Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

FLASHBACK TO TEN YEARS AGO...

ADRIEN’S POV

Alice turns her cold, calculating gaze onto Adrien, her eyes scanning his bruised face with a look of supreme disgust, as if she is looking at a cockroach that has crawled onto her dinner plate.

The silence in the study stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the quiet, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

”Though he does need to be reminded of his place,” Alice continues, her voice dropping into a soft, dangerous purr.

She takes a slow step forward, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the exposed hardwood before being muffled by the heavy rug. ”Look at you, Adrien, standing there like you own the place. Kneel before your betters. You are less than a servant in this house, so you should start learning what is appropriate.”

Adrien’s blood runs cold.

Kneel.

The word echoes in his ears, heavy and humiliating. His mind screams at him to refuse, to turn around and walk out, to fight back with every ounce of strength he has left in his battered body.

He is a Dubois, even if they treat him like trash, he shouldn’t have to bow to them. He shouldn’t have to strip away the last shred of his dignity just to appease her sadistic whims.

But then he looks at Alice’s eyes. He sees the cold, calculating light dancing in those dark depths, and he remembers what she is capable of.

He remembers the ”accidents” that always seem to happen when he crosses her—the loose stairwell carpet, the shattered glass left in his shoes, the ”misplaced” medication.

He remembers the nights spent locked in the freezing basement without food or water, shivering in the dark, because he dared to look her in the eye or speak out of turn.

He’s terrified of what else she can come up with if he refuses her now. The pain in his ribs is already screaming, he doesn’t know if his body can take another one of her quiet tortures.

Slowly, shakily, Adrien lowers his head.

He grits his teeth, suppressing a sharp groan of pain as he bends his knees. Every muscle in his chest protests, the bruised flesh and cracked ribs protesting the sudden shift in gravity.

He drops to the floor, his knees hitting the thick carpet right in front of his father’s grand mahogany desk with a dull thud.

He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, staring at the intricate, swirling gold and crimson patterns of the rug, refusing to look up at either of them. He watches a stray speck of dust drift across the fabric, focusing on it with a desperate intensity.

It’s utterly humiliating.

It’s demeaning, painful, and exactly what Alice wants. He can feel his face burning with a mixture of hot shame and impotent fury, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the physical pain of kneeling strains his injured ribs.

His hands, buried deep in his coat pockets, curl into tight fists, his fingernails biting so hard into his palms that he wonders if he might draw blood.

A light, airy chuckle echoes through the quiet study.

Alice covers her mouth with her manicured hand, her eyes crinkling with genuine, venomous amusement.

”Oh, look at him, Henri,” she says, her voice dripping with mock-sweetness. ”He actually did it. Get up, Adrien, can’t you see that I’m joking? Must you take everything so seriously? You really have no sense of humor.”

Adrien’s chest tightens so hard he can barely breathe. A wave of hot, suffocating anger washes over him, burning through his veins, but he forces it down. He swallows the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat.

Wordlessly and shakily, he pushes himself back up to his feet. His legs are trembling violently, and he has to lock his knees to keep from collapsing back onto the floor. His ribs throb in rhythmic, agonizing pulses. He stands there, his hands still hidden in his pockets to conceal their tremors, his gaze lowered but his jaw set in a tight, rigid line.

As he tries to steady his shallow breathing, his mind briefly strays, escaping the suffocating confines of the study and wandering back to the dark, intense presence of Orion Vassilis.

He wonders if Orion treats people this way.

He wonders if Orion breaks the spirits of his subordinates, treating them like dogs just to see how much they will endure, just to ensure they never dare to cross him.

He thinks of how Orion’s eyes look when he commands a room—not cold and mocking like Alice’s, but burning with a quiet, lethal authority.

He remembers the way people tremble when Orion simply speaks their names.

But Adrien realizes he doesn’t have an answer to that. He doesn’t really know anything about Orion. He only knows the chaotic, terrifying boy who corners him in dark closets, who crowds into his personal space, and looks at him like he wants to consume him whole.

