Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

WHAT ORION SAW...

The leather seat of the car feels comfortable beneath my hand. Outside the tinted glass, the city glides past in a blur of gray concrete, tall buildings, and rusted steel.

Adrien sits beside me in the back. His body is tense, his spine held straight, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. I keep my posture loose, resting one arm casually along the leather seat behind his shoulders.

I do not touch him yet, but I stay close enough so he can feel my warmth. I want him to know I am right here.

”Adrien?” I keep my voice low, dropping my tone so I do not startle him. ”Your breathing is very shallow.”

”I’m fine,” he chokes out. He presses his cold palm against his forehead, his knuckles pale in the dim interior of the car. ”Just... a headache. A really bad one.”

”We are almost there,” I say softly.

I reach over the center console, resting my hand gently over his knee. I give the sore muscle a firm, reassuring squeeze, feeling the fine tremors running through his leg.

I wonder what will happen if I keep my hand on his... No! Bad Orion!

”You need a hot bath, some food, and a long sleep. You have been through a lot today. I shouldn’t have brought you to the docks.”

He stares out the front windshield, watching the massive wrought-iron gates of the estate swing open. ”No,” he whispers, his voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the engine. ”No, it’s fine.”

The heavy car glides through the gates, sweeping up the paved circular driveway. The estate sits quietly under the overcast sky, surrounded by towering stone walls and manicured lawns.

I watch Adrien out of the corner of my eye. The drive back from the harbor was silent, but his mind was clearly spinning.

Ever since we left that cold warehouse, ever since we walked away from the man strapped to that chair above the fuel-filled tires, Adrien has been holding his breath.

He thinks I brought him to the docks to terrify him. He thinks it was a display of power meant to keep him trapped in my arms.

It is. But that isn’t all there is to it.

He fails to understand that everything I do, every single piece I move on this board, is designed to settle the balance.

I spent seven years searching empty streets, searching dank alleys, tracing cold footprints through the rain just to find traces of the ghost he left behind.

And when I finally reclaimed him, I found a man covered in invisible scars, terrified of his own shadow, shrinking away whenever a hand moved too fast near his face.

I built that room at the docks for him. I tracked down the rat who first bought his body for a plate of cold food, I bought his debts, I destroyed his family, and I put his life directly into Adrien’s hands.

I wanted Adrien to see that the monsters from his past are small. I wanted him to see that he holds the match now.

Whatever happened after we stepped out of that warehouse did not matter to me. The rat is handled. The point was made. I said what I needed to say, and for the first time in weeks, my mind feels settled.

All I am waiting for now is for Adrien to realize that he can choose me, that he can stop running, that he can finally rest in the home I built for him.

I cut the engine in front of the entrance. Before he can even reach for his door handle, I step out into the cool air.

I walk around the sleek hood with long, unhurried strides, opening his passenger door like a gentleman taking care of his delicate spouse. My delicate spouse.

I extend my open palm toward him. He stares at my fingers for a long beat before slowly placing his hand in mine.

His skin is ice-cold, but as my fingers close around his, I pull him out with smooth grace, tucking his arm securely against my side.

We walk up the marble steps together. He leans into my side just enough for me to bear his weight, his breathing quiet beside me.

We step into the grand foyer. The heavy oak doors swing shut behind us with a solid thud, but the familiar, quiet stillness of my home is entirely absent.

The air in the hallway feels wrong. It is heavy and sour.

Standing near the wide archway leading into the main living room are Alexis and one of my guards. Alexis is pale.

His posture, usually sharp and composed, is stiff as a board. His hands clench nervously at his sides. The second the front doors seal shut and our footsteps echo on the polished floorboards, his eyes bypass me entirely and lock directly onto Adrien.

There is a deep panic in his expression.

I keep moving forward, holding Adrien close to my side, stepping casually into the living room.

”What is it, Alexis?” I ask, keeping my tone pleasant and light. ”You look like someone died in the driveway.”

Alexis does not answer right away. He swallows hard, his jaw tight, before turning his head slightly to gesture toward the large television screen mounted on the main wall of the living room.

The TV is on.

Adrien freezes at my side. His hand slips slightly in my grip, his fingers going stiff as his eyes lock onto the glowing screen.

Images are flashing across the display in rapid succession. High-resolution, bright pictures.

Pictures of Adrien.

My heart gives a sudden, heavy thud in my chest, a sharp spike of pure panic hitting my stomach.

I look at the images. They are photographs from his seven years away from me. Photos of him standing in dank, trash-strewn alleys, wearing thin, threadbare clothes.

Photos of him sitting on the edge of stained mattresses in low-rent motels. Photos of him surrounded by older men in shadowy bars. Photos of him leaning into car windows on freezing street corners.

At the bottom of the display, a bright red banner flashes in bold text: SPECIAL SCANDAL REPORT: THE VASSILIS SECRET.

A female news anchor reads from her script, her voice crisp, professional, and clear. ”We break into our regular afternoon broadcast with a shocking revelation surrounding the newly announced, highly secretive marriage of Orion Vassilis—heir to the Vassilis empire and prominent international business mogul...”

My grip on Adrien’s hand tightens instinctively.

No.

Not this. Not like this.

I look down at Adrien’s face. All the color has drained from his skin. His eyes are wide, glassy, staring at the screen as if his mind has left his body entirely.

He looks hollow, crushed under the weight of his own past being laid out for the whole country to stare at.

A hot, bitter surge of fear and rage twists deep in my gut. I spent seven years hunting for him, years trying to erase the damage those streets did to his body and mind.

I built the scene at the docks today specifically to show him that those men can no longer touch him, to give him back a sense of control and dignity.

And now, in a single minute, a television broadcast is dragging him back into the mud, forcing him to view himself as damaged goods all over again.

I do not care about the scandal. I do not care about what the public thinks of me. But seeing Adrien look at himself with that familiar, sickening self-loathing breaks something violent inside my chest.

”Documented evidence has just emerged proving that Mr. Vassilis has been thoroughly tricked, manipulated, and hoodwinked by Adrien Dubois, an infamous runaway from the Dubois family,” the newscaster continues, her voice dripping with manufactured intrigue.

A new set of photos appears on the screen. Adrien shivering outside a sleazy nightclub seven years ago. Adrien taking crumpled cash from a stranger’s hand. Adrien lying on a sofa in a brothel waiting for the next door to open.

”Sources confirm that before his sudden emergence into high society as the legal spouse of Orion Vassilis,” the reporter reads smoothly, ”young Adrien spent three long years operating as a low-level male prostitute in the city’s poorest, most dangerous districts...”

A video clip plays on the screen. It is heavily pixelated in the center, but the nature of the room and the motion of the bodies are unmistakable. It is a hidden camera recording from some cheap motel room four years ago.

Adrien is not breathing beside me. He is floating away, his frame trembling violently against my side, his fingers completely numb in my grip.

The reporter’s voice shifts, taking on a heavier, stern tone as the broadcast changes focus. ”Furthermore, current law enforcement investigations reveal that Adrien Dubois is now a prime suspect in the devastating bombing at the first engagement party of Louise Dubois and Leon Vassilis.”

”Dubois was previously implicated in the initial crime, but charges were quietly dropped and hushed up under the direct orders of Orion Vassilis...”

******

There’s just something about the way Orion sees and processes things that has a special place in my heart.

Our adorable little lunatic.

— TheLovePoet