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:
The door hadn't even clicked shut behind us when I exploded.
I kicked over the chair near the dresser so hard it smacked against the wall and collapsed into a useless pile of splinters. The lamp on my desk was next. I grabbed it by the neck and flung it across the room like it had personally betrayed me. The bulb shattered on impact, sparks flickering in the dim lighting. The base hit the wall, bounced, and skidded across the hardwood like a kicked skull.
Amir didn't say a word.
He closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned his back against it like he was bracing for a storm.
Because he was.
The picture frame with my mother's old photograph went flying next, though I aimed it for the wall and not the floor. The glass shattered mid-air, raining down like icy confetti. I didn't even blink.
I was seething.
I was burning.
I was drowning in rage that didn't know where to go.
"*Why*?!" I screamed, to no one. To everyone. "*Why would he be on that list?*"
No answer. Just my breath in the air. Just the pounding in my chest.
I knocked over the table beside the bed. I threw one of my knives-not to hurt, not even to stick-but to hear something *break*. The steel blade embedded itself halfway into the wooden closet door, vibrating slightly from the force.
My heart was pounding so loud it made my ears ring.
Amir still didn't speak.
He didn't try to touch me. He didn't tell me to calm down. He didn't even sigh.
He just moved.
The way he always did when I got like this.
He took off his hoodie first, slow and quiet, tossing it over the back of the couch. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeved black shirt, walked past me carefully-like I was a landmine with a countdown-and picked up the broken lamp base. He set it gently on the desk, swept aside the shattered glass with one of the cloths from his computer bag.
I turned sharply.
Saw the mirror over the sink. My reflection looked like a stranger. Wild hair. Wide eyes. Jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
I hated that face.
I walked over and slammed my fist straight into it.
The sound was deafening. Shards rained down in a sharp, glittering storm.
Pain seared across my knuckles like fire. Warm. Immediate. Real.
