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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Donatella POV:
It was almost midnight again.
The castle was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel earned—just tense, waiting, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. I couldn’t sleep. I was back in my room, pacing like a damn lunatic, arms folded across my chest, heart thudding way too loud for no reason.
No, I knew the reason. I just didn’t want to deal with it.
Amir was out on the balcony, leaning against the stone railing like the cold didn’t bother him at all. His back was to me. The moonlight painted a silver sheen over his shoulders, and the breeze barely moved his shirt. He looked too calm. He always looked calm when I felt like I was losing my mind.
And I hated him for it. Loved him for it.
Ugh.
I opened the door to the balcony and stepped out, arms still folded. “You’re gonna freeze your ass off,” I muttered.
He didn’t turn. “You already said that earlier.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re hard of hearing.”
That got a small breath of a laugh. But he still didn’t turn.
I leaned next to him against the stone, facing the opposite direction. We didn’t talk for a moment. Just stood there, side by side, while the wind whipped around us and the rest of the castle slept below.
I stared down at the gravel path near the gardens. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
My throat suddenly dried up. I blinked at the garden wall, swallowed, and tried again. “I’ve been thinking.”
He didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“And I’m not—look, I’m not saying anything weird, alright? So don’t make it a thing.”
His head tilted slightly. I could feel his eyes on me even though I refused to look back.
I kept going. “I just. I mean. We’ve been through a lot. Like… a *lot* a lot. More than most people. More than all of them inside.”
Still no response. God, why did that make it worse?
“And I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve realized some things. About… feelings.” I grimaced. “I know. Disgusting. Gross. Vile concept.”
He snorted under his breath.
“But I think—I *think*—I might be... feeling… something. For you.”
There. I said it. Sort of.
“‘Something,’” he repeated.
I scowled and shoved away from the railing, pacing in front of him like a tiger trapped in a cage. “Don’t start.”
