Chapter 2 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well.

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

What was it about the corner café that seemed so magical? Miranda, Shuai Zhaomin's secretary, could never quite figure it out.

 

Every time her boss endured one of those grueling meetings, Shuai Zhaomin would insist on sneaking off to the café for a two-hour break. When he returned, he always carried the faint scent of soap, looking as though he had been thoroughly rejuvenated.

 

Maybe the café offered sauna services now, she mused. Miranda had learned to turn a blind eye to such things. Asking questions about her boss's personal habits—especially this seemingly gentle, enigmatic Eastern man—would be a rookie mistake.

 

So, when Shuai Zhaomin returned, she quietly handed him a chilled bottle of mineral water, a silent gesture to replenish any fluids he might have lost during his "sauna." Though, considering it was a café, she might have been overthinking things.

 

"Miranda, schedule a meeting for me at five this afternoon," Shuai Zhaomin said, taking the bottle but not drinking immediately. Instead, he twirled it idly between his long, elegant fingers, his movements calm and deliberate.

 

The box of documents he had received earlier sat kicked into the corner of the office, a few stray papers fluttering loose. Miranda thought she heard a faint, derisive chuckle escape her boss.

 

A rare occurrence. Extremely rare.

 

If she hadn't spent more than twelve hours a day with Shuai Zhaomin, she might have believed he was the epitome of a kind, mild-mannered gentleman.

 

"Shuai, aren't you going to look over the case materials?" Miranda asked as she sorted through two more hefty folders of conversation transcripts that had arrived during his absence. Her tone was professional, almost robotic.

 

"Oh," he replied with a slight nod, his dark hair shimmering like polished black pearls in the sunlight. His hair was unusually beautiful, soft and radiant under the golden light. "I've got a rough idea about this case. This… Mr. Tengshe," he paused briefly, his lips curling into a faint, disdainful smile, "is a central figure in the Brelini family. One of the contenders for their next head. He's involved in arms trafficking, drug dealing, and even a network for importing and exporting women across borders."

 

Miranda noted the slight sneer in Shuai Zhaomin's tone when he said the client's name.

 

She didn't find the name particularly unpleasant—just unique, with a strong Chinese flavor. It did seem unusual for an Italian name, though not entirely surprising, given that Mr. Tengshe was half-Chinese.

 

"It seems someone like him couldn't avoid an accident while 'sampling the merchandise,'" Shuai Zhaomin continued, his voice laced with sarcasm. "He 'accidentally' discharged his weapon and shot a waitress at a restaurant. However, he insists the gun went off unintentionally and that the muzzle wasn't aimed at her. He claims he's being framed."

 

It was a dreadfully mundane case. Shuai Zhaomin sat back in his chair, tapping the armrest lightly with his left hand while gently swirling the water bottle with his right. He needed to keep himself distracted to avoid letting the sheer absurdity of this case ruin his carefully restored mood.

 

No wonder they gave it to him. First, the client was an unrepentant criminal. Even if the waitress's death wasn't his fault, a cursory investigation would undoubtedly uncover more skeletons in his closet.

 

The police weren't going to release him—they hoped to pin something else on this mafia boss while they had him in custody.

 

Shuai Zhaomin's task was to focus relentlessly on this specific case, preventing the prosecution from muddying the waters or swaying the jury with emotions. And, of course, to ensure his cigar-puffing boss didn't end up as fish food in the bay if the mafia didn't like the outcome.

 

Disgusting. Shuai Zhaomin clenched the armrest tightly, imagining it was his boss's greasy neck beneath his fingers.

 

After a sip of water to steady himself, Shuai Zhaomin reluctantly pulled out the client's file and flipped through it. Another young punk, just shy of 29, with half-Chinese heritage.

 

Behind his glasses, Shuai Zhaomin's eyes narrowed slightly. Fine. Given his background, I can tolerate the name 'Tengshe.'

 

Shuai Zhaomin had always been unapologetically biased. As a rule, if a client didn't irritate him, he would go to extraordinary lengths to fight for their best interests. His stellar win record came largely from this philosophy.

 

Conversely, if he disliked someone—like his boss—he wouldn't bother to pretend otherwise, even if that person was innocent. Losing a case? So what? No one can win every battle, and Shuai Zhaomin was perfectly at peace with that.

