Chapter 12 - 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.

An uneasy consensus had been reached. Half-reclining on the sofa, Shuai Zhaomin bit down on a cigarette to distract himself from the pain. He didn't know much about Italian cigarettes, but their strong flavor was a bit much for him—yet it suited someone like Tengshe.

 

A hint of decadent cologne, layered with the faintly bitter heaviness of tobacco—this combination alone painted the man's image vividly.

 

In any case, Shuai Zhaomin was forced to exchange information with his client.

 

"I'll start, if Mr. Brelini doesn't mind?" He doubted Tengshe would willingly speak first and asked more out of courtesy than expectation.

 

As anticipated, the man merely shrugged his broad shoulders. With a cigarette between his fingers, he gestured for Shuai Zhaomin to proceed. His long legs stretched lazily onto the coffee table, crossing effortlessly. Meanwhile, the boy, Fitch, perched on the armrest of the sofa like a cat, pressing his cheek affectionately against Teng She's shoulder.

 

Would he start purring next? Shuai Zhaomin couldn't comprehend the dreamy look in those amber eyes. Like master, like pet, apparently.

 

"First, I've learned through certain channels that your grandfather is gravely ill. Based on medical reports and physicians' assessments, he may not survive the winter. Consequently, the leadership of your family will soon be vacated." He didn't particularly enjoy discussing an elder's mortality in such a detached manner and scratched his cheek with mild self-disdain.

 

"That's no secret. Grandfather has been sick for a long time." Tengshe curved his full lips slightly, though it wasn't a smile. A faint trace of sadness clouded his expression instead.

 

It was said that mafia families valued close-knit ties and cherished familial bonds. Seeing such an expression on Tengshe's face wasn't surprising. Unsure whether to continue, Shuai Zhaomin scratched his cheek again. This level of humanity in the man's demeanor threw him off balance.

 

Should he offer his condolences? That seemed too blunt.

 

"And then?" Tengshe's sorrow vanished as quickly as it had appeared. With the cigarette between his teeth, he propped his chin on one hand while the other rested idly on Fitch's slender waist. His blood-colored eyes narrowed with renewed amusement.

 

Damn, could anyone shift expressions that fast? Well, aside from himself, of course. Shuai Zhaomin couldn't help but roll his eyes, which only seemed to amuse Tengshe further.

 

"Next, I've heard that your family has a rather unique way of selecting its next head. Instead of being appointed by the current leader or chosen through a family vote, it's decided through… a brawl." When Shuai Zhaomin first got wind of this, he had seriously doubted whether that fake herbivore-like predator* was messing with him. Since it was awkward to verify with his in-laws directly after becoming family, he had no choice but to vent his frustration by punching Dawson—who happened to be next door—twice.

 

[T/N: He really doesn't appreciate his sister's husband.]

 

Which idiot came up with this brainless system? If they weren't already dead, Shuai Zhaomin would have happily dug up their grave to whip their corpse. Wouldn't appointment or voting be much simpler? A brawl? What were they trying to accomplish? If everyone ended up dead… well, that might actually be beneficial for the world.

 

"Not entirely accurate. In reality, only six children are eligible to compete for the position," Tengshe corrected with a cold, sardonic smile tugging at his lips. His blood-colored eyes glinted as he leaned back. "Attorney Shuai, what's your opinion of such a system?"

 

"I'm not in a position to comment." As long as it didn't concern his life or safety, Shuai Zhaomin couldn't care less if the mafia tore itself apart. Lawyers were infamous for being ruthless, but Shuai Zhaomin prided himself on at least not choking on the bones—he still spat those out.

 

Tengshe chuckled, pulling the cigarette from his lips just as Fitch raised his hands before the man's chest… Damn it. Was he actually holding his palms out as a human ashtray? The ashtray was literally on the table!

 

Tengshe glanced briefly at the boy's soft, outstretched hands and gave a low laugh. Without hesitation, he stubbed out the cigarette in Fitch's palm.

 

Was this some subtle suggestion that barbecue might be on the dinner menu? Shuai Zhaomin felt increasingly certain he was the only normal person in the room.

 

Fitch's delicate face remained impassive, as if the cigarette hadn't been extinguished in his hand but merely vanished into thin air. It was moments like these that made Shuai Zhaomin wonder what it might feel like to extinguish a cigarette in someone's hand—or better yet, in Tengshe's face.

 

"Attorney Shuai, did your 'channels' inform you about the rules of this competition?"

