Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

Chapter 133: What We Need To Do?

ADRIEN’S POV

The silent hum of the high-end car engine is the only sound in the small space between us as we leave the warehouse at the docks far behind.

Orion sits in the driver’s seat. His posture is irritatingly relaxed, almost breezy, one long hand resting casually on the top of the steering wheel while his leather jacket shifts smoothly against the seat.

With his left hand, he lightly taps a steady, rhythmic pattern against the custom leather frame. A calm, serene smile rests on his lips.

It is not the triumphant, predatory grin of a cat that just got the cream. It is something far quieter, and far more disturbing. It is the look of a man who has finally put his oldest, most agonizing demons to sleep.

He looks happy. Peaceful, even. It irks me.

What he doesn’t know is that while he might have put his demons to rest today, I am sitting beside him in the passenger seat realizing that I have far more demons than I ever knew existed.

My hands lie flat against my thighs, my fingers digging into the fabric of my trousers so hard that my knuckles turn stark white.

My chest feels impossibly tight, every small breath scraping against my ribs like shattered glass.

What Orion said back in that warehouse is still echoing in my ears, bouncing off the inside of my skull like a heavy, copper bell.

I must have done something truly terrible to ruin you... for you to hand that vial of poison to your friend, and tell him to use it on me.

It makes no sense. None at all.

I stare blindly out the passenger window, watching the gray, industrial outline of the harbor slip away into the distance, replaced by the blur of coastal trees and wide concrete highway.

I remember that night seven years ago. I remember it with a sharp clarity. Or at least, I thought I did. I remember the cold terror flooding my veins when I found that vial hidden in the drawer. But I didn’t give it to Timothy.

Timothy didn’t even know about it. I never told him.

I didn’t hand it over to anyone. I took that small glass vial of poison myself. I gripped it so tightly in my palm that the edges bit into my skin, and I ran as fast as my seventeen-year-old legs could carry me back toward Orion’s room to show him. To warn him. To stop whatever horrible thing was about to happen.

So why did Orion say I gave it to Timothy? Why was he so convinced, with seven years of settled conviction, that I put that poison in my best friend’s hands to murder him?

Even if my memory has gaps, that cannot be what happened. Right? I’m not going insane, right?

My mind spins wildly out of control, digging frantically through seven years of buried memories, scraping at memories I thought were set in stone.

If Timothy actually tried to poison Orion, it would make total sense for Orion to kill him. That part fits Orion’s brutal, unyielding logic.

If someone tries to take his life, Orion ends theirs without a second thought. But what about the vial in my own hand? I clearly, distinctly remember holding it as I ran through those long, dimly lit corridors of the resort’s hotel.

What did I actually see that night? What did I actually do? What happened between the moment I sprinted down that hallway and the moment I found myself running for my life toward the ocean?

"You are clutching your legs like you think the car is going to buckle and throw you out," Orion’s voice breaks through the silence.

The sound cuts through my frantic thoughts like a sharp blade, making me jump slightly in my seat. I turn my head slowly to look at him, keeping my breathing as steady as I can force it to be.

Orion doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look suspicious. He gives me a quick, gentle glance, his dark eyes warm and eerily soft, before returning his focus to the clear road ahead.

"I’m fine," I whisper. My voice sounds thin and brittle, like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "Just... thinking."

"You think too much, duckling," Orion hums smoothly. He lifts his left hand off the steering wheel and reaches across the center console, resting his heavy, warm palm over my tightly clenched knuckles.

He doesn’t squeeze hard, but the weight of his hand is impossible to ignore. "The bad parts are over. Any attack against you has already been dealt with, and docks are behind us, so you don’t have to carry that panicked look in your eyes anymore."

I stare down at his hand resting on mine. The thick, polished platinum band on his ring finger catches the pale afternoon light.

It matches the identical band on my own left hand. Heavy, custom platinum, with our names deeply engraved into the inner curve of the metal where no one else can see them.

Goosebumps break out across my skin, but I force myself not to pull my hand away.

"Orion," I start, my throat feeling dry and rough. "Back there... at the warehouse."

"Hmm?" he prompts lazily, his thumb lightly brushing across the back of my hand in small, comforting circles.

"You said... you said I gave the vial to Timothy," I say, the words tumbling out before I can lose my courage. My heart hammers against my ribs, a terrifying, uneven thudding. "You said I gave it to him to poison you."

Orion’s quiet smile doesn’t vanish, but it shifts slightly, turning softer, almost sad. He doesn’t turn his head, keeping his eyes on the highway as we speed toward the outer limits of the city.

"We don’t need to talk about that night, Adrien," he says quietly. His tone isn’t stern or defensive— it sounds like a father comforting a child who had a bad dream. I don’t know what to make of it.