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 woke to an absence.
The couch was cold. The blanket had slipped down to my waist. My hand twitched for something warm—instinctively searching for what had been there when I fell asleep. But my papa was gone.
The quiet felt wrong. Like a silence after a scream.
My eyes opened slowly, and the living room was dim. Morning. Pale light came through the curtains in weak lines. There was a small square of yellow stuck to the edge of the coffee table, crooked.
I reached for it with a stiffness in my limbs that came from crying too much and sleeping too deep.
My name was scrawled in thick, heavy ink on the top of the note.
"Tella, I had to handle something early. Didn't want to wake you. I’ll be back. Eat something. Rest if you can. Love, Papa.”
I just stared at the last word for a minute. My fingers brushed over it like it might vanish if I blinked too long.
“Papa…”
It still felt new in my mouth.
My hand crumpled around the note before I slipped it into my pocket.
I stood up slowly, rolled my shoulders, wiped my face. My body ached in that deep, invisible way it always did after letting my guard down. I crossed the room to my bag, pulled out jeans, a tank top, and the thick black sweater with the hidden knife pocket in the sleeve.
Just in case.
I was slipping on my boots when I heard it.
Yelling.
It was muffled at first—one voice rising above the others.
"Get the car ready!"
I froze.
My heart thudded once. Then twice. Then faster.
Another voice answered. One I hadn’t heard in over a decade outside of dreams and nightmares.
“Move faster, cazzo! Call the doctor! NOW!”
Papa.
I was already out of my room before I could think.
I ran to the railing that overlooked the grand entrance below, stomach dropping.
Then I saw it.
Amir.
Passed out. His head lolled to the side, dark hair plastered to his temple, lips pale. His body was limp in Leonardo’s arms.
Everything inside me cracked.
I didn’t see the others. Didn’t register who else was shouting or moving or panicking. All I saw was him. Amir. My Amir. The boy who knew my nightmares without me speaking them. The boy who made me laugh when I forgot how. The boy I loved.