 

"If you're willing to explain, I'd be happy to learn," Shuai Zhaomin replied with a polite smile. He had no actual interest in this nonsense—it had nothing to do with the case and was a waste of time.

 

These past few days had already eaten up far too much of his precious time. Damn it. Time is money!

 

"This is an elimination match. The six of us were specially trained from a young age, unaffiliated with any faction, and granted privileges. At eighteen, we each received a small 'gift'—a pet, a watchdog." Fitch's lashes fluttered slightly at the mention of the word. He glanced quickly at Tengshe, his gaze filled with excessive reverence and loyalty that made Shuai Zhaomin feel faintly nauseous.

 

So Shuai Zhaomin merely raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses.

 

"Don't you think Fitch is the perfect pet?" Tengshe's powerful, elegant fingers trailed from the boy's slightly upturned eyes, down his flawless, faintly blushing cheeks, brushing over his supple lips before lifting his delicate chin.

 

Fitch's amber eyes narrowed with delight. He let out a soft hum, nuzzling against Tengshe's fingertips.

 

"He just lost a fight to me," Shuai Zhaomin pointed out. It was a factual remark, completely unrelated to the boy's simpering behavior, which inexplicably reminded him of a certain cunning fake herbivore.

 

Unsurprisingly, the boy's slim frame tensed, and he looked ready to pounce off the sofa to attack. But Tengshe's hand closed firmly around his narrow waist, a simple gesture that transformed him into a docile kitten, rubbing his cheek pitifully against Tengshe's stubbled jaw.

 

"Attorney Shuai, since we're going to continue working together, let me offer you a word of advice."

 

"Oh? I'm sure I could use it."

 

Advice? What he needed was cooperation! He was a lawyer, here to litigate cases, not to spar with his client and their pet or partake in whatever absurd games they played. Damn it!

 

"Fitch is an assassin," Tengshe said with a cheerful lilt. The man's crimson-brown eyes, tinged with a boyish amusement, left Shuai Zhaomin momentarily incapable of reconciling his expression with the words he'd just spoken.

 

An assassin? What kind of assassin? One who strangles men in bed?

 

"The French often say, an orgasm is a little death."

 

Goddamn it! What was he supposed to say to that?

 

"And in that regard, Fitch is one of the best." Tengshe's sly wink was followed by hearty laughter. Shuai Zhaomin, irritated and flustered, scratched his cheek before spitefully stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.

 

"Mr. Brelini, are you trying to tell me that each of the six contenders has a trained assassin by their side, and when the time comes, they're expected to eliminate one another?"

 

Who cared what kind of death that boy was? All he wanted to know was how to prove that damn bullet!

 

At present, his only argument in court could be, "You can't prove this bullet belonged to Tengshe Brelini. Ballistics are inconclusive!" The problem was, at the time, Tengshe had unmistakably been holding a weapon. The gun bore clear signs of having been fired, and there was gunpowder residue on his hands.

 

What followed would be endless courtroom back-and-forth over the trajectory of the bullet. Damn it, why hadn't that bullet simply done its job and lodged itself in this snake's heart? Life would be so much easier. Shuai Zhaomin wouldn't be pulling his hair out, the prosecution could breathe a sigh of relief, and the world would be a better place.

 

Shuai Zhaomin despised cases muddied by endless ambiguities. He needed precision, irrefutable evidence that could crush the opposition.

 

"Speaking with you is truly a pleasure, Attorney Shuai."

 

Damn it! That's because you're shoving all the pressure onto me! Shuai Zhaomin forced a strained chuckle, his injuries no longer searingly painful but leaving behind a dull ache that only soured his mood further.

 

"Fitch, show Attorney Shuai your gun," Tengshe tapped the boy's slim back. Fitch appeared reluctant but unwilling to disobey. With a pitiful pout, he planted two or three light kisses on Tengshe's neck before rising from the sofa and tugging at the metal clasp on his belt.

 

A gun? Really? Shuai Zhaomin's fingers twitched, almost unable to resist rubbing his eyes.

 

It was, indeed, an exquisitely crafted metal clasp, its brass finish cool and understated. Roughly three-quarters the size of an adult's palm, Fitch's pale fingers worked it with a few quick clicks. The clasp transformed into a decorative firearm, small and dainty, complete with engravings from its previous form.

 

This petite gun was about the same size as the one Tengshe had been holding back then. Shuai Zhaomin had seen photos of that gun—it, too, was an oddly ornate piece. The engravings, as he recalled, depicted a bird of prey.

 

Narrowing his eyes behind his lenses, Shuai Zhaomin noted that the current gun's etchings resembled… a snake?

