Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

Should I kill him?

That is the question humming through Niko’s mind as the earth-shaking roar of the crowd rattles the reinforced steel cage around him.

The cage shakes under the rhythmic pounding of fists, shoes, and the raw, guttural screaming of hundreds of spectators stacked high into the dim, smoke-choked bleachers.

The air in the underground pit is always thick, smelling of sour sweat, cheap booze, blood, and stale tobacco.

It settles on the back of his tongue, heavy and bitter, a flavor he has tasted almost every single night for as long as he can care to remember.

At eighteen years old, Niko does not really have a normal life outside this blood-soaked arena. Down here, nobody calls him Niko. He doubts a single person in this room even knows his real name.

To the bookies, the gamblers, and the bloodthirsty savages hanging off the wire mesh, his name is Wildcat.

He deals blows to the same revolving door of desperate men night after night. He trades bloody knuckles for the roar of an audience that treats him like a favorite toy.

They scream at him to snap a limb, to cave in a rib, or to take a brutal hit just so their low-odds bets might pay out double. They shake the cage until the rusted iron groans, howling for violence like starved dogs.

Niko hates the sound of their screaming. He hates the way their eyes bulge when the blood spills onto the floor.

He does not mind beating people to death for money, not really. It pays well enough, and it gives his hands something to do. But lately, it has just become so terribly repetitive.

Beat. Kill. Break. Bruise. Collect the envelope of cash. Wash the blood off his forearms. Repeat it all again tomorrow. He is quite over it.

If there is one thing Niko has developed over years of staring out from inside a cage, it is a hyper-awareness of people.

He notices the subtle shifts in the crowd. He notices when the screams pitch higher because a bone snaps through skin.

He notices the breathless quiet when he goes just a fraction too far and reminds them that they are watching an actual execution.

He knows exactly how much violence to measure out to keep these savages happy without turning their stomachs.

For about a month now, though, his eyes have been drawn to a strange pocket of space in the audience, off toward his left.

In a packed, suffocating auditorium where sweaty men stand shoulder to shoulder, screaming until their vocal cords bleed, there is one spot with empty seats surrounding it.

Nobody sits next to the guy who occupies that spot. He does not bring girls with him. He does not bring bodyguards.

Out of the corner of his eye, through the bloody haze of his matches, Niko always notices the way the guy dresses. Expensive, tailored dark clothes. A clean, pristine silhouette against the grime of the underground pit.

He looks like a rich little fuck.

Niko would not call him little in terms of size, though. There is nothing small about the guy’s broad shoulders or his frame. But he is clearly an elite. A rich prick playing in the gutter.

Nobody ever makes a move on him. Nobody tries to pick his pockets. Niko heard a rumor a few weeks back about Frankie and Miller, two dumb fucks who made a living preying on wealthy tourists leaving the fighting ring.

They tried to rough up the rich prick in the dark alley behind the venue. Neither Frankie nor Miller has been seen since. Their locker sat untouched for two weeks before the pit manager threw their stuff in the trash.

So it is safe to assume the rich fuck is quite dangerous. They all tend to be when they wander down here on purpose.

Right now, the rich fuck is sitting in his little private bubble again. He sits perfectly still while Niko beats the absolute shit out of his opponent.

He does not cheer. He does not wave betting slips. He just watches Niko without blinking. His stare is so heavy, so intense, it actually sends a strange prickle down Niko’s spine.

Niko is not really bothered by it, though. So what if some rich prick decided he has a private kink for visceral violence? Rich people always figure out their twisted urges one way or another.

Either they take it out on poor people who cannot fight back, or they end up getting themselves killed in pursuit of that raw thrill they felt the first time they watched someone bleed.

Niko is not poor anymore. He has made a substantial amount of money from this cage over the years. But at the same time, he is definitely not someone this rich prick can walk over.

Which brings Niko right back to his original thought. Why the fuck does this guy show up every single time Niko has a match?

