint pads. Voice recognition. It wasn't exactly legal tech.
Which is why it was perfect.
I slipped the tiny tool into the bottom lock. Amir handled the top mechanism, sliding in a thin filament wire that hummed faintly, pulsing with light.
"Let me know if the sensor blinks red again," he muttered, tapping something on the side of his watch. "I rerouted the last patch in the security subfeed, but if he updated it again-"
The door let out a hard beep.
Red.
I swore under my breath and yanked the wire out.
Amir didn't even flinch. "Okay. He updated. Didn't think he'd do it this fast."
"Tell me we can still get in."
"I can get into anything," he said, already sliding over to his laptop and popping it open. "Just not with cheap drama speed. Give me five."
