Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

ADRIEN’S POV

The woman stops in front of the third door on the left—a polished mahogany door bearing a polished gold number three.

She turns to me, bows her head slightly in silence, and steps back down the hall without saying another word, leaving me standing alone in front of the entrance.

I stand there for a second. My heart is hammering against my broken ribs, a steady, suffocating drum of pure dread. I take a deep, slow breath, pulling the cold air into my lungs, and force every trace of fear off my face.

I smooth down my wrinkled dress shirt, set my expression into a cold, confident mask, and push the mahogany door open.

I step inside.

The room is smaller than the main floor below, dimly lit, and lined with dark wood paneling. In the center sits a single square table covered in fine green velvet.

Sitting on the far side of the table is a young-looking Japanese man.

He’s dressed casually in an unbuttoned black silk shirt, sitting loosely in his chair with his legs crossed. He’s intensely focused on a pair of ivory dice in his right hand, shaking them gently, listening to the soft click of the bone against his palm.

He doesn’t look up when the door opens. He doesn’t even flinch at the sound of my footsteps.

I don’t waste time with formal greetings. I don’t wait for an invitation or permission. I walk straight across the room, pulling out the heavy leather chair directly opposite him, and sit down.

The silence between us stretches, heavy, thick, and suffocating.

Without looking up from his hand, his eyes fixed on the small ivory blocks tumbling between his fingers, the man speaks. His voice is smooth, clear, and infuriatingly calm.

”How are you feeling?” he asks in plain, flawless English.

”I feel like I got run off the road,” I respond flatly, keeping my voice steady, putting all the dry bite I can muster into the words.

The man lets out a soft hum. He flicks his wrist, throwing the dice across the green table. They tumble, bounce against the wooden rim, and settle into a neat row.

A set of threes.

He reaches out, gathering the dice back into his palm, his long fingers moving with a fluid, lazy grace.

”Tell me, Adrien,” he says casually, shaking the dice again in his fist. ”Would you like to die a natural death, or would you prefer to die like your father?”

The question hits me like a bucket of ice water thrown directly into my face. A cold, sharp shock zips straight up my spine, making my blood run cold.

My heart skips a beat, but years of surviving inside toxic family living rooms kick in instantly. I don’t let my face break. I don’t let my eyes widen.

I keep my expression flat, wrapping myself in a thick layer of calm confidence.

”Are you insinuating that my father’s death wasn’t natural?” I ask, leaning back in the heavy leather chair, crossing my arms over my chest despite the dull ache in my ribs.

The man offers no immediate answer. He simply flicks his wrist again. The ivory blocks roll across the green table, spinning before coming to a stop.

Two sixes.

”We both know the answer to that,” he says softly.

As he reaches out to collect the dice, his silk sleeve shifts slightly, pulling back an inch from his wrist. My gaze is instantly drawn to the back of his right hand.

Sketched into his pale skin in dark, precise black ink is a tattoo. A circular emblem depicting a snake swallowing its own tail, twisting in a perfect, endless loop.

The Ouroboros.

I stare at the mark, pieces that I didn’t even know I was missing, clicking together in my mind like gears falling into place.

The Ouroboros. The symbol of an old, terrifying shadow syndicate that operates far beyond national borders.

I force a dry, mocking chuckle past my dry lips, letting a smirking grin break across my face to hide the panic clawing at my throat.

”Is Masamune rebranding?” I ask, my voice dripping with deliberate cheekiness. ”Because if you are, wouldn’t it be better to go for something a bit more apt? Like a frog in a well?”

The insult hangs in the quiet air of the VIP room.

For a second, the man freezes. Then, the corner of his lips twitches wryly. A faint, ghost of a smile plays across his mouth, breaking his cold demeanor.

He finally lifts his head, looking up from the velvet table, and it is the first time I see his face clearly.

He is unmistakably Japanese, with sharp, refined features and dark hair styled neatly away from his forehead. But his eyes are extraordinary—a shade of brown so pale and clear that they look like liquid honey caught under direct sunlight.

Cutting straight across his features, from his left eyebrow down to his temple, is a thin, pale scar that mars his otherwise flawless face.

He’s devilishly handsome. Beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way that makes my thoughts falter for a fraction of a second before I can catch myself.

Why are the evil fuckers always so good-looking? Damn it.

The man rests his elbows on the velvet table, folding his hands together, his honey-colored eyes locking onto mine with a calm, unblinking focus.

”If I had known you were so funny, Adrien,” he says, his tone smooth and light, ”I wouldn’t have decided to kill you outright.”

My smile fades slightly, replaced by a deep, dark frown. The air in the room feels heavy again, the lighthearted banter evaporating in an instant.

”If you wanted to kill me,” I ask, my voice dropping, ”why didn’t you just do it when you ran my car off the road? Why drag me out of the crash, fix my ribs, and put me in a private room?”

The man lets out a soft, light chuckle, the sound genuine and airy. He picks up the dice again, rolling them between his palms.

”Because I don’t actually want to kill you,” he admits easily. He throws the dice onto the table one more time, but before the ivory blocks can settle, he slams his wide, gloved palm down over them, covering the result before I can see what he rolled.

He looks back up at me, his light eyes completely devoid of malice, which somehow makes the situation ten times worse.

”I have nothing against you, Adrien,” he says calmly. ”And I have nothing against Orion Vassilis. But unfortunately... Orion has something against me.”

I freeze. My brain instantly begins to replay every conversation, every shadowed detail from the past few weeks.

I remember Niko’s stupidly cryptic words from before the engagement party. Niko had mentioned that he was already looking into Masamune long before Orion dragged me back into his orbit. He said he found breadcrumbs of my own accidental involvement while investigating them.

At that time, I thought he said that to make me squirm.

Why was Orion looking into an international syndicate before he even found me again? What could a high-society heir in this city possibly have to do with a global shadow organization?

If it were about me, I’d understand, but now it feels like I’m the one intruding on his beef.

Then what the hell is it? Why is Orion hunting them if it isn’t about what happened back then?

I look the man straight in his honey-brown eyes, stripping all the playful confidence from my tone.

”What does Orion have against you?” I ask flatly.

The man doesn’t answer immediately. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hand from the velvet table, revealing the two dice beneath his palm.

A two and a three.

He looks at the numbers, then tilts his head up, offering me a polite, effortless smile that looks entirely out of place in a room where my life is being weighed.

”My name is Yaya,” he says smoothly, ignoring my question entirely. ”It is a pleasure to meet you, Adrien.”

I let out a harsh, cold scoff, rolling my eyes as I lean forward, pressing my palms flat against the wooden edge of the table.

”Answer the question,” I demand, my voice dropping into a sharp, icy murmur. ”What does Orion have against you?”

Yaya looks at me, his expression unbothered, his light eyes holding mine with a gentle, irritating calm.

”Why don’t you just ask Orion yourself?” he suggests lightly.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of dread crashes over my chest, extinguishing the last remnants of my false confidence. The air leaves my lungs in a quiet, ragged breath.

The reality of my situation finally settles into my bones with a heavy, inescapable weight.

I look at his handsome face, at the snake tattoo on his hand, at the quiet room around us.

I should ask Orion? Yeah, right.

”To ask Orion,” I say, my voice cold, hollow, and completely devoid of hope, ”I’d have to be alive to see him. And we both know that I’m going to die right here.”