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 closed the door to my room slowly, quietly, as if even the wood had ears tonight. Every sound made me flinch-every creak of the hinges, every click of the lock sliding into place, every shift in the silence. My heartbeat was still racing from the sprint down the corridor. From the way I'd practically thrown Luca's laptop on the floor and dragged myself across the castle just to beat the shadows of suspicion.
Amir wasn't back.
And the absence of his presence made the room feel... hollow.
I pressed my forehead against the door, willing it to shut out the world, to make it all stop just for a second. I was exhausted-mentally, physically, emotionally. My body ached, my brain was running on fumes, and my eyes burned with the strain of not letting everything collapse in on me.
I just wanted to sleep. For a year. Maybe two.
I pushed off the door and kicked off my boots, tossing them somewhere in the direction of the corner. Didn't care. I was still in the same black clothes I'd used for the quick disguise-the ones I'd used to visit Do-Yoon. And I hadn't even wiped the makeup from my face yet. I looked like Angela della Morte in the mirror. Cold. Carved from something unnatural. A girl who didn't belong to anyone.
I hated mirrors.
I turned away and dropped onto the bed like a stone, face first, not bothering to pull back the covers. The sheets were cold and smelled faintly like metal and cologne-Amir's, probably. The scent grounded me. Even though the rest of my life was trying to fall apart at the seams.
But of course, peace never lasted in this place.
I heard the knock before I saw the handle twist.
My body stiffened. Every instinct screamed danger-but I didn't move. I was too tired to fight. Too tired to lie. Too tired to pretend I wasn't unraveling.
The door opened gently.
I lifted my head.
And froze.
"Donatella."
His voice was soft, hesitant. The last voice I expected to hear this late at night. Midnight wrapped around his silhouette in the doorway like it belonged to him. And yet, there he was-Armando. My... my biological father.
Wearing a navy robe and a tired expression.
He closed the door behind him slowly, letting the quiet stretch between us before speaking again.
"I couldn't sleep," he said, almost sheepishly. "I thought maybe you couldn't either."
I sat up slowly, brushing my curls away from my face. "I was trying to."
