Chapter 20 - 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.

It had been just a kiss—soft and fleeting, not even long enough to truly feel the warmth of the other's lips. Yet, it encapsulated twelve years of longing and affection.

 

Carefully grinding the coffee beans, Serg immersed himself in the familiar rhythm. The café he had meticulously designed exuded a warm, inviting aroma—a blend of rich coffee, mellow teas, creamy milk, and the delicate fragrances of various pastries. This was his world, and it seemed to represent him entirely.

 

The café was always tranquil, the silence broken only by the faint sounds of Serg's movements behind the counter, or the occasional rustle of pages as customers were reading. Conversations were rare.

 

His clients were regulars, arriving and leaving at fixed times, ordering the same drinks and snacks each visit.

 

This was the life Serg had chosen: quiet, steady, a snapshot of serenity tucked away in a corner of the city.

 

Of course, it wasn't without a trace of ambition and longing, which had driven him to sever ties with his family and abandon his inheritance to build this life in America.

 

He sighed softly, realizing his hands had paused mid-motion. The dough for cookies, left unattended, had begun to crack and dry on the surface.

 

Should he not have kissed him? Serg had asked himself this question for five days now. That night, Shuai Zhaomin had broken his usual pattern. Instead of staying over after indulging, he had stubbornly left with his injured body, refusing even an offer for a ride.

 

"We should both calm down first," he had said. Serg suspected he'd shown a moment of vulnerability, enough for his friend at the door to respond with a helpless yet empathetic expression.

 

"Zhaomin, I've been calm for years." Serg had intended to keep his feelings buried forever. They didn't need to be unique or outweigh anything else in Shuai Zhaomin's heart—just having a place, staying nearby in his own way, had been enough.

 

Why hadn't he held back? Serg poured out the freshly ground coffee beans, noticing they were uneven—a mistake he rarely made. Over the past five days, Shuai Zhaomin hadn't sent a single word. Serg's heart hung in the air, a mix of worry and trepidation that kept him from making the first move.

 

Perhaps he was no longer allowed past the walls Shuai Zhaomin had erected around his heart—because of a kiss… or rather, because of a man.

 

Lighting the alcohol lamp, Serg watched the flames sway in hues of blue and gold. The water in the glass siphon bubbled quickly before rising into the upper chamber.

 

Just as he was about to add the coffee grounds, the doorbell chimed. The sound was clear and crisp.

 

Occasionally, new customers stumbled in, but it was rare at this hour—just after two in the afternoon. It caught Serg slightly off guard. His café, tucked into a quiet alley, wasn't the kind of place people would stumble upon by accident.

 

"Welcome."

 

The newcomer was a spirited young man with vibrant energy. His blue eyes gleamed with delight as he took in the café's interior. "Excuse me, do you still serve toasted sandwiches for lunch?"

 

With a lively step that almost seemed like a dance, he approached the bar and grinned at Serg, who was busy stirring coffee. "It smells amazing! Is it Blue Mountain*?"

 

[T/N: Blue Mountain coffee refers to a high-quality coffee grown in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. Renowned for its mild flavor, smoothness, and lack of bitterness, it is one of the most sought-after and expensive coffees in the world. The unique growing conditions of the Blue Mountains—cool temperatures, rich soil, high altitude, and regular rainfall—create an ideal environment for producing premium coffee beans.]

 

"You have a sharp nose. Would you like a cup? It could pair well as an after-meal drink." Serg found himself smiling softly, drawn in by the infectious enthusiasm of the other man.

 

"Perfect! Please, pair it for me!" The youth whistled lightly as he settled at the bar, brushing back a stray curl from his forehead. "I've been passing by your café for days now, dying to try those dishes on the menu outside, but the timing was never right."

 

"Do you live nearby?" Serg asked. The young man's energy was unusual in his typically subdued establishment, and even the other few customers glanced up from their books, curiosity piqued.

 

"Yes! I'm here on a business trip and staying with a friend across the street." He nodded enthusiastically. Even sitting still, he exuded a kind of dynamic brightness, as though he carried a splash of color wherever he went.

 

"Well, you're welcome to stop by anytime before you head back home," Serg said, unsure if his words felt polite or genuine. There was something about this stranger's presence that radiated an inexplicable warmth.

 

"Really? That'd be amazing! Though I usually work until midnight. I guess you'd be closed by then." The youth sighed dramatically, only to suddenly tap his forehead in realization. "Oh! I forgot to order. Do you still have the smoked chicken and goat cheese sandwich?"

 

"Yes, we do. And Blue Mountain coffee as your post-meal drink?" Serg's luxurious, soft gaze fixed on the young man. "Or perhaps… an espresso*?"

 

[T/N: Espresso is Italian! It originated in Italy and is a foundational element of Italian coffee culture. The word espresso means "expressed" or "pressed out" in Italian, which reflects the method of brewing: hot water is forced through finely-ground coffee under pressure, creating a concentrated, richly flavored coffee shot.

Espresso is the base for many popular coffee drinks worldwide, such as cappuccino, latte, and macchiato. It was developed in the early 20th century, with the first espresso machines emerging in Italy around 1901. Today, it remains a symbol of Italian coffee traditions and is enjoyed globally.]

