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:
“Shit, shit, shit—*shit*—”
“I heard you the first seventeen times, Donatella.”
I paced the room like a lunatic while Amir sat on the edge of my bed, unwrapping the bandage on my hand with frustrating calmness. It stung like hell—raw, still a little bloody from where I’d clenched my fists too hard at breakfast.
“I’m serious, Amir,” I snapped, half-limping back and forth, dragging my fingers through my hair so much I probably had a bald patch. “You heard him. He knows someone’s been in there.”
“No, he *suspects.*”
“There’s no difference!” I swung back toward him. “This is Leonardo we’re talking about. The man doesn’t ‘suspect.’ He *knows.* And when he knows something, people start disappearing!”
Amir didn’t flinch. He just motioned for me to sit. “Come here before you bleed through this again.”
I hesitated—hovering near him like a kicked dog before reluctantly lowering myself to the floor in front of him, my knees brushing his boots. My hand trembled in his lap, but I didn’t let go of my panic. I clung to it like armor.
“You’re being dramatic,” he said quietly, dabbing alcohol on the cut like it didn’t make me flinch, like the pain didn’t make me even more pissed.
“I’m being *realistic.*” I pulled back slightly. “Did you see the look in Leonardo’s eyes? He’s calculating. He’s lining shit up in his head. He knows.”
“If he *knew*, we wouldn’t be here right now. He’d have locked that door behind us at breakfast and asked for your head on a silver platter.”
I hissed when the gauze dragged against the torn skin, jerking slightly. Amir didn’t react. Just kept working, steady hands, expression unreadable.
“I should’ve never touched that file,” I muttered. “I should’ve just taken the damn computer and gone.”
“No,” Amir said. “We needed that file.”
“We don’t even *know* if we needed it!”
“You’re panicking.”
“Of *course* I’m panicking!” I yelled, snatching my hand back. “He’s my *brother*, Amir! He doesn’t just go around playing guessing games. He plays chess with people’s *lives.*”
“And we’re always ten moves ahead,” he said firmly, grabbing my wrist again, forceful enough to shut me up. “So breathe.”
I clenched my teeth, chest rising and falling in fast bursts. The burn in my hand spread up my arm, but I didn’t dare say anything else. I stared at his fingers instead—clean, sure, gentle in a way I hated to admit soothed me.
“You think he’ll check the crate again?” I asked, voice smaller now. “The computer’s not there anymore. What if he opens it?”
“He won’t,” Amir replied instantly. “Because he already did. He said he checked, and nothing was missing. You locked it exactly the way he left it, didn’t you?”
