Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

ORION’S POVI watch Adrien’s back as he flees like the little coward he is.

I stand in the courtyard for a brief second with a slow, dark smile lingering on my face. The heat that had rushed up my neck just moments ago has receded, leaving behind a strange, thrumming energy under my skin.

”Are you gay?”

The bluntness of Adrien’s question echoes in my mind. I let out a soft, dry chuckle, turning on my heel to walk back toward the edge of the crowded courtyard.

Am I?

I privately reflect on the word. It’s a label the rest of the world uses to categorize their neat little desires. But for me, nothing has ever been neat.

I think back to my youth. I’m no longer an immature seventeen-year-old brat who cannot tell the difference between a passing whim and a genuine fixation.

Back then, my desires were a chaotic, messy blur of violence and boredom. But this is different. What I feel toward my duckling is not some confusing teenage identity crisis.

I don’t care about men, and I don’t care about women.

I care about him.

I would never lie to myself because I am far too cynical for self-delusion. The truth is simple. My attraction to Adrien is real, undeniable, and entirely consuming.

It’s not about a preference. It’s about a beautiful, broken creature who looks at me with pure hatred while his heart hammers like a trapped bird against his ribs.

It’s about the high I feel when I feel the intensity of his gaze.

As my thoughts delve into a deeper, darker category, the world around me seems to shift.

I don’t realize that my internal fixation is bleeding outward. My posture stiffens. The casual, bored mask I usually wear slumps away, replaced by the raw, heavy weight of my true nature.

Unknowingly to me, my presence grows suffocatingly dark.

The wealthy guests mingling near the grand glass doors suddenly stop laughing. The polite atmosphere around me freezes. I don’t look at them, but I can feel the immediate shift in the air.

Adrien should only ever look at me.

A group of high-ranking investors to my left quietly end their conversation. Their eyes widen in brief, instinctual panic as they look at my expression. Slowly, without making it obvious, they begin to subtly inch away from me.

A wealthy matriarch holding a champagne glass takes three deliberate steps backward. Her high heels click softly against the stone as if she has just crossed paths with a monster.

Within seconds, a perfect five-foot radius of empty space forms around me. They sense the danger. They always do. When I’m lost in the thought of owning Adrien, I’m not a man or a fiancé— I’m a monster deciding how to handle its prey.

I contemplate the immediate future and wonder if I should even have to wait for Adrien to be willing for me to act.

Why play this game of cat and mouse when I could easily break him right now?

Inside my mind, a psychological conflict begins to brew. It is a familiar war, a debate between the two distinct, conflicting mindsets that govern my soul.

Neither side has an ounce of morals. Both sides are thoroughly rotten, yet they see the world through entirely different lenses.

The manic, destructive side asks why I’m waiting. It tells me to just take what I want, drag him away from this fake, glittering crowd, and force him to submit.

It wants me to strip away his stubborn pride and take everything until the light in Adrien’s eyes completely disappears, leaving him as nothing but an empty, obedient shell.

And when I’m finally bored of the broken toy, that side tells me to bury Adrien in a ditch somewhere and forget he ever existed.

I dimly reflect on that voice. When I was younger, I used to listen to it much more. I used to act entirely on those frantic, violent impulses, leaving a trail of ruin in my wake because it was easier, faster, and scratched the itch in my skull.

But then, the clear-headed side speaks up. It tells me that force is cheap— forcing him into submission is a hollow victory.

If I break his spirit by violence, I haven’t won anything but a corpse. It tells me I need to wait until Adrien is willing, waiting until he comes to me on his own terms so that I can fully conquer him.

I pause, considering that word. Conquer.

What do I actually mean by conquer? I don’t fully know. Is it the complete surrender of his mind, or is it the moment he looks at me not with fear, but with total dependency?

The clear-headed side doesn’t offer a definition, only the cold assurance that patience yields a far greater reward.

I look across the courtyard, watching the elite sharks circle one another. Force is what these pathetic business moguls use. They buy and sell their children. They use contracts and coercion to trap people like Louise and Leon.

If I simply force Adrien, I’m no better than his worthless father or his crow of a stepmother. It would be a cheap, temporary thrill.

So, I pick none of their suggestions. I reject both the mindless destruction and the passive waiting.

Instead, I choose the only other viable option.

I will seduce him.

I will not break his spirit. Instead, I will dismantle it piece by piece with temptation. I will become the very air he breathes.

I will slide under his skin until his hatred blurs into obsession, until the lines between fear and desire completely erase themselves. If I truly put my mind into it, I will have my little duckling melting into my arms sooner or later.

I will make him choose me, even while he curses my name. Then, and only then, will I have truly conquered him.

The dark aura around me slowly recedes as I pull myself out of my thoughts. The guests nearby breathe a collective, silent sigh of relief, though they still maintain a respectful distance.

I have a plan for my duckling, but first, there are practical matters to attend to.

I spot a young, nervous-looking waiter passing by with a tray of fresh champagne. I step directly into his path, blocking him. The boy nearly drops his tray, his eyes widening as he looks up at me.

”Sir! I-I apologize—”

”Quiet,” I say softly, my voice smooth and demanding. I reach into my pocket, pulling out a wad of crisp dollar bills and dropping it onto his silver tray. ”You are going to do a small task for me.”

”Anything, Monsieur Vassilis,” the boy squeaks, his hands trembling.

”The young man who just entered the church restrooms, the one in the dark tailored suit,” I dictate, leaning in slightly. ”When he steps out, you will approach him. Tell him to make his way to the main terrace immediately. Tell him his fiancé is waiting.”

”Understood, sir. Right away.” The waiter nods frantically, clutching the money as if it were a lifeline, and immediately heads toward the church doors.

Satisfied that the message will be delivered, I turn my attention back to the high-society circus playing out on the courtyard floor.

It’s time to handle the matriarchs.

I scan the crowd until my eyes land on the grand stone steps. Standing near the top, away from the general chatter of the guests, are the two women who hold the strings of this entire twisted arrangement.

Lady Dimitra Vassilis, my aunt, stands tall with her silver-topped walking stick resting firmly against the stone. Beside her is Lady Alice Dubois, Adrien’s cruel stepmother. Alice is smiling her usual false, elegant smile, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd like a bird of prey looking for its next meal.

They look like two opposing generals who have formed a temporary, uneasy peace treaty to divide up the spoils of war.

A cold, calculating expression settles over my features as I begin to walk toward them. My long strides are slow and deliberate, cutting through the sea of wealthy guests.

People instinctively part for me, clearing a path as they recognize the dangerous trajectory I’m on.

This engagement party is a beautifully constructed trap designed by these two older women to secure their legacies and tighten their grip on our lives.

They think they are the ones pulling the strings. They think Leon, Louise, Adrien, and I are merely pieces on their chessboard.

They are about to learn that I don’t play by the rules. And I suspect my coward of a cousin and Louise don’t either.

As I reach the base of the stone steps, Lady Dimitra’s sharp gaze snaps down to meet mine. Alice follows her look, her false smile tightening at the corners as she senses the shift in the air.

I stop at the bottom step, looking up at them with a calm, dangerous smile.

”Aunt Dimitra. Lady Alice,” I greet them, my voice smooth, elegant, and entirely devoid of warmth. ”The ceremony was a spectacular performance. But I think it’s time we discuss the real terms of this merger.”