Owned by the Mafia Billionaire (A MxM erotica novel)

Callum’s POV 

Love is a foreign word, isn't it?

It will never make sense to me why people fall in love. It isn't some investment that yields profit, so why the hype around it? Why does everyone treat it like the answer to all of life’s problems?

‘Find a good woman and everything will fall in place for you.’

‘Behind every successful man, there is a woman.'

Even now, the priest's voice boomed from the pulpit, dragging the room into a collective trance.

"He who findeth a good wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour from the Lord."

Around me, heads nodded in agreement. Couples clasped hands like they had something precious to protect. A woman two pews ahead leaned into her husband, fingers gripping his arm, her wedding band glinting under the kaleidoscope of stained-glass light.

Fools. Or maybe I’m the fool. The only one who sees this entire performance for what it is: an illusion. A story people tell themselves so they don’t have to face how lonely the world actually is.

Hell, what was I even doing here?

I wasn’t a regular churchgoer. Hadn’t stepped inside a church since my father’s funeral. But I came today because I needed to speak to Father Christopher. Not for advice or for forgiveness. Just... something. Clarity, maybe. Closure.

But of course, he had to be preaching about love.

The priest’s voice faded into the background, replaced by the memory I hadn’t invited. Lena.

The only time I ever tried to love someone. If you could even call it that.

What a draining activity. A total waste of time.

She had been a ‘good thing,’ too. Everyone said so. Beautiful. Kind. Compassionate. A girl who smiled too easily and meant every word she said.

She had been my closest friend. She knew all my secrets. She was there when my father died, holding me together with nothing but her presence. Maybe that’s why I said yes when she asked me to date her. It felt safe. Predictable.

But comfort isn’t the same as desire.

I never really thought that being in a romantic relationship meant sex not because I was naive, but because I never cared for it. I liked people in theory. But up close? Intimacy always felt like something I had to mimic.

Lena was patient at first. Then she wasn’t.

She started to demand more. Her lips said she wanted connection, but her hands asked for something else entirely. So I gave it. Out of guilt. Out of obligation. Like a man settling a debt he never signed up for.

Her skin was soft. Her body warm. Everything a man was supposed to want. But when she touched me, all I could think of was how wrong it felt. Like wearing a suit belonging to someone else.

I’d close my eyes and count the cracks in the ceiling while she whispered my name like it meant something.

Not that I was a virgin. I’d had sex before. But I wasn't sexually attracted to her. Or any woman, really. At least not the way everyone else seemed to be.

I told myself I was broken. That I just needed more time.

That time never came.

"...Stand and share the Grace in unison," the priest said.

A tap on my shoulder brought me back. I blinked. The room shifted into focus.

I rose to my feet, half out of reflex, turning slightly to see who had tapped me.

A hand lingered a second too long. Broad palm. Calloused, yet elegant. Strong. It was a man’s hand. Beautiful in a way I didn’t expect.

I turned fully, but the owner had already looked away. Not before I caught a glimpse of his profile. He had a strong jawline, a faint shadow of stubble tracing the edges. I imagined my hands following that line, slowly, deliberately.

My throat tightened. I swallowed. What the hell was that? Why would I think of a man like that? I'd never even thought of a woman in such a manner for long time .

After the Grace ended, I sat down, trying not to look again. Men don't stare at other men like that.

But I felt the guy's presence beside me.

He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled. Fitted trousers. Dark shoes. Nothing serious. Just well-dressed. 

When the service ended, I stayed seated. He stood and walked toward the exit. Then paused. Turned slightly. Glanced my way. Then he kept walking.

I exhaled and headed toward the side hallway, toward Father Christopher’s office

I met him at the entrance of his office. His glasses perched low and his robes were flowing like he’d stepped out of another century.

"Callum," he said, recognizing me immediately. "You look well."

"Do I?"

He gave a knowing smile. The kind older men use when they don’t want to pry but already know too much.

"Walk with me," he said. “How have you been?”

I didn't know how to answer that because of how I felt. Hadn't even thought it necessary to answer.

We strolled past the stone walkway, past the cemetery, toward the small garden behind the church.

“You said you needed to speak with me," he said again.

I hesitated. "Yeah. I... I don’t know where to start."

"Start wherever you can."

I looked away, watching a bee hover over a wilted flower.

"Something happened," I said. "Something strange. I can’t explain it."

He didn’t interrupt.

"I was in the penthouse. Late. Reading. Then—"

I hesitated.

"It’s going to sound ridiculous."

"Try me."

"I heard a voice. Out loud. Not in my head. It said my name. Twice. When I looked up, I felt something in the room. I couldn’t see it. Just... a presence. Cold. Still. Like the air changed."

He didn’t react.

"I’m not crazy. But I haven’t slept right since.”

I left the church later than most. Speaking to Father Christopher wasn’t helpful. But it wasn’t a waste either.

He asked questions. I answered.

He didn’t look shocked. Just calm. He told me to rest. Told me he’d pray for clarity on my behalf.

Outside, the sun was too bright. I slipped on my sunglasses and got into the backseat of my car.

"Home, sir?" Miguel, my driver asked.

"No. Crust & Loaf. The one on Harper."

He glanced back. "The bakery?"

"Yeah. I just want something different."

We pulled away. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I remembered something. That guy. He had flour on his sleeve which I noticed for some reasons.

Maybe I was hungry.

—--

We found the place downtown. The inside floors were tiled. The air warm. A few people were seated near the windows.

I walked in and stood by the glass display. Loaves of fresh bread, croissants, scones, muffins. I didn’t know what I wanted. I just wanted the smell.

A young woman who was behind the counter greeted me. I approached her, glancing down. Her hands were dusted with flour, dough stretching between her knuckles.

I nodded at her in acknowledgment of her greetings.

“Something just came out of the oven,” she said.

“What?”

“Brioche. Still hot.”

“I’ll take one.”

She bagged it, then handed me a cup of coffee. “On the house,” she said. “You look like you need it.”

“You don’t look like a man who eats carbs," She said again. 

I looked at her to know if she was trying to flirt with me.

"I don't."

"So why are you here?"

I looked up.

"I don’t know.”

I paid for the bread and walked away fast from the counter. I took a table in the far corner, coffee in hand. I didn't want any one else close or one watching me.

I tore into the bread. It was warm. Soft. Slightly sweet. I took slow bites and stared out the window.

I felt down. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing anymore. This wasn’t how I was—

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but it was nothing out of ordinary for someone like me. I decided unless I knew who the caller was, I wasn't going to answer.

I checked the screen. It was a private number.

Strange.

I almost ignored it, but something made me answer.

“Hello.”

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice. Sharp. Cold.

“Callum.”

I froze.

“Ethan?” I said.

“It’s been a while.”

I leaned back into my seat. “What do you want?”

“You’re going to get a call from someone in twenty-four hours. When they ask about the files, say you don’t know anything.”

“What files?”

“I’m serious. Don’t pretend to be the smart one. Just do what I say.”

“You vanished for five years and now you’re giving me orders?”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not safe.”

The line clicked.

He hung up.

The fucking idiot hung up on me.

I stared at the screen. My brother hadn’t spoken to me in half a decade. Years without a single word, and now he was calling out of nowhere. Talking about files. Talking like he had a right to interrupt my life.

Last I heard, he left the country. We weren’t on s

peaking terms. We weren’t even in the same orbit.

And now he’s warning me?

I stood up and tossed the rest of the bread in the nearest bin.

“Sir?” The barista called after me.

But I was already walking out.