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 bathroom lights were harsh and too white, casting an unflattering glare across the porcelain sink and tile floor. The silence between us was loud—so loud it buzzed in my ears, thrumming under my skin like a storm waiting to snap. Amir sat on the closed lid of the toilet, back hunched slightly, head bowed. The cut on his lip wasn’t deep, but it was angry—split open from the punch Nicolo had landed when they found the computer in his room.
I didn’t even see it happen. And now, here we were. With blood dried at the corner of his mouth and a thousand unsaid things stuck between us.
I stood in front of him, sleeves rolled up, cotton swab in hand, antiseptic in the other. “Hold still.”
He didn’t say anything. Just tilted his face up so I could clean the wound.
I pressed the swab gently to his lip, and he hissed.
“Oh, suck it up.”
“You pressing acid to my face.”
“It’s literally antiseptic.”
“Same thing,” he muttered.
I ignored the ache in my chest and dabbed carefully, trying not to focus on the way his eyes watched me. His gaze was heavy, but not in that lustful way it usually was when we were alone. This was different. He looked tired. Beaten down. And not just physically. It was like… everything was catching up to him at once. To us.
I tossed the bloody cotton in the trash and grabbed a new one. “I should’ve killed Nicolo.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“He hit you.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “They tied you up like an animal. They threatened us. Like we haven’t bled for each other a thousand times over.”
Amir’s hand reached out and lightly touched my wrist. I froze.
“I’m okay,” he said softly.
I yanked my hand back and grabbed the next cotton swab. “Yeah, well, you won’t be if they try anything again.”
I didn’t even realize how tight my jaw was until it started to ache. I wanted to punch something. Scream. Flip the mirror off the wall. Maybe drag Enzo out into the woods and drop him in a ditch for wasting my time. But mostly…I just wanted this to stop. The lies. The paranoia. The guilt. The pressure of pretending.
I started cleaning the cut again, slower this time.
“I’m tired,” I said. “So tired.”
“I know.”
“No. Not like, oh-I-haven’t-slept tired. I mean I’m exhausted. In here.” I tapped my temple. “And here.” I pressed my palm to my chest.
