Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

ORION’S POV

The medical equipment hums softly in the quiet darkness of the master bedroom, a steady, rhythmic beep marking every beat of Adrien’s heart.

I sit in the armchair dragged right up to the edge of the bed. My elbows rest on my knees, my fingers laced together beneath my chin, my eyes locked onto the pale, still face resting against the white pillows.

Adrien is sleeping.

That is what the terrified doctor assured me, over and over, his voice shaking like a leaf while I forced him to examine Adrien seven separate times in the past two hours.

Every test, every vital check, every reflex response—I made him redo them all until the poor man was practically sweating through his lab coat. I needed to hear the words again and again.

I needed proof that the shallow breathing beneath my hand belonged to a living, sleeping man, and not a corpse.

I remember the doctor’s trembling hands as he shone the penlight into Adrien’s pupils for the fifth time, his knees visibly knocking together under his dark trousers.

"M-Mr. Vassilis," the doctor had stammered, his voice thin, barely higher than a squeak as he backed away toward the foot of the bed. "I... I assure you, the concussion is mild. His vitals are completely stable. He is simply resting. His body needs sleep to heal from the trauma."

I hadn’t moved an inch from my chair. I simply tilted my head, letting the silence in the room stretch until the poor man looked ready to faint right onto the hardwood floor.

"If he doesn’t wake up when I want him to wake up," I had whispered, my tone smooth, low, and laced with quiet poison, "I will personally ensure you never sleep again. Check his pulse again."

"Y-yes, sir! Right away, sir!" the doctor had yelped, practically lunging forward to press two trembling fingers back against Adrien’s wrist.

He is sleeping peacefully now.

I watch him like a ghost hovering over his sanctuary, unmoving, barely drawing air into my lungs for fear that the weight of my breath might shatter the fragile reality in front of me.

The room smells of rain, sterile antiseptic, and the deep, comforting scent of my duckling.

I still can’t believe he is here.

A whole week has passed. Seven agonizing, agonizing days filled with raw anger, clawing nervousness, furious outbursts, and pure exasperation.

A week of tearing the city apart, screaming at my men, smashing antique furniture into splinters, and watching satellite maps flatline into gray static.

Seven days where I thought I had lost control of the one thing in this miserable world that matters.

And now my duckling is right here, lying within arm’s reach.

The way he ended up back in my arms makes my blood boil and my head throb all at once. His tracker had pinged down at the lower garbage disposal chute of my own estate.

That means Yaya’s operatives had the resources, the sheer audacity, and the high-grade tech required to jam my satellite feed, transport Adrien all the way into the heart of my private home, and drop him off like a bag of trash.

They bypassed my perimeter security, slipped past my guards, and dumped him at my back door as if to prove a point. They wanted me to know that they could touch him whenever they pleased.

I don’t even know if I should laugh or laugh.

It’s hilariously unfunny. The sheer disrespect of it makes a wild, dangerous bubble of dark humor rise in my throat, but the manic urge to tear someone’s throat out is much stronger.

To make matters worse, Yaya left a sleek white note tucked into the pocket of Adrien’s torn coat. The sneaky bastard had the nerve to write that I’m welcome for the save.

He’s painting this whole nightmare as if he heroically rescued Adrien from Leon’s clumsy, desperate kidnapping plot. He wants me to feel indebted to him. He wants me to think he did me a grand favor by bringing my duckling home.

He wants to play the role of the benevolent savior while holding all the cards in the shadow.

Adrien might be fine overall, but he is still recovering from real injuries.

Yaya’s grand save clearly came with a few major complications. Getting pushed off the road at high speeds during a high-stakes chase tends to leave a mark.

Adrien’s left wrist is wrapped in a tight splint, blue and purple bruises bloom across his pale collarbones, and a deep, stitched cut runs along his hairline. He is bruised, sore, and battered.

I stare at those bruises, tracing the dark outlines with my eyes, and a quiet vow settles deep into my chest.

I will snap that bastard’s neck with my bare hands. I don’t care how many shadow networks Yaya controls, or how many favors he holds over the old families. The moment I get my hands around his throat, I will squeeze until his eyes roll back.

No one hurts what belongs to me and gets to keep breathing. No one leaves marks on my duckling and walks away unscathed.

I reach out, my large, calloused hand hovering over Adrien’s face for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a strand of dark hair away from his forehead.

I glance down at his soft features and smile tenderly.

Formerly, I had a plan. I was going to be patient. I was going to take my time, execute a slow, calculated strategy, and carefully seduce Adrien until he walked into my trap with his eyes wide open. I was going to play the long game, laying out sweet traps until he willingly climbed into my cage.

Now, I’m trashing that plan. It goes straight into the bin.

Slowly, carefully, my thumb traces the smooth curve of his cheekbone, lingering near the warm pulse pounding softly beneath his skin.

Adrien will never be able to leave me after this. I will build high walls around him, double the guards, lock the gates, and weave myself so deeply into every second of his life that escaping me will feel like trying to run away from his own shadow.

Since he can never leave, he had better just fall for one of my non-existent good traits.

Like my warm heart.

I chuckle quietly under my breath, the sound barely a whisper in the dim room. My heart is a cold, dark pit, but for him, I’ll let it beat with endless warmth.

I’ll shower him with attention, smother him with luxury, and hold him so tight he will forget what freedom ever felt like. I will be his world, his air, and his sanctuary, whether he likes it or not.

He will have to adapt. Because while he was unconscious, I took great pains to make our new milestone official.

I pulled strings in the dark, moved pieces on the board while he slept, and made sure that what bound us together was sealed in a way that could never be undone.

By the time he opens his eyes, the world outside this room will have already accepted it as an inescapable fact. I have stripped away every exit, closed every door, and ensured that no power on this earth can tear him from my side again.

So Adrien had better be grateful when he wakes up from his long sleep.

I lean down slightly, resting my cheek against the back of his uninjured hand, breathing in his natural warmth. The wave of relief crashing over me is so heavy it makes my shoulders drop, melting away the sharp, frantic edge that has driven me mad for the past seven days.

He is safe. He is breathing. He is under my roof, lying in my bed, bathed in my warmth.

Though, knowing my duckling, he will not offer me a tearful thank you when he opens those sharp eyes of his.

He is proud, stubborn, and wonderfully fierce when he feels cornered. When he finds out what I have done, when he realizes how tightly the cage has closed around him, he will not sit quietly.

He will glare at me with pure venom. He will throw whatever heavy object sits on the nightstand right at my head.

Knowing him, I might end up with a fork stuck in my eye the moment he sits up.

A real, genuine laugh bubbles up from my chest at the thought. The idea of him attacking me, screaming at me, fighting me with every ounce of strength in his bruised body—it sounds like heaven compared to the terrifying silence of an empty car wreck in the rain.

Let him throw things. Let him try to stab me with a fork. Let him fight me until he is exhausted.

As long as he is alive to do it, as long as his sharp eyes are locked onto mine, I will happily take the pain. He is mine, he is home, and I am never letting him go again.