Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

ADRIEN’S POV

The realization triggers a deep, instinctual sense of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. Leaving the highway means we are heading into a secluded area. A warehouse, a private estate, a dock, or maybe a quiet stretch of woods where no one will hear a gunshot.

The air in the car feels like it is thickening, trapping the rising dread inside my chest. The calm, quiet atmosphere outside the windows makes the danger feel incredibly real, sharp, and immediate.

They are reaching their destination. Whatever fate Leon or his co-conspirators have planned for me, it is waiting at the end of this dark, quiet road.

The silence outside is terrifying. When we were on the highway, the distant sounds of other cars gave me a strange, false sense of security, a reminder that the civilized world was still there, just on the other side of the glass.

But now, that world is gone. We are isolated, moving through the shadows where the rules of high society no longer apply. There are no cameras here, no guards, no witnesses to see what happens to the disgraced Dubois’ son.

Move, I tell myself, screaming the command inside my own skull. Just move a finger. Anything.

I focus every single ounce of my willpower onto my right hand. I visualize my fingers curling, pressing against the leather of the car seat. I fight against the heavy, numbing sludge in my veins, pushing through the paralysis with sheer, desperate terror.

Come on. Just a twitch.

For a second, I think I feel the very tip of my index finger brush against the fabric of my trousers. A tiny, pathetic victory. The effort leaves me entirely drained, my heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs as I try to gather enough strength for another attempt.

I can’t give up.

If I let the darkness take me now, I might never wake up again. I have to find a way to fight, to make a sound, to do anything to disrupt their plans.

The car slows down, the suspension creaking as we navigate a series of sharp, uneven ruts in the road. The person next to me leans forward, their movement shifting the shadows over my face.

I can hear the rustle of their clothing, the faint click of a weapon being checked or adjusted. The cold reality of my situation tightens around my throat like a physical noose. They are preparing for arrival.

I think of Orion again. Is he still at the church, breaking the bones of the guards who failed to watch the hallways? A strange, twisted part of me wishes he was here, wishes his terrifyingly monstrous presence would shatter the quiet of this car and drag me back into his chaotic grip.

I used to think his obsession was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. But out here in the dark, surrounded by nameless faceless men who see me as nothing but a tool, Orion’s terrifying possessiveness feels almost like a shield.

At least he wants me alive. At least he looks at me like I am the only thing that matters in his cold, bloody world.

The driver says something else, his voice rising in irritation as he pumps the brakes. The car skids slightly on the loose gravel, the backend swinging out before straightening up. We are stopping. This is it.

Before I can try to move my fingers again, the ground beneath the car seems to tremble.

An incredibly loud, deafening roar of a revving engine tears through the quiet night air, coming out of nowhere. It’s right outside my window.

The person beside me lets out a sharp, panicked curse, their grip instantly tightening on my arm. The driver slams on the brakes, the tires shrieking violently against the asphalt as the car swerves hard to the right. My body is thrown across the seat, my head slamming hard against the side window.

Then, the world explodes.

A massive, terrifying crashing sound echoes through the cabin as another vehicle plows straight into us with full, unyielding speed. The impact is staggering, a violent force that buckles the metal frame of the car and shatters every single glass window into a million flying pieces.

The car lifts off the ground, spinning through the air in a sickening, weightless arc. My head connects violently with something hard, a white-hot flash of pain bursting behind my eyes before the darkness rushes back in, knocking me completely unconscious.

I don’t know how much time passes before the pain drags me back to reality.

My eyes flicker open, just a fraction of an inch, blurred and unfocused. The world is completely upside down. I am lying on the cold, hard asphalt of the road, my body tangled in the mangled, smoking wreckage of the car that was just transporting me. The metallic smell of crushed steel and burning rubber fills the air, thick and nauseating.

But there is another scent, much stronger and warmer.

The metallic, copper smell of blood.

I can feel a thick, warm liquid dripping slowly down my temple, pooling in the corner of my eye and running down my cheek. It’s hot against my freezing skin. My entire body is a map of screaming pain, every muscle and bone aching from the sheer force of the crash.

The pain is a sharp, blinding white light that burns through the remaining fog of the sedative, forcing me to stay conscious even as my body begs to drift away.

To my right, the wreckage of the transport vehicle is hissed at by escaping steam, a low, ominous sound that cuts through the quiet night.

I can see the outline of the driver’s side door, crushed inward like a piece of tin foil. There is no movement from inside. The men who had held me captive just moments ago are silent, buried beneath the twisted steel and shattered glass of their own trap.

The low hum of a different engine echoes nearby. A large, dark car has parked just a few yards away from the wreckage, its bright headlights cutting through the rising smoke and illuminating the debris scattered across the road.

The light is blinding, casting a long shadow over the pavement and making my eyes sting with a sharp, burning heat.

I lie perfectly still, my chest heaving as I try to breathe through the agony. My fingers twitch against the rough pavement, the gravel biting into my skin, but I can’t find the strength to pull myself up.

My legs are completely pinned by a piece of the rear door, the heavy metal pressing down on my shins with a crushing, unyielding weight. I’m trapped on the asphalt, staring up at the dark winter sky while the smoke rises around me like a funeral shroud.

A car door slams shut.

The sound is incredibly loud in the quiet night, a sharp clap that echoes off the distant trees. Then, I hear the slow, rhythmic crunch of heavy boots walking over the shattered glass on the asphalt. They are walking straight toward me.

Every footstep is deliberate, unhurried, and dripping with a cold confidence. Whoever is in that car didn’t crash into us by accident. This was an execution of a plan, an ambush designed to intercept my kidnappers and take the prize for themselves.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to get up, to crawl away, to hide in the shadows of the wreckage. But I am completely broken, pinned to the road by the aftermath of the crash and the lingering effects of the drug. I can only watch through a hazy, blood-stained blur as a tall silhouette stops right above my head.

The figure looms over me, blocking out the glare of the headlights. I can’t make out their face against the blinding light, but I can feel the heavy weight of their presence. They look down at me like I’m nothing but an object, a piece of meat left out on the road to be collected.

The silence stretches between us, thick and terrifying, broken only by the steady drip of my own blood hitting the cold pavement. I try to hold their gaze, to show even a flicker of the defiance I always use to protect myself, but my vision is failing, the edges of the world turning into a soft, blurry grey.

Before the cold, waiting darkness can pull me under for the last time, the person leans down slightly. A low, calm voice cuts through the smoke, speaking words that I cannot understand.

They are speaking in Japanese.

The words are sharp, elegant, and foreign, delivered with a chilling lack of emotion that makes my blood run cold.

A wave of freezing dread crashes over my heart, far colder than the drug or the winter air. This isn’t high society. This isn’t a petty game between the Dubois and the Vassilis families. This is something much larger, something global, dark, and completely out of my control.

Masamune.

The realization is the final blow, shattering whatever fragile hope I had left of being rescued or finding a way to escape. I’m no longer just a pawn in a local war for power.

I’ve been dragged into the deep dark of an international criminal empire, a place where names like Dubois and Vassilis mean absolutely nothing unless they can be traded for blood.

A place I wish I wasn’t so familiar with.

The figure reaches down, their large gloved hand coming toward my face, blocking out the last rays of the headlights. I try to pull away, to flinch from the touch, but my body is done, my muscles refuse to give me even a single millimeter of movement.

My eyelids slip shut, the foreign words echoing in my ears as my consciousness completely shuts down, plunging me back into the dark.