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:
It was afternoon.
The kind that slinks into the room with too much heat and not enough wind. The curtains were swaying slightly from the cracked window, and somewhere far off in the courtyard, one of the triplets was shouting something about knives.
But I barely heard it.
I was on the floor, back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent up to rest my elbow. My fingers twirled a butterfly knife I hadn't realized I grabbed. My bandaged hand ached faintly every time I flexed it, but I didn't care. I needed something to focus on.
Or maybe I didn't.
Because my head was too full anyway.
The file still sat on the dresser. Dimitri's name still echoed behind my teeth like a curse. And the room, even with its heavy furniture and silk and expensive things, still felt like a damn ghost house. Something about it pressed in around me-like the walls *knew*.
Amir had left a while ago. Said he needed to check something in his room and get more gauze.
He probably just needed a break from me.
Couldn't blame him. I'd been... not easy to deal with lately.
Not that I ever *was*, but still.
So I was alone. Just me and the butterflies in my stomach and the fire in my brain.
And all I could think about was the French.
The goddamn French.
The ones who kidnapped me at four years old. Four. I could barely hold a fork. I still had a stuffed rabbit named Murder. I still slept with my thumb in my mouth. I was *nothing*.
And they took me.
Dragged me from my family, from the castle, from the people who were supposed to protect me. Tossed me into a world of metal bars and damp stone and electric collars and pain.
I remember flashes. Screaming. A van. My mother's voice going hoarse. Armando's shouting. The back of someone's hand. Then quiet.
Too quiet.
I didn't cry. I *refused* to cry. Even then, at four years old, something inside me had snapped clean and hardened into ice.
I didn't cry.
Not when they locked me in that cold, wet cell.
Not when they said I didn't *belong* to the family anymore.
Not when they shocked my wrist for not answering to the name they gave me.
And then... Amir.
Since I was kidnapped they isolated us. As if we could mastermind some bullshit and escape together. Like come on, I was four.
