Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

The corridors of the Orion’s mansion are silent, but silence in a place like this is never empty.

It’s filled with soft footsteps, lowered eyes, and secrets passed around in quiet whispers. The servants move like shadows along the edge of every room.

They see everything. They hear everything. Yet, to the people sitting at the dining tables and walking through the marble halls, the domestic staff barely exist at all.

Clara adjusts the white apron tied tightly around her waist, smoothing down the fabric before stepping back into the narrow service hallway.

The gossip had spread through the servants’ quarters like wildfire three days ago. Now, an entire week has passed since the news broke among the domestic staff.

Young master Adrien has been kidnapped.

A whole week. Seven agonizing days without a single trace of the gentle young master who used to spend his afternoons sitting by the window in the east wing.

Down in the kitchens, the atmosphere has been suffocating. Clara listens as two laundry maids whisper behind a stack of folded bedsheets, their voices laced with genuine concern.

Adrien isn’t like the rest of the high-society elite who pass through the heavy front doors. He’s polite. He speaks to the servants with quiet respect, never raising his voice, never treating them like furniture.

When he walks past them in the hall, he offers a soft nod. If a tray slips, he helps pick up the dropped utensils instead of bark orders.

The entire workforce adores him.

It’s not that Orion is openly rude or cruel to the domestic staff. He pays them exceedingly well, far above standard market rates, and he rarely speaks to them at all.

But none of the servants want anything to do with him past what their monthly salary dictates.

Put in simple words, Orion scares them to the bone.

Clara pauses near the edge of the service pantry, her fingers tightening around the edge of a plastic waste bin. She remembers the incident from four months ago as if it happened yesterday.

A new male servant had been hired to help with the evening dining service. What the rest of the staff didn’t know until much later was that the boy was an operative sent by a minor rival mafia group looking for quick leverage.

He had managed to slip a potent poison into Orion’s soup right before carrying the tray into the main dining room.

Clara had been standing near the side door, holding a pitcher of ice water, watching the entire exchange unfold.

Orion had not hesitated. He picked up his spoon and ate every single drop of the poisoned soup. He finished the entire bowl, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and set the spoon down on the porcelain plate.

Only then did he speak up about the poison.

Without turning his head away from his plate, without even glancing in the servant’s direction, Orion singled him out instantly. He asked the boy, in a voice as smooth as polished glass, exactly where he got the poison from.

Then, Orion tilted his head, a dark glint in his eyes. He said that he actually liked the taste of it. He found it spicy in a good way.

Clara remembers how the temperature in the dining room dropped below freezing. Orion turned around in his chair, leaning forward, playfully pleading with the boy to tell him the supplier.

Everyone in that room held their breath. The guards at the door, the head butler, the dining staff—not a single person dared to draw air into their lungs. The silence stretched until it felt like a heavy weight pressing down on their chests.

The new servant broke down immediately. Sweat poured down his pale face, mixing with thick tears as his knees trembled violently. He shakily confessed the name of the rival mafia group, his voice cracking with panic.

The moment the final name left his lips, the boy’s eyes rolled back, and he passed out cold on the marble floor.

Niko, the frightening man with the striking amber eyes who always stands near Orion’s right side, stepped forward to pick the unconscious boy up and take him out to the car. Everyone assumed the boy was being dragged away to be executed.

Orion stopped Niko with a lazy wave of his hand.

He pointed out that the servant had given him a wonderful gift, so how could he possibly bear to hurt him?

He candidly told Niko to just dump the servant’s alive but unconscious body right into the estate garbage disposal and leave him there. He said that when the boy woke up, he would simply pull himself out and leave.

Then, as if discussing the weather, Orion casually asked Niko to cut off the boy’s right hand before throwing him out.

He explained that he never wanted the boy to give another person the same gift he had just given him.

It would make him jealous.

That event, among so many other strange, violent scenarios over the years, cemented Orion in the heads of every servant as a chaotic lunatic.

Because of that, every worker in the mansion keeps their head down. They do their jobs with machine precision. They do not slip. They do not make mistakes.

No one wants to invite his rage. Even worse, no one wants to draw his personal interest.

When Adrien first arrived at the estate, the servants felt a wave of deep pity for him. They expected the new young master to either be just as unhinged as Orion, or to be in serious danger that none of them could ever hope to save him from. They watched closely from the dark corners of the house, preparing themselves for the worst.

Instead, they witnessed something none of them expected.

Not only was Adrien not unhinged, but when Orion was near him, the oppressive air in the mansion lifted. The servants were able to breathe a sigh of relief because Orion focused every drop of his dangerous attention entirely on Adrien. He did not look at the guards. He did not look at the staff.

His eyes never left Adrien.

When Adrien was around, Orion forced him to eat, fussing over his meals, tracking his movements, and wrapping him in an overwhelming, possessive cloud of focus that kept the rest of the house safe from his chaotic whims. Adrien was their shield, even if he did not realize it.

For that reason alone, the entire workforce of the mansion would do anything to have Adrien back safe.

The head chef has spent the last three days pacing around the stainless-steel prep tables, swearing to anyone who will listen that the moment Adrien returns, he will feed him endless plates of those fresh spring rolls the young master loves so much.

The housekeepers have kept Adrien’s room clean, dusting the surfaces twice a day, waiting for the front doors to open.

Clara gathers the heavy black trash bag from the pantry container, tying a firm knot at the top. She lifts the bag and begins her walk down the lower service staircase, heading toward the rear maintenance bay where the internal garbage disposal chutes are located.

The lower basement hallway is dimly lit, the concrete walls damp from the heavy rain pouring outside the estate grounds.

As Clara turns the corner toward the heavy steel door of the disposal room, a sudden burst of loud, heavy footfalls echoes down the concrete corridor. The sheer speed of the approaching steps makes the floorboards vibrate beneath her shoes.

She freezes, pulling herself back against the wall, holding the trash bag tight to her chest to keep out of the way.

A group of heavily armed men rushes past her in a blur of black tactical gear and polished boots. They move with frantic urgency, their weapons drawn, their radio headsets buzzing with static.

Right at the front of the pack, leading the charge with terrifying speed, is Orion.

Clara squashes herself flatter against the cold concrete wall, her heart hammering against her ribs.

As the men sprint past her position, one of the lieutenants running right behind Orion shouts over the noise of their boots, his voice echoing off the narrow walls.

"His tracker pinged near the garbage disposal, boss!"

The words hang in the damp air as the group sweeps past the corner, heading straight for the lower maintenance hatch.

Clara stands in the quiet hallway, her hands trembling around the plastic bag.

She has worked in the Vassilis estate for four years. She has seen Orion walk through blood-stained rooms with a slow, bored stride. She has seen him face armed threats without even blinking.

She has never seen him move in a way that could resemble a run. He always moves with slow, lazy control, as if the rest of the world is beneath his concern.

Yet just now, he was sprinting. Actually sprinting.

More than that, Clara realizes with a cold shudder that she had never seen that specific expression on his face before.

It was not his unusual terrifying calm, neither was it his manic, unhinged smirk.

It was a look so deeply human, so raw and exposed, that it stunned her to her core. It was a chaotic mixture of desperate longing, desperate hope... and pure, raw fear.