Claimed by the Mafia Don Chapter 7: What Do You Think Of Me?

ZOE DEAN’S POV

My lashes fluttered open when a stream of light spilled across my face. It took a mont for my eyes to adjust, each blink softening the blur until the world around settled into focus.

The first thing I saw was him. Nero.

He was asleep, his breathing steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seed far too calm for a man like him. His face was relaxed, almost delicate in its stillness, and for a brief second, he didn’t look like the ruthless don everyone whispered about in fear. He looked... human. Handso. Too handso.

My heart thumped loudly in my chest, as though reminding who he really was. What kind of story hid behind that dangerous beauty? What had turned him so cold, so cruel? Because no one is born that way. Everyone has a backstory.

And yet, here I was, lying next to him in a bed that wasn’t mine, wrapped in clothes he had bought , feeling oddly at ease. Too at ease. Like this was normal. Like I belonged here.

His body stirred. I froze, my gaze darting to his face just as his lashes flicked open. His greenish-blue eyes found mine, sharp at first, then softening, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice husky, roughened by sleep.

"Good morning," I whispered back, forcing a small smile even as my heart raced at the awkward closeness.

"How was your night?" he asked, stretching lazily.

"It was... okay," I replied, unsure what else to say.

He nodded, rolled onto his back, then sat up with a yawn. Within monts, he was on his feet, grabbing a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. Without another word, he slipped out of the room.

I sat there for a mont, watching the space he had just left, feeling a strange tug between curiosity and caution. Finally, I dragged myself out of bed, used the bathroom, and followed him into the sitting room.

He was already settled on the couch, legs crossed, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air, tattoos peeking out his pajamas.

I hesitated at first, then moved closer, the sll of smoke faint but sharp. "When can I go back to work?" I asked quietly.

His eyes flicked over , deliberate, scanning as if the answer depended on sothing more than my words. Then he said, calm but firm, "You’re not going back there."

I frowned, confused. "Not going back? Why?"

"Because I don’t want you to," he said simply, exhaling smoke like the conversation was already over.

My brows pulled together. "But I want to work."

"And I don’t want you to." His voice was final, unyielding. "I’ll take care of everything you need."

Heat rushed through , irritation prickling under my skin. Who was he to decide this for ? My lips parted, words slipping out before I could stop them. "You don’t have to restrict my movents. It’s not like I can run away."

He only shrugged, sinking back into the couch as if my protests ant nothing. The casualness of it stung more than the words themselves.

Frustration bubbled up, pushing to turn away, to storm back into the room and put so space between us. But the sudden chi of the doorbell froze mid-step.

I glanced back at him, heart skipping. Who would be here this early?

Nero’s expression hardened, a slight frown pulling at his lips as he rose from the couch. He walked to the door, movents controlled, deliberate. When he opened it, a man swept past him without hesitation, voice low and urgent.

"...we have to leave for Dubai tomorrow, Nero—"

The man stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on . His words cut off, shock flickering across his face. His gaze snapped back to Nero, wide and questioning, like he needed an explanation right this second.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair slicked neatly back and a trimd beard that frad his strong jaw. His sharp features gave him an air of authority.

Nero didn’t falter. He strolled back toward the couch, a small smirk ghosting his lips. "Oh yeah," he said casually, almost like it was nothing, "this is Zoe... my girlfriend."

At first, the man’s eyes widened when they landed on again, sharp and questioning, before narrowing slightly as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle. Then, almost too quickly, he masked his expression and composed himself. He walked toward with a polite half-smile and extended his hand.

"Hi," he said, his tone cautious. "I’m Benny Hayes, Nero’s assistant... and best friend."

I hesitated before taking his hand, forcing a small smile to my lips. "Zoe Dean," I replied softly, even though Nero had already introduced .

Benny nodded, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. His gaze flicked between and Nero, sothing unspoken hanging in the air, sothing I couldn’t read. Then he muttered, "I think I’ll co back," and with a quick glance toward Nero, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

The silence that followed was heavy. I exhaled slowly, ready to retreat to the room just to escape the tension, when a voice stopped .

"Co here."

The command was low, almost casual, but it left no room for disobedience.

I froze, turning to see Nero leaning back on the couch, one arm draped along the cushion, patting the empty spot beside him. His expression was unreadable, his presence filling the room in a way that made my chest tighten.

I frowned, hesitating. Every instinct told not to move, but after a beat of silence, I forced myself forward, perching on the couch, not next to him, but a safe distance away.

He let out a short breath, dropped his cigarette into a plate on the table, and turned to face . "Are you upset?" His voice was softer than I expected, almost careful, as though he wasn’t used to asking that kind of question.

For a mont I doubted I’d heard him right. Upset? Did he really need to ask?

I folded my arms, frown deepening. "You stop from working, restrict my movents, and then ask if I’m upset?" My voice ca out sharper than I intended, edged with frustration.

Where this sudden boldness ca from, I didn’t know. Maybe I was testing him. Maybe I was testing myself. But ever since eting Nero, I’d discovered parts of I didn’t recognize, like this strange defiance that refused to stay quiet.

His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in sothing else, sothing unreadable. "Zoe, I’m not doing this to cage you," he said evenly. "I don’t want you going back to that place because it’s dangerous."

Dangerous. His tone was firm, protective even, but his eyes... his eyes were steady, soft in a way that unsettled . He was a man feared by many, ruthless in every whispered story. So why did I feel safe with him? Why did I feel like I could trust him when everything scread that I shouldn’t?

Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. "Are you like this with every woman, or just ?"

His brows lifted slightly, caught off guard. "What do you an?"

"You introduce as your girlfriend. You buy clothes. You bring here. You... act like this." My voice wavered, my brows furrowed with confusion. "Is this normal for you? Or..." My throat tightened as the thought ford. "...or will you kill after all this?"

The shift in his expression was instant. His frown cut deep, eyes darkening with sothing I couldn’t place. Anger. Disappointnt. Maybe both.

"Why do you always talk about death?" His voice hardened, words rushing out sharp and fast. "About killing you? Are you that eager to die, Zoe? Do you want to kill you?"

My pulse kicked up, panic threading through . I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I’m asking because I don’t want any surprises," I said firmly, even though my heart was racing so fast it hurt. I knew I’d pushed him too far, but the words were already out.

His brows drew tighter, his voice low but dangerous now. "Do you think I just kill innocent people? That I take lives for fun?"

The air thickened around us. My mouth went dry. I opened it, then closed it again, unsure what to say. Silence was safer.

But he wasn’t done. "You think I’m a monster, don’t you?" His eyes locked on mine, hard and unrelenting. "A man who kills for sport."

I stayed quiet, too stunned and afraid to answer. Why does it matter what I think of him? The silence between us stretched thin, sharp as glass.

Then his fist slamd against the table with a crack that jolted , my body flinching instinctively. Fear spiked through , reminding exactly who he was.

Before I could say anything, he pushed up from the couch, his movents swift, clipped. Without another word, he strode out of the room, leaving alone with the echo of his anger, and the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.