 

He flipped through two or three sheets of A4 paper. The information on this Mr. Tengshe was surprisingly sparse. Height, weight, blood type, hobbies, alma mater, primary and secondary occupations…

 

"Primary occupation?" Shuai Zhaomin chuckled softly, his handsome features relaxing into an almost springlike warmth.

 

A mafia member graduating from Harvard wasn't surprising. But being an Ivy League lecturer, and in Chinese literature no less? Now that was interesting. Perhaps the name "Tengshe" wasn't entirely misplaced.

 

"Shuai, have you seen the client's photo?" Miranda asked, noticing her boss's mood lighten.

 

"No… The file doesn't include one, and there haven't been any pictures in the newspapers either."

 

Occasionally, Shuai Zhaomin had to admit his boss, for all his flaws, wasn't entirely brainless. Despite looking like a sacrificial pig, the man's brain hadn't entirely succumbed to grease. Clearly, the boss had picked up on Shuai Zhaomin's clear-cut likes and dislikes, he knew better than to provide him with detailed personal information that might predispose him against a client.

 

Though Shuai Zhaomin disliked mafia types, he couldn't deny that Mr. Tengshe piqued his curiosity. At the very least, for this case, he'd do his best to secure the rights his client deserved.

 

"I happen to have a group photo from one of the Brelini family banquets the boss attended," Miranda offered. Though phrased as a question, she had already emailed the photo to Shuai Zhaomin.

 

"Thank you, Miranda. You truly are the perfect secretary."

 

Opening the attachment, Shuai Zhaomin's gaze immediately fell upon the picture of his boss. A three-piece suit had no business being worn by a man shaped like a ceremonial pig. The buttons strained under the pressure, looking as though they might pop off at any moment, while the fabric clung taut to his rotund frame, devoid of even a hint of a wrinkle—a perfectly spherical spectacle.

 

Instinctively, Shuai Zhaomin used a folder to obscure two-thirds of the image, leaving only his client in view.

 

The man in the photo had striking, angular features tempered by an unmistakable Eastern elegance. Black hair framed a warm, bronze complexion, and thick, luxurious lashes accentuated eyes of a vivid reddish-brown. A neatly trimmed beard added definition to his lips, making them seem all the more pronounced.

 

The tailored suit highlighted a broad, powerful physique, standing a full head taller than the boss—easily approaching, if not exceeding, 190 cm in height.

 

Interesting. Resting his chin in one hand, Shuai Zhaomin let out a low hum. His sharp gaze fixated on the man's reddish-brown eyes, their glint unnervingly compelling. Was it their color or the shadowy depths within that revealed a chilling mix of bloodlust and calculated cunning beneath his otherwise refined demeanor?

 

"I wouldn't be surprised if he really did turn the boss into fish food," Shuai Zhaomin muttered in Mandarin, almost unconsciously. Miranda gave him a curious look but wisely held her tongue.

 

With his wire-rimmed glasses and elegantly understated features, Shuai Zhaomin flashed a wry smile—one so charming it had the power to make hearts skip a beat.

 

"Shuai, it's about time for you to head out," Miranda reminded him, ever the impeccable secretary. She refrained from asking what he had said, focusing solely on her duties.

 

"Understood." Scribbling down an address and phone number, Shuai Zhaomin accepted the neatly prepared case file from Miranda. With one final glance in the mirror to ensure his appearance was immaculate, he waved and left.

 

***

 

His destination was neither a detention center nor any place where a suspect should ordinarily be. Instead, it was a penthouse suite in an upscale apartment building in the Fifth District.

 

Apparently, the suspect had applied for medical leave, allowing him to remain under house arrest at his residence.

 

Two burly men in black suits stood by the private elevator. Though they wore white gloves instead of sunglasses, the sheer mass of muscle threatening to burst through their tailored suits exuded a suffocating intimidation with every breath.

 

Pausing briefly, Shuai Zhaomin composed himself before approaching them. "Excuse me, I'm Attorney Shuai from Holmes & Associates. I have an appointment with Mr. Brelini in the penthouse."

 

"Wait a moment." One of the guards glanced at him before speaking into a walkie-talkie. After a brief exchange, he handed Shuai Zhaomin a keycard. "Attorney Shuai, you may proceed upstairs. You have one hour."

