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

ZOE DEAN’S POV

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

But Nero... didn’t even flinch.

He stood tall beside —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 ca 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 or pull away—he just stood there, steady, like he was carved from sothing 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 soone carry that much authority—unapologetic and effortless—even here?

Silence hung for a mont.

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 soone 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 .

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 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, sothing 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 to turn around and run back to safety.

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

This ti, more figures erged. Many more.

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

My heart almost tore out of my chest.

Why so many?

Where did they co 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 more than all the weapons pointed our way.

Then the n parted.

Soone 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 mont I recognized him, my knees nearly buckled.

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

He looked nothing like the father I used to imagine when I was little. Not the blurry figure from old mories. 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 sothing crack in my chest.

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

He stared.

And stared.

"...Zoe."

Barely a whisper.

Like my na hurt him to say.

My throat closed. The sound of my na—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 sothing 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 and looked at Nero.

The softness vanished instantly.

"Nero," he said, voice low. "You co into my territory ard. 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 ," 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 ?"

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 . Nero’s. My father’s. All the n’s. Their stares burned into . Maybe won weren’t supposed to speak here—maybe I was breaking sothing 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 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 —searching for sothing I didn’t care to give him anymore.

Finally, he turned around.

"Follow ."

He began walking deeper into the forest.

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

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

His voice was soft—dangerously soft.

Like if I said no, he would whisk 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 so right over the path I took.

Sothing in 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 peace, then I wasn’t going to run this ti.

The deeper we walked, the more the forest seed 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 n appeared between trees, watching silently like predators guarding their territory.

Nero kept close. He walked half a step ahead, half a step beside , 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 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 soone 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 n stood around the fire, all ard, all silent.

My father stopped. Turned.

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

"Co," he said, his voice low but firm. "You two can co... inside."

He pointed to the shack.

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

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

"No," Nero said plainly.

So of the n 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 subtly behind him, standing his ground, gun still holstered but ready.

My father’s eyes flicked to the way Nero positioned himself, and sothing unreadable crossed his face. Annoyance? Respect? mory? 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 exclaid, shocked.