Forbidden Claim: A Mafia King’s Obsession

Chapter 36: A hesitant monster

Nadia’s POV

I sit on the edge of the bed in the master bedroom, the lingering heat from my shower doing nothing to stop the chill settling deep in my bones.

He didn’t mean it. I repeat the lie like a mantra, trying to convince myself. He definitely didn’t mean it.

I lift the soft silk sheets, preparing to slide underneath when the heavy oak doors suddenly burst open. The sheets slips from my numb fingers. My entire body locks up, terror slamming into me like a physical force.

I lift my eyes. Lorenzo steps into the room, bare-chested, a lit cigar resting lazily between his fingers. His dark eyes are hooded, heavy with a cold, possessive gaze that makes air leave my lungs.

I bolt out of bed, my heart pounding violently in my chest. I clutch the fabric of my night gown, taking a few shaky steps backward until my spine hits the cold wall. I swallow hard against the invisible lump in my throat.

Lorenzo stalks deeper into the room. Dark strands of hair cling to his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat glistens down the slope of his neck to his chest. He raises the cigar to his lips, taking a slow, deep drag before exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke into the quiet space between us.

“You disobey me, Nadia,” he says. His voice is barely a whisper, but it vibrates with lethal promise. “I gave you a command. Why do you still have clothes on?”

I swallow hard, biting down on my lower lip. “I… please, Lorenzo—"

“Take them off,” he cuts in coldly.

He steps over to the side table, casually crushing the ambers of his cigar into an ashtray. Then he turns, taking slow, steady strides toward me until he’s looming over my small frame.

“Lorenzo, please,” I beg, heat stinging the corners of my eyes. “I can’t. I am not ready for this.”

“I don’t give a f**k if you ready or not,” he growls, those icy blue eyes flaring with sudden, unpredictable rage. “Take them off. Or I’ll tear them off you myself.”

“Please…” I sob, shrinking back.

Before I can move an inch, he lunges forward. His fingers lock around my wrist like a band of iron, yanking me toward the bed. I struggle, trying to twist out of his grip, but it’s like fighting steel. He shoves me down onto the mattress and moves in instantly, trapping me beneath the heavy weight of his frame.

He pins my wrists firmly above my head with one hand, his posture absolute and unyielding.

“No! Lorenzo, stop! You can’t do this!” I cry out, thrashing beneath him.

He ignores my pleas, leaning down until his lips brush against the shell of my ear.

“Shhhhhh,” he breathes softly against my skin, a gentle contrast to the harsh grip on my arms. “If you fight me on this, I’ll order my men to get rid of the kids. And I’ll make sure you watch every second on video.”

My entire body goes rigid. Cold horror instantly replacing the urge to fight.

The kids.

A silent tear spills over, trailing down my cheeks. I close my eyes. I have to endure this. No matter how terrifying it gets, I have to protect them.

I stop moving. I force my muscles to stop resisting, letting my body go completely limp beneath him.

He notices the shift immediately. His free hand trails down my throat, his dark gaze locked onto mine as his fingers trace the dip of my collarbone. But as his hand moves further down, pressing against my skin, the terror inside me spirals out of control.

My body betrays my intent. The phobia hits like a massive tidal wave, my breathing hitches instantly.

My chest heaves in short, frantic gasps. My jaw begins to vibrate, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I try to breathe, try to play along for the sake of the children, but my body reacts in a totally opposite manner.

Lorenzo freezes.

His hand halts in place. The cold, dark amusement in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden, unreadable stillness as he stares down at my shuddering frame. He watches my shaky breath, my wide, terrified eyes, and the tremor wracking my body.

Without a word, he abruptly lets go of my wrists.

He steps back, withdrawing his hand entirely as if burned. He stands beside the bed, staring down at me for a moment too long, his face a completely blank mask.

Then he turns on his heel and walks toward the exit. He throws the door open and steps out, slamming it behind him with a deafening crash that echoes through the quiet room.

I lay there in the dark, dragging air into my starved lungs in ragged, trembling gasps. I drag the silk sheets over my cold skin and curl into a tight ball, holding myself as my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

He stopped.

My mind spins in the dark, quiet space. This is the third time.

Why does a man like him — a man who takes whatever he wants — keep walking away?