Niko delivers a sharp, brutal left hook that cracks against his opponent’s cheekbone.

As the man staggers, Niko wonders again. Should I kill him? Should I not?

It is almost absurd. He feels like he is sitting in a sunlit meadow, lazily plucking the petals off a daisy. He loves me, he loves me not. Only instead of petals, Niko is holding a man by his torn collar, his fist pulled back, measuring the distance to the bridge of the man’s nose.

He takes a second look at the mangled, bloodied face of his opponent, and the man’s identity finally clicks in his head. Oh yeah. This is Jack. ℴℴ𝘮

Jack is a regular down here. He fights in this ring because he carries a heavy criminal record and has no legitimate way to finance his family.

Niko remembers hearing someone talk in the showers a while ago. Jack’s wife gave birth about two weeks ago. Now Jack is back in the iron cage, taking pulverizing hits to his skull just to buy diapers and formula for his kid.

Niko pauses, his fist hovering in the air. He debates with that tiny, pathetic sliver of morality left inside him, or at least what he imagines to be his morality.

If he kills Jack right now, what happens to the newborn? What happens to the wife waiting in some cold apartment?

Niko lets out a quiet, exasperated sigh. He gently, almost calmly, pats the top of Jack’s swollen head. Then he lets go of his collar.

Jack drops straight to the concrete floor like a sack of wet flour. He is completely motionless, deeply unconscious, but his chest still rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths. He is not dead. Lucky him. His child gets to see his father for another day.

Then Niko remembers something else. When Jack first walked into the cage tonight, trying to build his own confidence, he tried his hand at a little trash talk. He had spat on the floor and called Niko a yellow-eyed piece of shit.

Niko’s expression stays perfectly flat. He calmly winds up his right leg and kicks Jack straight in the mouth.

There is a wet, sickening crunch. Jack whimpers unconsciously, choking lightly on his own broken teeth. Niko watches him struggle for a second, a small, genuine smile finally curling his lips.

The crowd explodes into a wall of thunderous noise. Bookies throw paper tickets into the air. Money changes hands.

Niko raises both of his bloody hands high above his head, striking the pose of the victor while his amber eyes lazily scan the bleachers.

His gaze lands on the left side of the room. There he is. Sitting in his empty pocket of space where no man dares to breathe near him. The only person in the entire packed auditorium with empty chairs surrounding his body.

The rich fuck with those soulless black eyes.

Seen from this distance, his eyes look like voids. The fucker actually looks like he has no pupils at all. How is that even biologically possible?

If Niko did not possess exceptionally sharp eyesight, he would not have caught the detail. He has never spoken a word to the guy, but Niko can tell just by looking at him that he is an outright lunatic.

He carries that quiet aura that tells the rest of the world, do not cross this line unless you want your life to end.

Niko squints slightly as he walks toward the cage exit. Isn’t that fucker eighteen? He looks the exact same age as Niko. What the hell do rich elites put their kids through for them to turn out looking like a walking nightmare at eighteen?

Niko looks down at his own blood-caked knuckles. Then he looks back at old man Jack, who is currently being dragged out of the ring by his ankles, still choking on his teeth.

Well, Niko thinks to himself, I am eighteen too. But I am a street rat, so it does not count.

Niko steps out of the cage and makes his way down the damp, cold brick corridor toward his room. He would not dignify it by calling it a dressing room. It is a tiny, concrete box with a single flickering lightbulb, a rust-stained sink, and a wooden bench.

It is where he wipes the blood off his skin and changes into his street clothes after collecting his pay envelope and his cut of the winning bets.

He tosses his hand wraps into the sink and turns the brass tap. Cold water splatters over his bruised forearms.

The wooden door opens without a knock.

Niko freezes. He turns around slowly, wiping wet hands against his dark trousers.

Standing in the doorway is the rich fucker, dressed entirely in tailored black.