There is danger in Orion, yes, but it’s a violent, honest sort of danger. Not this slow, poisonous humiliation.

Henri clears his throat, the sound dry and grating. He settles back into his heavy leather chair, adjusting his cuffs as if the humiliating display that just occurred was completely normal—a mere minor distraction in his busy evening.

He picks up his glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid before taking a long, deliberate sip. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, dismissive, and utterly devoid of warmth.

”Even if you are completely useless, a whoring thief who brings nothing but shame to this family, you still have your uses,” Henri grunts, leaning back and looking at Adrien with utter contempt. ”A dog can still bark, even if it has to be beaten into obedience first.”

Alice stands behind Henri’s chair, her manicured fingers resting lightly on his broad shoulders. She smiles down at Adrien, a sweet, sickening expression that does not reach her cold eyes.

”Now, Henri, don’t call the boy a thief,” she chides softly, though her voice is filled with a purring malice. ”A whore is already a thief by nature, stealing attention and resources that don’t belong to them. And really, there is nothing Adrien can do about his hunger. After all, a pet who isn’t fed at home will always find food elsewhere. We must be charitable to his... base instincts.”

Adrien stands perfectly still, his teeth grinding together so hard he fears they might crack under the pressure. The weight of their insults presses down on him like a physical load, a heavy, suffocating force that tries to crush whatever spirit he has left.

He wants to scream. He wants to lunge over the desk, to curse them, to tell them that he is not a pet, that he is not a whore, and that he wants nothing to do with their disgusting, corrupt world.

He wants to tell them that he would rather starve than take another scrap from their table.

But he remains silent. He holds his tongue, protecting himself the only way he knows how—by shutting down, by becoming a cold, unyielding piece of stone. If he shows no pain, they will eventually tire of throwing stones at him.

Alice gently detaches herself from Henri’s chair. She walks slowly around the side of the desk, her navy silk dress rustling softly against the polished wood.

She stops right in front of Adrien, invading his personal space, the scent of her expensive floral perfume mixing nauseatingly with the smell of Henri’s whiskey. Her gaze drops to his hidden hands before rising to meet his good eye.

”You’ve been very quiet, Adrien,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of weakness. ”But I know you’re listening. You always were a quiet listener.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, Alice reaches into the deep pocket of her gown. She pulls out a small object, wrapped neatly in a dark, heavy silk handkerchief.

She places it gently on the edge of the polished mahogany desk, right in front of Adrien, as if she is presenting a rare, delicate gift.

With meticulous care, she pulls the corners of the handkerchief back one by one, her fingers’ movements graceful and theatrical.

Revealed inside is a small, delicate glass vial.

Inside, a murky, dark liquid swirls slowly. It is thick and ominous, its viscous surface reflecting the amber light of the fireplace like a poisonous oil slick. It seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it, casting a dim, sickly shadow on the dark wood of the desk.

Adrien stares at the vial. His heart stops, a cold, heavy lump of dread settling deep in his stomach. The air in the room suddenly feels ten degrees colder.

”Since you are so... close to Orion Vassilis,” Alice says, her voice dropping into a soft, conspiratorial whisper that makes his skin crawl, ”we believe you can do a little favor for us. And for a very interested, very wealthy party.”

She leans in slightly, her breath smelling faintly of mint and expensive wine.

”Of course, this is a private matter, Adrien. Louise must never find out about this. She is far too emotional, and far too attached to her little relationship to understand the grander scheme of things. She doesn’t have the stomach for what needs to be done to secure our future.”

Adrien’s eyes remain fixed on the swirling, dark liquid in the vial. The ominous, heavy feeling that had settled in his heart when the basement window cracked earlier suddenly intensifies, growing into a roaring certainty.

He already knows in his gut that he is being set up as the perfect, disposable pawn.