Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

ADRIEN’S POV

I turn my head toward the only door in the room—a tall, heavy double door made of solid oak at the far end of the space. I stand perfectly still, straining my ears, listening for any sign of movement on the other side. I don’t hear any footsteps outside. I don’t hear muffled voices or the rustle of clothes.

Still, walking up to a door blind is a suicide mission.

I sink down onto my knees, ignoring the sharp sting in my ribs as the movement pulls against the fresh gauze, and lay flat on my chest against the cold hardwood floor near the edge of the dark rug.

I tilt my head, pressing my left cheek against the smooth floorboards, and peek through the thin crack beneath the bottom of the oak door.

I wait. I hold my breath, watching the narrow strip of warm light coming from the hallway outside.

No shadows pass by. No pair of leather boots stands guard outside the frame. The corridor on the other side appears completely empty.

I push myself up off the floor, my breath coming in short, quiet hitches. I cross the remaining distance to the door, my bare feet making no sound against the polished wood.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the cool brass handle. I turn it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, bracing myself for the loud sound of a lock clicking open.

The lock glides open silently, oiled and frictionless.

I pull the door inward just an inch, creating a narrow slit, and press my right eye to the gap. I look to the left. A long, carpeted hallway stretches out, lit by soft wall sconces, entirely deserted. I look to the right—nothing but empty doors and quiet, wallpaper-lined walls.

I step out into the hallway, shutting the oak door behind me with a soft, careful click.

The silence in the corridor is heavy, almost artificial, like the quiet inside a museum after hours. But as I stand there, straining my ears, a low, rumbling hum reaches my ears from further down the hall.

It’s coming from past a set of heavy double doors at the far end of the passage. It sounds like a strange mixture of muffled music, the clinking of glasses, and a continuous, distant roar of hundreds of overlapping voices.

A trap. It has to be a trap.

Whoever brought me here, whoever wrapped my ribs and laid me on that velvet sofa, knows I’m awake. They left the door unlocked on purpose. They left the hallway unguarded because they want me to walk down this exact path.

They want me to step out into whatever is waiting at the end of the hall.

My instincts scream at me to turn around, to find a window, to crawl into an air vent or hide in a utility closet. But my brain shuts those desperate thoughts down with cold, brutal logic.

I’m inside enemy territory. I don’t have a weapon. I don’t even know how to use anything but a crowbar. I don’t have my bloody shoes. My body is taped together with surgical gauze, and I can barely stand without losing my balance.

Sitting in that lavish room waiting for someone to walk in with a gun isn’t safety—it’s just a slow execution. And hoping Orion will magically smash through the wall to save me like a hero in a book is a fairy tale I can’t afford to believe in.

If they want me to walk, I will walk. But, only on my own terms.

I square my shoulders, force my chin up, and stride down the hallway toward the source of the noise.

I reach the heavy doors at the end of the corridor and push them open with both hands.

The transition is so sudden it feels like a physical punch to the chest. I flinch, my eyes wincing against a sudden, blinding assault of light and noise.

It is a casino. A massive, glittering, ridiculously loud casino.

The air smells of expensive perfume, stale gin, cigar smoke, and money. Bright neon lights, dazzling crystal chandeliers, and glowing digital screens flash in every direction, casting frantic, jumping colors across a sea of people.

The sounds of spinning roulette wheels, electronic slot machines chiming, shouting crowds, and clattering plastic chips smash into my ears all at once, making my head throb violently.

I freeze near the entrance, trying to process the sheer absurdity of the scene. I went from a quiet, dark road where I almost died in a burning car, straight into the chaotic heart of an underworld gambling den.

”Mr. Dubois?”

A soft, polite voice speaks right beside my left elbow.

I snap my head around, my body tensing instantly for a fight. Standing a few feet away is a young woman of Indian descent. She is wearing a crisp, tailored server’s uniform—a fitted black vest over a stark white button-up shirt—and carrying a silver tray.

She wears a warm, professional smile that doesn’t reach her sharp eyes.

”You’re awake,” she says, her tone completely casual, as if finding a barefoot, bandaged man stepping out of a private suite is a totally normal, everyday occurrence.

”Your patron paid for me to guide you to him as soon as you stepped out onto the main floor. If you would please follow me?”

I don’t answer her. I don’t ask who the patron is. I just stare at her, my jaw locked, my guard pushed up as high as it can go.

Wordlessly, I give her a short, stiff nod.

She turns on her heel and begins walking through the crowded floor. I fall into step behind her, keeping my eyes moving constantly, scanning every face we pass.

The casino floor is packed with a strange, dark mix of people. We pass desperate gamblers hunched over green felt tables, throwing stacked chips with wild, sweating hands, praying for a single lucky strike.

We pass men in sharp, expensive suits sitting next to women in dresses that are far too revealing, their laughter loud, sharp, and artificial.

In the corner booths, patrons drink themselves into a stupor, some celebrating massive wins with bottles of champagne, others staring blankly into empty whiskey glasses after losing everything they owned in a single hand.

None of them pay any attention to me. To them, I’m just another background detail in a night full of bad decisions and lost money.

The server leads me away from the chaotic main floor, guiding me up a grand, carpeted staircase toward a quieter, elevated balcony that overlooks the entire floor.

As we reach the second level, the roar of the crowds below fades into a dull, continuous background hum. This floor is lined with heavy, soundproof doors, each marked with a polished brass plaque.

The VIP gambling rooms.