 

"This is my mark," Tengshe remarked. "The chosen children's names are deliberately distinctive."

 

Distinctive? Shuai Zhaomin let out a derisive chuckle.

 

That was an understatement. He'd looked into the rumored contenders for the next head of the family and noted their unanimously Eastern-inspired names: Zhuque, Taotie, Migu*… He couldn't bear to read any further. Was it really necessary to go this far?

 

[T/N: Zhuque (Vermilion Bird) is one of the Four Symbols (四象) in Chinese mythology, representing the southern direction, summer, and the element of fire. It is often depicted as a red or fiery phoenix-like bird and symbolizes virtue, grace, and auspiciousness. In mythology, Zhuque guards the southern heavens, and its vibrant, flaming appearance contrasts with the colder tones of its northern counterpart, Xuanwu (玄武).

Taotie is a legendary creature in Chinese mythology, known for its insatiable greed and voracious appetite. It is often depicted in ancient Chinese art, particularly on bronze vessels, as a stylized monstrous face with large eyes and gaping jaws. The Taotie symbolizes both indulgence and a warning against unchecked greed. Its mythological status is complex, as it is sometimes portrayed as a terrifying beast but also as a fascinating artistic motif.

Migu (Tree Spirit) is a lesser-known figure in Chinese mythology, often depicted as a sentient, anthropomorphic tree or forest spirit. It is said to inhabit dense forests, serving as a protector of the natural world. Migu can be benevolent, helping those lost in the woods, or vengeful if the forest it guards is harmed. The concept of Migu reflects traditional Chinese reverence for nature and the belief that spirits inhabit all living things.]

 

Italian mythology had no shortage of monsters. Why not use local lore? Instead, they ended up with this mishmash of incongruity. Setting aside the bizarre combinations, weren't those names unwieldy to pronounce? If these kids could write Chinese, they'd surely curse their parents, especially the poor soul named Taotie*.

 

[T/N: The Chinese characters for Taotie (饕餮) are a bit challenging to write to say the least.]

 

Shuai Zhaomin massaged his temples before casting another glance at that gun. "Mr. Brelini, does the bullet also bear a mark, by any chance?" This was less a question and more a confirmation. He'd seen reports mentioning engraved patterns on the bullets.

 

"Attorney Shuai, conversing with you truly is a delight."

 

Tengshe deftly toyed with Fitch's gun before abruptly pointing it at Shuai Zhaomin. "And therein lies the problem. There are two bullets… and two guns."

 

"The crux of the matter is that you fired one of them," He didn't care how many assassins there were—failing at such a minor task was pathetic! If they'd just shot their target back then, he'd be much more at ease now! What was the point of training a guard dog if it ended up as a lapdog instead?

 

With an indifferent shrug, Tengshe twirled the gun again. "True, but you could argue the gun wasn't mine. The markings on the bullet are?"

 

"A laurel wreath, I suppose." A carving that intricate on a tiny bullet—should he admire the artisan's skill or mock the Mafia for having too much time on their hands?

 

"Ah, so it's Sara," Tengshe mused, raising an eyebrow as the gun spun once more in his hand. "That should make for decent evidence, right?"

 

"Master, I understand now," Under the light, the brass-colored gun made a clean parabola and landed perfectly in the boy's pale palm with a soft clap.

 

"Fitch, I don't think you do," A guard dog was useless without a brain! Blind devotion was utterly useless—killing your master in bed would at least be more cost-effective.

 

"You filthy peasant, You haven't apologized to Master yet!" Apologize, my foot!

 

Rubbing his temples again, Shuai Zhaomin felt his injuries throbbing alongside his growing headache. He had no desire to endure Fitch's amber glare, nor the energy to keep forcing a polite smile… His face hurt…

 

"If you kill that Mr. or Miss Sara, where am I supposed to find a suspect to clear your master's name? Should I just shoot the prosecutor myself?" Actually, right now, he'd rather shoot this master-and-servant pair.

 

The boy's vicious glare intensified, his hand twitching as if to aim the gun at him, but Tengshe swiftly pressed it down. "Master?"

 

"My apologies for the trouble, Attorney Shuai." Tengshe, ever at ease, seemed oblivious to the thick tension of gunpowder in the air that he himself had ignited.

 

"Paid to work, obliged to deliver." Shuai Zhaomin forced a dry laugh, seriously contemplating resigning on the spot. This wasn't just a simple case anymore—he was neck-deep in a Mafia turf war. Damn it!

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