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:
So yeah.
I confessed.
Badly.
Horribly, actually. Like the kind of confession you replay in your head a thousand times while lying awake in bed, dying of secondhand embarrassment *from yourself*. And Amir… being Amir… he somehow made it easy. Which pissed me off a little because how dare he not flinch while I emotionally flailed like a feral cat being asked to sit still.
And now?
Now we sat on the cold-ass stone bench like two middle schoolers at their first dance. I had one leg bouncing up and down like I’d had five espresso shots. Amir was calm as ever, of course. That infuriating calm. That *infuriating*—
I jerked my hand away.
He looked over. “Something wrong?”
“Nope,” I said way too fast.
He raised a brow.
I stood up like I was being electrocuted. “Actually, yeah. Yep. Something’s wrong. This is weird.”
“You made it weird,” he said calmly.
“I *know* I made it weird,” I snapped, spinning in a circle and throwing my arms up. “I just—I don’t *do* this. Okay? I don’t do soft, sentimental, fluttery-heart feelings. I kill people. I threaten people. I blackmail people. That’s my *thing*. Feelings aren’t.”
He blinked. “That wasn’t sentimental. That was you calling love disgusting and then confessing like you were at gunpoint.”
“Exactly! That’s my point!”
“…what?”
I started pacing again, tugging at the sleeves of my shirt like they’d done something to offend me. “This was a mistake. A big mistake. You weren’t supposed to know.”
“You told me.”
“Because I’m sleep-deprived and you were glowing in the moonlight like some ancient war god!”
He blinked again. “What?”
“Forget it.”
I dragged both hands down my face and groaned into my palms. I could *feel* the heat creeping up my neck. My skin was betraying me. My voice betrayed me. Even my hair felt like it was judging me right now.
“I’m gonna die of embarrassment,” I muttered.
“You faced down a warlord with a machete once.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather face him again than talk about this.”
He stood. Slowly. Walked over. I could hear his damn footsteps like they were echoing inside my skull. My mouth went dry. My hands clenched at my sides.
“I’m going to say this once,” he said, stopping right in front of me.
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“I don’t care how awkward you are. Or how bad you are at this. Or how many knives you keep under your pillow like some deranged hedgehog.”
“I only keep three now,” I mumbled.
He ignored me. “You confessed. That took guts. And if you think I’m gonna let you walk away because you didn’t use the perfect combination of adjectives, you’re insane.”
“I am insane,” I said helpfully.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes. You are. And I love you anyway.”
My brain short-circuited.
“What.”
“I love you,” he repeated, slower this time, like I was hard of hearing. “I have for years. I know you. The real you. The messy, angry, violent, dramatic you.”
“I’m not—okay, maybe I’m dramatic—”
He stepped closer. “But I’m in love with you. And I don’t need you to say it back again. I already know.”
I stared at him. My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “I—*ugh.*”
That was all I managed. One long, guttural sound of frustration and meltdown.
I flailed my hands again, stepped in a tiny furious circle, and then finally, *finally*, just said the only thing I could.
“Why are you still here?”
He tilted his head. “Because I love you?”
I blinked. “You could’ve had a *normal* life.”
“With who? Some boring girl who reads poetry and makes banana bread?”
“Yes!”
He grinned. “No thanks. I like my women homicidal and emotionally constipated.”
I scowled. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not!”
He reached out and tugged on the sleeve of my shirt. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Donatella.”
I hesitated. Then reluctantly stepped forward like I was being dragged by an invisible leash.
He wrapped his arms around me without a word. I stiffened at first—old habits, muscle memory—but slowly, slowly I leaned into him. Pressed my forehead into his chest. Closed my eyes.
His hands ran over my back gently, like I’d break if he held too tight.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I muttered against his shirt.
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
I scoffed. “That’s cheesy as hell.”
“I know.”
We stood there for what felt like forever. Just breathing. Just *being*. No lies. No masks. No blood. No assassins.
Just him.
Just me.
And yeah, maybe I’d made it awkward. Maybe I’d absolutely butchered that confession.
But somehow, some way… he still wanted me.
And maybe that was scarier than anything else.
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