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:
Waiting.
God, I hated waiting.
It’s what they never show you in movies or thrillers or whatever—the in-between. The moments after the chaos. When your adrenaline’s still high, your pulse is still wild, but all you can do is wait. Not move. Not breathe too hard. Not act.
I sat in my room with the blinds drawn, the light off, the laptop humming quietly on my lap. Luca’s background image was still that weird anime character he had a crush on when he was probably fourteen, and for a solid minute, I found myself just staring at it.
Amir was with Leonardo. Somewhere in the castle. Probably deep in that inner chamber Leonardo liked to use when interrogating people—or maybe he took him outside, into the fields near the chapel ruins, where no one could hear screaming if it came to that.
I wanted to go. God, I needed to go.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
If I showed up, I’d tip Leonardo off that something was wrong. Worse—that Amir mattered to me. That he wasn’t just some hired ally. That he was mine. My partner. My weakness.
So I waited. In hell.
I tried pacing. Didn’t help. I sat on the edge of my bed. Still no peace. I touched the edge of my bruised ribs where Enzo had elbowed me earlier. It stung under my fingers. I didn’t care.
I checked the burner phone. Nothing.
I stared at the door.
Then it buzzed.
Not the phone. The laptop.
I scrambled back to it, nearly tripping over myself. Opened the secure channel. Do-Yoon’s signature blinked in the corner, sharp and neon blue.
>DO-YOON: They made this thing impossible.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, leaning back. I could see him in my head—stoic, deadpan, sipping overpriced Korean cold brew while typing with one hand.
>ANGELA DELLA MORTE: I told you not to look at anything.
>DO-YOON: I didn’t. But I can’t get in. Not remotely.
I closed my eyes. Damn it, Amir.
I hated him for being that brilliant. Loved him more for it. Amir and I had built this security system three years ago in a snowy motel room outside of Oslo, with nothing but two laptops, a stack of expired Red Bulls, and half a plan to steal from a Turkish intelligence officer.
We were both half-dead from blood loss at the time.
