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:
I didn’t knock.
Didn’t need to.
My palm slammed against the wood hard enough to rattle the hinges, and before the echo could die in the hallway, I was already turning the knob.
Unlocked.
Stupid mistake, Enzo.
I stepped in slow, eyes sharp, jaw clenched so tight I thought I’d crack a molar. The air inside was thick with that obnoxious cologne he always used—overpowering, citrusy, the kind that lingered on clothes and skin like a warning sign. His room was cleaner than I expected. Tidy bed. Jacket draped over the chair. A silver watch glinting on the desk by the lamp.
And there he was.
Sitting at the foot of the bed.
Legs apart. Elbows on his knees. Phone in his hand. Like he’d been waiting.
He looked up.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t *need* to.
Because leaning right against the bed frame beside him was the bag.
*Amir’s* bag.
The heavy-duty, military-style black one. Zipped tight, sitting there like some twisted trophy. And stacked beside it, like he just wanted to piss me off more?
The laptop.
Leonardo’s burner.
My stomach twisted violently, but I didn’t stop moving.
“Where is it,” I said, flat.
No greeting. No explanation. No sweet family tones.
Enzo leaned back, one eyebrow arching. “Which one?”
I stared at him.
He had the *nerve* to smirk.
My fingers twitched at my side.
“I swear to God,” I said, stepping closer, “I’m not in the mood.”
He shrugged. “Then get in the mood. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Cut the bullshit. Where’s *my* laptop?”
“You mean Amir’s?” He gestured lazily at the black bag. “It’s right there. You want it? Go ahead.”
I didn’t move.
Because that’s not how this worked.
This wasn’t about letting me have it back.
This was about *him* controlling the terms.
“I’m not playing games with you, Enzo.”
“You think I am?” He stood up, slow. Controlled. “Do you have *any* idea what kind of situation you’ve dragged into this house?”
