Forbidden Claim: A Mafia King’s Obsession

Chapter 39: She’s dead

Nadia’s POV

The air inside the hospital room goes stiff, making it difficult to breathe properly.

Lorenzo stands over my bed, his massive frame blocking out the light from the small window behind him. His icy, blue eyes burn into mine, searching for any flicker of hesitation, any crack in my resolve. He wants a name. He wants a target.

“Tell me, Nadia,” he commands again, his voice dangerously low, vibrating through the quiet room like distant thunder. “Tell me who brought you that tea.”

I keep my lips pressed into a tight line. My throat burns from the tube they used to pump the poison out of my stomach, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the horror gripping my chest.

If I speak. If describe the young woman who gave me that tea, Lorenzo’s men will find her within an hour. She won’t just be questioned. She will be erased. And if she was forced into it — if her family was threatened, or if she was a pawn in someone else’s sick game — her blood will be on my hands. I’ve watched too many people suffer because of the Romano name. I refuse to be the reason for another execution.

Lorenzo takes a step closer, the aura of his presence pressing down on me. He leans over the rails of the hospital bed, his dark hair falling forward, shadowing his sharp ruthless features.

“You think you are protecting someone?” he growls, his jaw tightening until a muscle ticks sharply in his cheek. “You think staying silent makes you brave? Someone tried to kill you under my roof, Nadia. Do you understand what that means?”

It means your empire is rotten from the inside, I want to scream at him. It means as long as I am around you, my life is at stake.

Instead, I just stare at him. My breathing shallow, my hands clutching the stiff white blanket pulled up to my chin. The silence between us stretches, until Lorenzo lets out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Fine,” he whispers, his baritone deadly and terrifying. “Don’t speak. I’ll tear the mansion and the whole of New York apart piece by piece until I find her myself.”

He turns on his heel and strides toward the door. The heavy wood slams shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sterile room with only the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor to keep me company.

Why is he taking it personal? He hates me so much. My death would have been brought him so much joy. So why?

Two days pass in a blur of intravenous drips, bitter medications, and silent guards standing post outside my door. Lorenzo doesn’t return.

On the morning of the third day, the doctor reluctantly signs my discharge papers under heavy pressure from the Don’s security detail. I am escorted back to the mansion in a convoy of black SUVs, surrounded by men with stern faces and concealed weapons.

When the heavy iron gates of the mansion roll open, a cold shudder runs down my spine. The estate in Italy was a gilded cage just like this one. I almost lost my life during the brutal attack. Now, just one night after we arrive in New York, I got poisoned.

Hannah is waiting for me by the foyer when I walk through the grand entrance. Her eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles carved under her eyes as if she hasn’t slept a full hour since the incident. The moment the guard steps back, she rushes forward, her hands hovering over me as if she’s afraid I’ll break into pieces.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, her voice cracking with emotion. “Mrs Romano… I was so scared. When I saw you on that floor…”

“I’m okay, Hannah,” I say softly, offering a weak reassuring smile. “I’m alive.”

She helps me ascend the grand staircase, her arm hooked around mine to support my unsteady steps. The mansion is deathly quiet.

“Where’s everyone?” I ask in a low whisper as we turn down the hall toward the master suite.

Hannah leans in closer so her voice is barely heard. “Mr Romano line up every single staff the morning after you were taken to the hospital. He had his lieutenants interrogate everyone. Half of the staff was sent away… and three of the guards were taken to the lower levels.”

She doesn’t need to explain what 'taken to the lower levels' mean. I have experienced the cruelty that occurs there in Italy.

“Did they… did they find her?” I ask, my heart beginning to beat rapidly.

Hannah shakes her head in decline, her face pale. “No. The girl who served you tea… she vanished right after you collapsed. No one saw her leave the grounds. It’s like she was never even here, just disappeared into thin air. Don Lorenzo is furious. The entire house is on high alert.”

A mix of relief and anxiety washes over me. If she escaped, that means whoever is pulling the strings is still out there — probably hiding behind the high walls of this mansion, waiting for another opportunity.

When we enter the master bedroom, Hannah helps me sit on the edge of the large bed. The room looks spotless — there’s no trace of the terrifying night Lorenzo cornered me. It looks untouched and cold.

“I made some hot soup for you,” Hannah says softly, gesturing at the tray sitting on the side table. “Don’t worry… I cooked it myself. I swore to the Don, no one else touched the pot or the bowl. You can eat it safely.”

Tears sting the corner of my eyes at her kindness. “Thank you Hannah, for everything. If you haven’t found me earlier… I would have died.”

She squeezed my hand gently before stepping back. “Rest now. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

Once the door clicks shut, the quiet room swallows me whole. I look down at my trembling hand. My body feels exhausted, every nerve frailer to the absolute limit. I pull my legs onto the bed, curl onto my sides and drag the heavy duvet over my shoulders.

I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind, but sleep refuses to come. Every creak of the floorboard outside makes me flinch. Every shadow looks like a figure waiting to strike.

Hours pass in agonizing stillness. The daylight fading from the room replaced by the deep indigo shadow of dusk.

Around midnight, the click of the brass door handle cuts through the silence.

I snap my eyes open, my body locking up in panic.

The door swings open quietly. A tall, broad silhouette stands framed against the warm light of the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Lorenzo.

He doesn’t turn on the overhead lights. Instead, he walks slowly into the dim room. The faint moonlight filtering through the curtains casting sharp angles across his face. He’s wearing a charcoal suite, his tie is loosened at the collar, looking wearing yet dangerous and imposing.

He stops at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes locked onto my curled form.

“Hannah said you ate,” he says, his voice rough, as if he hasn’t spoken for hours.

“A little” I say, my voice barely a whisper in the vast room.

He steps around the side of the bed, pulling out the heavy armchair and dropping onto it. He leans back, crossing his long legs, his dark gaze never leaving my face. The silence stretches between us — less intimidating, but much heavier.

“The Moretti family…” he says suddenly, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. “They planted that girl here three weeks ago . Every single information about her was fake. Forged.”

My breath hitches. The Morettis. Another rival family of his. But his mother mentioned them when she listed the families he should have married from. So why are they targeting me now?

“They couldn’t get to me,” he says, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dark. “So they came for what belongs to me.”

What belongs to me. A reminder of my position. I am a possession , rather than a human.

“I refused to tell you who she was, because I didn’t want more blood on my hands.” I murmur softly, a sudden rush of strength rushing into my body. “I knew what you would do to her.”

“You think you were being merciful?” he chuckles, leaning forward, staring at m e with a look that is terrifyingly intense.

“My men already caught up with her at the border. Your silence didn’t save her.”

My blood runs cold. I stare at him, my mouth opening and clamping shut at a loss for words.

“She’s dead,” Lorenzo says casually, not even an ounce of remorse in his voice. “And the bastards who sent her will bleed a hundred times over.”

Slowly, he stands up from the chair, looming over the bed. He reaches out and brushes my lower lip with his thumb. His touch is light, a contrast to is violent words

“Get used to the blood, piccola,” he whispers, bending down until his lips are inches from my ear. “Because as long as you bear my name, it will follow you everywhere you go.”