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 up to the sound of knocking—relentless, obnoxious knocking—like someone had declared war on my bedroom door. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled to open it.
Dante stood there grinning like some sort of deranged camp counselor. “Get dressed, princesa! It’s shopping day!”
I blinked. “Is that supposed to sound fun?”
“It is if you like being treated like royalty,” he said with a wink before vanishing like some caffeine-fueled fairy godmother.
With the emotional energy of a sloth, I pulled on something halfway decent—black jeans, a cropped hoodie, and sneakers that didn’t scream I want to die inside. I glanced at Amir across the hall as he struggled to fix his hair, muttering something about how if anyone picked a fight with him today, he was throwing them into the nearest display window.
“Mall day,” I said, monotone.
“Kill me,” Amir replied, deadpan.
Downstairs, everyone was waiting. My “brothers” were scattered around like mafia-themed Barbie dolls. Luca was bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’d already chugged three energy drinks. Enzo looked like he wanted to fake his own death to get out of this. Dante was doing stretches like he was training for a retail marathon. Gino looked emotionally resigned. Leonardo just looked… haunted.
Apparently Nicolo had "family business" to attend. I'm sure as hell that it's about mafia shit but I can't say anything.
Gotta be oblivious to the underworld.
And then there was Armando—my father (who I still refused to call “Papa” on pure principle)—was dressed like he ran the Vatican and the Mafia at the same time. Three-piece suit, sunglasses indoors, and a presence that said I own this entire block and your soul.
“My cielito,” he said warmly, kissing the top of my head. “Ready to be spoiled?”
Amir looked alarmed. “Why do you get pet names? I’m traumatized.”
“You don’t have the correct bone structure, mi ángel,” Armando replied smoothly. “Come, hija. We ride.”
I dead-eyed Amir. “If I disappear today, tell the media I was fabulous.”
Then the whole mafia caravan rolled out like the cast of Fast and Furious: Designer Edition. Black cars, bodyguards, suspiciously large duffel bags—totally normal shopping day.
—
AT THE MALL:
I expected a few awkward stares, but no. This was an event.
The moment I stepped into the massive designer mall, it was as if the Earth shifted on its axis. Armando flanked my right, Dante my left, and the rest of my brothers and their friends trailed behind like the most overdramatic entourage in shopping history. Amir and I were in the dead center, like royalty on a tour of their empire.
