Claimed by the Mafia Don-Chapter 59: We Need Your Help

ZOE DEAN’S POV

The moment that voice cut through the bushes, sharp and demanding, my entire body locked up. Fear swallowed me whole.

But Nero... didn’t even flinch.

He stood tall beside me—his hand still wrapped firmly around mine, the other holding his gun like he’d been born with it. Calm. Unshaken. Not even breathing too fast.

The voice came again, louder. Impatient.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

My heart stuttered painfully. I didn’t even realize I’d moved closer until my fingers dug hard into Nero’s arm. He didn’t glance at me or pull away—he just stood there, steady, like he was carved from something unbreakable.

When he finally spoke, his words were ice-cold. "Show your face. Only a coward talks from the shadows."

I stared up at him, wondering how he could be so fearless in a place that wasn’t even his. How could someone carry that much authority—unapologetic and effortless—even here?

Silence hung for a moment.

Then the bushes moved.

Leaves rustled.

My breath caught.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Slightly lean but packed with muscle. Long scars ran across his arms—deep ones, like someone had carved pieces of his life into him. His face was hard, unreadable. But his eyes... cold in a way that made my stomach twist. They were the eyes of a man who’d killed before and slept without guilt.

He looked at Nero first.

Then at me.

His stare lingered a beat too long, and my skin crawled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Nero roughly. "You shouldn’t be here."

Nero’s hold on my hand tightened, subtle but protective.

"I want to see your boss," he said without blinking.

The man frowned—first at Nero, then at me again. "You shouldn’t be at this side. Not in this territory. And especially not with a..." His lips curled slightly. "...with a woman."

Heat flared behind Nero’s expression. Not anger—no, something more dangerous. A warning.

"You already know I am not a man of many words," he said, voice low. "I want to speak with your boss. Now."

The man studied him—really studied him—before giving a stiff nod. "Wait here."

Then he disappeared into the foliage, swallowed by shadows.

When he vanished, the silence felt heavier. Pressing.

Nero didn’t move an inch. His face stayed in that unreadable, businesslike calm. Mafia calm.

I tugged gently at his arm. "What happens now?"

He didn’t take his eyes off the bushes.

"Let’s wait."

"What if they don’t want to talk?" I whispered. "What if they fight instead?"

"They won’t," he said simply. Too confidently.

But I didn’t believe it. Not with how tense the air felt. Not with how my heart kept climbing up my throat, begging me to turn around and run back to safety.

Before I could argue, the bushes erupted with noise again.

This time, more figures emerged. Many more.

At least ten men stepped out—from behind trees, from deep shadows, from bushes that suddenly seemed too close. All in dark clothing. All armed heavily. Shotguns. Knives. Machetes gleaming faintly.

My heart almost tore out of my chest.

Why so many?

Where did they come from so fast?

And for a terrifying second, I swear Nero might open fire.

But he didn’t.

He held the gun low, controlled, but the muscle in his jaw twitched—just once. His breathing stayed steady, steady enough to frighten me more than all the weapons pointed our way.

Then the men parted.

Someone walked out from the center.

A man.

No weapon.

Tattoos crawling up his torso.

Dark hair.

Bare chest.

A presence that sucked all the air from the clearing.

The moment I recognized him, my knees nearly buckled.

He recognized me too—because he froze mid-step. His eyes widened just a fraction, but enough to shatter something inside me.

He looked nothing like the father I used to imagine when I was little. Not the blurry figure from old memories. Not the shadowy shape I forced to disappear while growing up.

This man was older, rough around the edges. Grey streaks tangled in his beard. Hair unkempt. His shoulders were broad but sagged slightly, like life had been chewing on him for years.

But his eyes...

His eyes were mine.

Seeing that made something crack in my chest.

He stopped a few paces away—close enough to see me clearly, far enough to avoid actually reaching me.

He stared.

And stared.

"...Zoe."

Barely a whisper.

Like my name hurt him to say.

My throat closed. The sound of my name—coming from him—felt unreal. Wrong. After so many years, after everything... why did he get to say it?

He blinked slowly. Twice. Then he stepped closer, just a little, his face shifting between disbelief and something like fear.