 

Tsk! Quite the pomp and circumstance. Maintaining a polite smile outwardly, Shuai Zhaomin inwardly felt his irritation rise, silently reciting the digits of pi to calm himself.

 

Shuai Zhaomin despised handling cases involving obscenely wealthy individuals with powerful backgrounds. Yet ironically, 99% of the firm's major clients fell into precisely that category.

 

Before he could even enter the elevator, he was subjected to a full body search. Even his briefcase was opened and inspected. After enduring five minutes of this ordeal, he finally stepped inside.

 

To hell with this! Privacy rights, anyone? If it weren't for this job, I'd already be teaching these thugs a lesson!

 

The elevator ride was swift, and before he had finished reciting a single cycle of digits, it reached the top floor. The sudden ascent left him slightly dizzy—after all, it was over thirty stories high.

 

When the doors slid open, he was greeted by a middle-aged man dressed impeccably in Victorian butler attire. The man's stern face was framed by hair graying just at the temples, with not a single strand out of place. His perfectly symmetrical mustache looked as though it had been measured with a ruler.

 

Sebastian? Shuai Zhaomin couldn't help but think of the cliché. Will he pull out a pocket watch next?

 

As if on cue, the butler reached into his breast pocket with a flawless gesture and produced a pocket watch. "Mr. Shuai, I must inform you that you have fifty minutes remaining. Please, follow me."

 

"This is such a delight," Shuai Zhaomin muttered under his breath, stifling a laugh. Steeling himself, he pinched his thigh discreetly to maintain his composure.

 

He followed the butler through a grand marble-floored hall, up a semi-circular staircase also seemingly made of marble, and into a corridor lined with plush carpets. The rooms on either side were neatly arranged, six in total, their placement subtly staggered to ensure privacy for each occupant.

 

When they reached the innermost room on the left, Shuai Zhaomin abruptly stopped, frowning. He thought he had heard a peculiar sound emanating from behind the door.

 

The butler cast a cool glance at him before knocking on the door.

 

"Who is it?" a voice called out. Muffled by the door, the tone was elegant and commanding, though laced with a subtle tension.

 

Shuai Zhaomin reflexively took half a step back. No way. It can't be what I think it is… right?

 

"Master, Attorney Shuai from Holmes Law Firm has arrived. Shall I let him in?" The butler's calm demeanor only fueled Shuai Zhaomin's growing irritation. If the master isn't free, why the hell did they set this appointment in the first place?

 

His sharp features twitched faintly as he strained to maintain a harmless, polite smile—despite his mind erupting with an endless stream of curses.

 

"Let him in," the pleasant voice replied. Despite its allure, the subtle strain and faint breathlessness didn't escape Shuai Zhaomin's ears.

 

Goddamn it. Can I just pretend I didn't hear that and leave?

 

Of course not. Shuai Zhaomin dismissed the thought with a resigned sigh.

 

He bowed respectfully—a gesture surely wasted in this situation. As the butler opened the door, the unmistakable sounds of labored breathing and rhythmic movement spilled out, leaving no room for ambiguity.

 

Right in the center of the room, on a bed draped in rumpled ivory-white sheets, the scene unfolded. A golden-bronzed back glistened under the sunlight, haloed in a soft, warm glow. Every muscle was exquisitely defined, shifting and rippling in a perfect dance of tension and release, in sync with the sobbing moans. Beads of sweat glided down the luxurious contours of his body, tracing paths across the elegant curves of his physique.

 

"Mr. Shuai, would you prefer black tea or milk tea?"

 

Shuai Zhaomin wasn't exactly gaping, but behind his glasses, his dark eyes did widen slightly. He wasn't sure whether to marvel at the man's physique or be struck by the sheer audacity of the situation. Trying to maintain some semblance of composure, he smiled at the butler.

 

"Dong Ding Oolong tea*, if you have it. Thank you."

 

[T/N: Dong Ding, also spelled Tung-ting, is a premium variety of oolong tea from Taiwan. A translation of Dong Ding is "Frozen Summit" or "Icy Peak", and is the name of the mountain in Taiwan where the tea is cultivated.]

Last Chapter | TOC | Next Chapter

 

❧ Join Bella Novels' Newsletter by clicking here ↫ and
receive an email for each New Update -͙✧˖*°࿐