Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

NIKO’S POVThe steering wheel vibrates against my palms, transmitting the violent hum of a custom engine pushed way past its reasonable limits.

Orion is definitely going to have to get me a new car after this. The engine of this one is completely toast.

Outside the windshield, the dark trees blurring past the highway look like jagged teeth cutting through the rising mist. The speedometer needle quivers near the edge of the display, hovering over numbers that would make any normal driver lose their mind.

I am thoroughly, deeply, profoundly annoyed.

Not because I am currently weaving through narrow back roads at dangerous, illegal speeds. Not because my tires are screaming for mercy as I take another sharp turn along the river ridge, spraying loose gravel over the edge into the dark abyss below.

I actually enjoy the thrill of a chase. The rush of cold adrenaline is usually the best part of my week.

No, I am annoyed because of why I am doing this.

Orion had given me one simple, utterly straightforward job for the night— keep an eye on Adrien. Watch the little duckling. Make sure the fragile, pretty puppy didn’t wander off, get cornered by high-society vultures, or accidentally drown in a champagne fountain while the elites toasted to another fake engagement.

It was supposed to be an easy babysitting gig while Orion played his usual terrifying mind games with the matriarchs on the church patio like the lunatic he is.

And I followed those orders. I really did. I kept my eyes on Adrien for most of the night, standing against the stone pillars like a shadowed gargoyle, watching him shrink away from the fake smiles of the elites like a stray dog expecting a kick.

I watched the way his hands trembled against his formal suit, the way his dark eyes darted toward the exits every three seconds, and the way Orion’s gaze tracked his every move like a hungry wolf measuring its meal.

Until I got distracted.

The memory flashes in my mind with sudden heat, making my jaw tighten in irritation. I spotted Alexis stepping toward the dimly lit side corridor of the church, looking entirely too composed, his expensive tie straight and his sharp jawline practically begging to be ruined.

Alexis always wears that insufferable, calm expression—the stoic, dutiful partner who pretends he doesn’t enjoy the dark, filthy things we do when no one is watching.

The temptation was simply too much to resist.

I slipped away from my post, moving like a ghost through the side arches, and dragged Alexis straight into the wooden confessional booth near the small chapel.

I had something absolutely delicious in mind for him.

The cramped, dark space had smelled of old incense, polished mahogany, and old secrets—the perfect backdrop to corner my quiet, overly serious partner.

I locked the narrow door with a flick of my wrist, slammed Alexis against the carved wooden paneling, and took my sweet time making him lose that ridiculous composure.

The muffled gasps he tried so hard to swallow, the heavy thump of his shoulder hitting the wood, the desperate, clawing grip of his hands in my hair while I knelt between his knees to give him a slow, thorough blowjob—it was absolute perfection.

I know that puppy would’ve been surprised to see me like that, but what man doesn’t enjoy giving his partner pleasure?

I wasn’t lying when I said that I detested sexual degenerates. Especially the ones who go after kids.

I loved feeling the precise moment his rigid posture melted into pure, helpless heat, his breath hitching against my ear as I pulled him right to the edge in the dark, holy quiet of that church.

It took less than five minutes. Five damn minutes.

Yet, in that ridiculously short window of time, the puppy somehow managed to get himself kidnapped.

Unbelievable.

I glance down at the dashboard navigation screen, monitoring the distance between my SUV and the black sedan speeding through the dark a few hundred yards ahead of me. The GPS blips violently, updating every second as we tear along the twisting river road.

Now, Orion is pissed as hell.

"Pissed" doesn’t even begin to cover the state of his mind right now. Over the phone, Orion’s voice hadn’t been his usual manic, laughing self. It had sounded like a void—cold, flat, and dripping with a lethal, unhinged intent that usually signals a massive body count.

When Orion gets quiet, people die. When Orion gets this quiet, entire bloodlines get erased from the registry.

I roll my eyes, exhaling a heavy, exasperated breath through my nose as I flick the high beams on to cut through the fog.

Of all the times in the world for Orion to finally realize what he feels for the puppy, he chooses now. Right as the boy has been snatched right out from under our noses. It is almost poetic in its absurdity.

Orion has spent weeks— maybe even years— pretending that Adrien is just a toy, just a fragile little piece on his grand chessboard that he likes to torment, break, and rebuild for his own sick amusement.

He called him a duckling, treated him like property, and convinced himself it was all just a game of psychological dominance.

But the moment someone else lays a dirty finger on his precious property, Orion completely loses his goddamn mind. The manic mask slips off, revealing the raw, possessive monster underneath.

He isn’t just angry about a breach of security— he is burning with the pure, murderous rage of a jealous demon whose favorite shiny object was plucked from his chest.

And the absolute comedy of it all? The mastermind behind this grand, foolish scheme is Leon.

Leon Vassilis.

I stare into the shadows of the road ahead, shadowing the fast-moving sedan, genuinely wondering what in the ever-loving fuck Leon must have been thinking to pull a stunt like this.

Did that pathetic, spineless parasite actually believe he was being clever? Did he sit in some dark corner of the estate, sipping mediocre wine, and think, "Yes, today I will steal Orion’s favorite obsession, and everything will go smoothly?"

Leon is a coward who usually hides behind his mother’s skirt and complains from the edges of grand ballrooms about how unfair life is. He doesn’t have the stomach for real blood. He flinches when a champagne cork pops too loudly, yet here he is, playing at being a criminal mastermind.

He’s going to have to die. There is literally no scenario on this earth where Leon survives the next twenty-four hours.

Shit. I’m going to have to kill him this time.

Well... actually, I might not even get the chance to kill him.

Orion is not merciful enough to let anyone else but himself handle Leon. If I shoot the idiot through the temple right now, Orion will probably be furious at me for robbing him of the entertainment.

No, Orion is going to personally carve up the little shit. He’ll take his time, using those small, razor-sharp surgical blades he keeps in his inner jacket pocket. He’ll cut Leon into neat little pieces, strip the flesh from his bones while he’s still breathing, and toss his bloody entrails right at Lady Dimitra’s feet during her afternoon tea.

Or, knowing how completely unhinged Orion gets when he’s deprived of his favorite things, he might just eat them. He might force the rest of the family to sit at the dinner table while he toasts to Leon’s meat.

That bastard is seriously one loose screw away from something like that.

The thought brings a dark, crooked smirk to my lips, though it vanishes just as quickly as I dodge a fallen tree branch.

Because once Orion finishes slaughtering his cousin, the whole thing is going to spark a massive, bloody war with the high-society elites.

The Vassilis family won’t be able to ignore a senior family member being butchered, no matter how useless Leon was. Not when he’s the potential heir.

The matriarchs will scream for war, the allied families will draw their weapons, and the entire city will turn into a meat grinder.

A war that I am not remotely interested in dragging myself through. Like hell I’d willingly get involved in that.

If my goal in life was to cut down weak, prissy, rich snobs every single day, I’d leave Orion’s payroll, drop the right-hand gig, and go work as an independent hitman.

At least then I’d get paid per body instead of having to deal with family drama, aristocratic posturing, and Orion’s insane definition of villainy.

I’m a simple man. I like good whiskey, fast cars, breaking Alexis’s quiet composure, and occasional, clean violence. I don’t care about elite bloodlines or high-society politics.

Oh...and I also like breaking brats. Like Leon. Shit.

*****

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