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 clatter of the plate against the sink echoed louder than I meant it to. The kitchen was too big, too echoey, too silent. Everyone else was still in the dining hall finishing breakfast, but I needed to move. The food sat heavy in my stomach, curdling next to dread. I rinsed the dish with cold water—something about the sting of it on my injured hand kept me grounded.
I knew I should’ve gone back upstairs. Knew I should’ve stayed close to Amir, kept our heads down, plotted our next move quietly. But no. I had to be the good little girl, pretend nothing was wrong, wash my plate like a civilized daughter of the house.
The creak of the kitchen door opening didn’t even make me flinch.
Of course.
Enzo strolled in first, slow and loose-shouldered, like a lion who’s just found something fun to maul. Behind him came Nicolo, arms crossed, smirking like he already knew how this was going to go. The air thickened immediately, dense and charged. I didn’t even have to turn. I could feel their eyes on me.
“Well, well,” Enzo said, his voice low and amused, “if it isn’t our sweet little liar.”
I didn’t respond. I set the rinsed plate in the drying rack and reached for the next one. My silence was not cowardice. It was control.
“You’re real quiet when you’re not playing war games with your little boyfriend,” Nicolo added, stepping beside the counter, narrowing the space around me.
I kept my back to them. “If this is your idea of productive family bonding, I’d rate it about a two out of ten.”
“Is that right?” Enzo said.
Suddenly, his hand gripped my wrist.
Tight.
My fingers tensed around the plate in my hand, but I didn’t drop it. His grip wasn’t just firm—it was punishing. Pressure right over the injured hand. I hissed without meaning to. Shit.
“Still hurts?” he asked, all faux sympathy.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Maybe next time,” Nicolo said, coming up on my other side, “don’t leave computers lying around. You’re slipping, Donatella. For someone who likes to pretend she’s three steps ahead, you’re acting pretty damn stupid.”
Enzo yanked me back from the sink. My back hit the fridge with a dull thud. Cold metal against my spine, heat flaring across my face.
I met his eyes. “Are we doing this here? In the kitchen? What’s next, you gonna shove my head in the oven?”
He chuckled. “Tempting.”
Nicolo leaned in, voice low, close to my ear. “You think you're better than us now? You’ve got secrets and suddenly you’re above the rules? That’s not how this family works.”
