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:
It was past midnight when I got home. That kind of hour when the castle finally fell quiet-when even the ghosts seemed to stop pacing and the ancient walls let out slow, sleepy sighs. Everyone was asleep. Or pretending to be. But not me.
Sleep didn't come easy when your mind was playing chess at gunpoint.
I moved through the halls like a shadow, silent in my socks, hood over my head. My hand grazed the stone walls, guiding me through the dark. I didn't know what I was looking for. Correction-I *did*. I just didn't want to admit it out loud.
I was looking for *him*.
Amir.
It had been hours since I last saw him. Since Leonardo dragged him off like he was just another pawn on his board. And I had waited. Obeyed every screaming instinct inside me to stay *put.* To let it play out.
But that clock in my head was ticking louder with every passing minute.
Everything had gone wrong. I'd tried to fix it. I *thought* I could fix it.
But Amir's laptop was too well-guarded. Our failsafes were too tight. Do-Yoon had tried everything short of calling God himself, and even I-Donatella Vitale, the infamous Angela Della Morte, the girl who could hack through reinforced military-grade encryption while brushing her teeth-*I* couldn't break into it.
Because we built it too well.
I hated us for that. But I also loved us for it. Which made me hate myself a little more.
I turned a corner at the far end of the east wing. The air was cooler here, the way it always got near the guest rooms. Fewer windows. Stone corridors. My steps slowed as I heard something.
A creak. Not from the floors, but from inside a room.
I stopped.
Another shuffle.
One door, specifically. Faint light underneath. The kind you only saw when someone was trying not to be seen.
I took a slow step closer, heart thudding. Then another.
I raised my hand. Tapped lightly against the wood.
But not just any knock. *The knock.*
Three short taps, two long. The pattern we made years ago. Our code. Our promise.
I waited.
Seconds passed.
Then I heard it.
My name.
"Donatella?"
Amir's voice.
I didn't hesitate. My fingers pulled the small black lockpick tool from my hoodie-a tool that could open practically anything short of a nuclear safe. I jammed it into the knob, twisted, and the door gave way.