"Zoe? Is that really you?"

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because I was staring at the man who destroyed my childhood, broke my mother, and vanished from my life like I was nothing.

Then Nero moved.

Not aggressively—just enough to block half my body behind him.

My father finally tore his gaze from me and looked at Nero.

The softness vanished instantly.

"Nero," he said, voice low. "You come into my territory armed. And worse—you bring my daughter. A woman. That alone breaks our code."

"I don’t enjoy being here any more than you enjoy seeing me," Nero replied flatly. "But I need to be here."

My father’s eyes narrowed. "With my daughter? That’s what I don’t believe. You bring her here to threaten me?"

Nero didn’t blink. "I’m not here to fight, Michael."

"It’s Frenado," my father snapped.

"I don’t care."

The tension spiked so sharply I felt it on my skin. My chest tightened painfully as they stared each other down. I wanted it to stop. All of it.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "How long will this back and forth go on?"

Everything froze.

Ten pairs of eyes snapped to me. Nero’s. My father’s. All the men’s. Their stares burned into me. Maybe women weren’t supposed to speak here—maybe I was breaking something sacred. But I’d already started, and I wasn’t swallowing the rest.

"We don’t need to do this," I said quietly, looking at my father.

His eyes softened—just barely. Like he was trying to be proud of me in a place where pride didn’t belong.

I tore my gaze away from him and looked at Nero. He had no expression at all, perfectly blank.

"Father," I forced the word out even though it tasted wrong. "We need your help. Help us, and we’ll leave."

My father’s jaw tightened.

He looked at Nero.

Then slowly, deliberately, he looked back at me—searching for something I didn’t care to give him anymore.

Finally, he turned around.

"Follow me."

He began walking deeper into the forest.

Nero didn’t move yet. Instead, he leaned slightly toward me.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

His voice was soft—dangerously soft.

Like if I said no, he would whisk me away instantly.

And for a heartbeat—a fragile heartbeat—I almost said no.

But then I looked ahead at my father’s broad back. The man who broke everything. The man who walked like he still had some right over the path I took.

Something in me solidified.

I straightened. "I’m fine."

Nero’s hand rose, sliding comfortingly up my back.

Then together... we followed him into the trees.

If facing him could finally give me peace, then I wasn’t going to run this time.

The deeper we walked, the more the forest seemed to swallow us whole.

The air grew colder, thicker, heavy like it carried secrets that had never seen daylight. The path was barely a path—just patches of flattened earth between roots and rocks. Every few steps, one of my father’s men appeared between trees, watching silently like predators guarding their territory.

Nero kept me close. He walked half a step ahead, half a step beside me, his hand hovering near mine, near his gun, near anything he needed to reach in a second.

My father walked in front of us with his shoulders squared, the stride of a man who owned the ground beneath his feet. He didn’t look back.

I wasn’t sure if that made me angry... or relieved.

We finally reached a clearing.

A small house stood there—if you could call it a house. More like a wooden shelter pieced together by someone who didn’t care about comfort or beauty. A fire pit burned in the center of the clearing, smoke curling into the sky.

Three more men stood around the fire, all armed, all silent.

My father stopped. Turned.

His eyes landed on me again. This time, I didn’t look away.

"Come," he said, his voice low but firm. "You two can come... inside."

He pointed to the shack.

Nero immediately tensed. "We stay in open space."

My father raised a brow. "You don’t trust me?"

"No," Nero said plainly.

Some of the men chuckled, but my father didn’t. He studied Nero with a slow, assessing stare.

Then—unexpectedly—he nodded.

"Fine. We talk here."

He walked to the fire, grabbed a chair that looked like it had been carved from a single block of wood, and sat. Nero didn’t sit. He pulled me subtly behind him, standing his ground, gun still holstered but ready.

My father’s eyes flicked to the way Nero positioned himself, and something unreadable crossed his face. Annoyance? Respect? Memory? I couldn’t tell.

Finally, he exhaled and spoke.

"What do you need my help for?"

Nero answered without hesitation. "I want to track down the man who ordered you to kill my mother."

My father’s eyes widened and shock spread on his face like he wasn’t expecting what Nero said. "What?!" He exclaimed, shocked.