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:
He didn’t ask.
He just stood, nodded toward the bloodied gauze on my hand, and said with a deadpan calmness, “Bathroom. Now.”
I didn’t move.
Instead, I stayed slouched on the floor like a kid caught red-handed with a matchbook. My good hand curled in a fist on my thigh. My jaw tight. My eyes locked on the far wall like if I stared hard enough, it’d crack and let me scream through it.
But Amir? He didn’t have time for theatrics.
He didn’t even look tired. Just… focused. Done with the bullshit.
“Donatella,” he said again, firmer. “Get up.”
Still, I didn’t budge.
So he crossed the room, bent down, and without giving me a chance to protest, grabbed me under the arm and yanked me up like I weighed nothing.
“Hey—” I snapped.
He didn’t even look at me. “You can kick and spit later. Right now, you’re bleeding all over my floor.”
“It’s my floor.”
“Then you’re bleeding all over your floor. Congratulations. Want a medal?”
I yanked my arm back. “I can clean myself.”
He looked at me. Really looked.
That slow, infuriating scan of my face that made me want to punch another mirror.
“You just punched a glass pane with your dominant hand. You’ve got glass in your skin and you’re still shaking.” His voice was quiet, measured—deadly serious. “You are not cleaning anything.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve bled worse.”
“Yeah,” he said sharply. “And I cleaned that up too.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He just turned, walked toward the bathroom, and left the door wide open like it was non-negotiable.
For a second, I stood there seething. My pride wanted to spit something venomous. My fists wanted to clench. But my hand hurt now—throbbing like it was keeping tempo with my pulse—and beneath the pain was something worse.
That crackle in my chest.
That helpless, helpless feeling of Why Dimitri?
I stormed after Amir.
He already had the faucet running, warm water steaming up the mirror. The counter was cleared, a towel folded next to a pair of tweezers, a fresh roll of gauze, and his smaller med kit splayed open with surgical precision.