 

"Ah! You figured out I'm Italian? That's impressive. Most people think I'm Eastern because of my mixed heritage!" The man clapped his hands in delight, his vibrant smile almost childlike in its charm.

 

His joy was so contagious that Serg had to suppress the urge to reach out and ruffle that mop of dark brown curls.

 

It was strange. Serg was not someone who easily dissolved the boundaries between himself and others. His upbringing had instilled a grace that bordered on aloofness, a restraint almost frigid in its precision.

 

Feeling a faint unease, Serg lowered his gaze to escape the young man's smile. Quickly, he prepared the coffee and toast. "Please let me know if you'd like to add a dessert afterward."

 

As he moved away from the counter, he found himself, uncharacteristically, adding, "Enjoy your meal."

 

"Thank you." The young man's response was lively as he flipped through the menu with a rhythm almost musical, as if a tune might spill out at any moment. "Everything looks so delicious… maybe my master would like some too…"

 

Master? The murmured word made Serg freeze mid-step. Master? How many professions refer to their boss or employers that way—and from Italy, no less?

 

Frowning slightly, Serg completed the order and returned to the counter. The young man smiled up at him, his blue eyes narrowing playfully. "Excuse me, can the 'special cheesecake tart' be taken to go?"

 

"Yes, but I wouldn't recommend it," Serg replied, though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Should he press further? And why should it matter to him? Surely Shuai Zhaomin no longer trusted him.

 

Jealousy, Serg reminded himself, is an ugly thing. His body, shrouded in a long, Middle Eastern-style robe, gave a small shiver of self-reproach. Regardless of Shuai Zhaomin's acceptance or his wavering over Tengshe Brelini, they had been friends for over a decade. Serg should at least care about his friend's safety.

 

"Really? Then I'll take the handmade cookies instead. My m-... boss, although usually stoic, has a fondness for sweets," the young man said, catching himself mid-sentence, his cheerful demeanor unshaken. Yet his words sent a cold chill through Serg.

 

"Of course. Allow me to select the best for you," Serg replied with a gentle smile.

 

Just as he wondered whether to probe further, the doorbell chimed again. Unconsciously, his dark eyes flicked toward the clock on the workbench. At this hour, the café usually had only two sets of patrons—and himself.

 

What was special about today?

 

He glanced up to see two females entering—a striking contrast, one tall and one petite, both youthful. The younger one, perhaps in her teens, had a radiant round face, cheeks tinged with a lovely flush, her lively eyes brimming with intrigue.

 

The taller woman wore a white woolen dress paired with a beige shawl, her cascading hair framing violet eyes that swept leisurely over the café's interior.

 

"Welcome," Serg greeted after a brief hesitation, though he couldn't shake the feeling that these two weren't ordinary customers.

 

At the sound of his voice, the violet-eyed woman turned her gaze sharply to him, fixing it on his face. "Sergi bin Lama Muhammad."

 

Was that a question or a summons? Serg's brows twitched slightly, but he chose not to respond.

 

"Boss, I've decided—Blue Mountain as my post-meal drink after all," the young man's cheerful voice broke the tension, offering Serg a small reprieve. Whoever he was, at least he lightened the shop's mood.

 

"Very well," Serg replied with a polite nod, his dark eyes again meeting those violet ones. "And for the two ladies? Is there anything you'd like?"

 

"Someone wishes to see you," the woman in white said, her tone laced with a faint impatience. Her imperious demeanor drew a wry smile from Serg.

 

"My apologies, but I don't believe I know you, nor your acquaintance. May I ask who it is that wishes to see me?" he replied, dividing his attention as he prepared the ingredients for the toasted sandwich. His calm question seemed to irritate the woman further.

 

"Shuai Zhaomin wants to see you."

 

The knife Serg was using slipped at the name, slicing through the edge of his index finger. A sharp sting spread quickly, sending a prickling sensation up his scalp.

 

He grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it against the wound, but blood had already begun to bloom on the pristine white bread, forming small crimson flowers. He sighed softly, irritated at his own lapse in composure—both for his reaction to the name and for his concern over his old friend.

 

Who had violet-colored eyes? A memory surfaced—a photograph of six children encircling an elderly white-haired man, their names scrawled on the back.

 

"Are you Miss Sara Brelini?" he asked, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts.

 

The investigation had revealed that the bullet used in the murder of the restaurant's waitress bore an engraving of a laurel branch. He knew the six candidates bore names matching their respective symbols—plants for girls, mythical beasts for boys. It was a meticulous kind of brilliance.

 

So, Shuai Zhaomin had disappeared for five days. Was he abducted? A sharp pang seized Serg's chest as he realized his own cowardice and selfishness had prevented him from ensuring his friend's safety. How many things could change with just one kiss?

 

Well, it couldn't even be called a kiss.

 

"Yes." Sara nodded lightly, her elegant hair brushing against her rosy cheeks. "Mr. Mohammed, I must ask you to come with me."

 

"Boss, are you alright? Did you hurt your hand? Do you need me to help?" The young man's concern was immediate, half his body leaning over the counter as though to reach Serg.

 

"I'm fine," Serg replied with a calm smile, shaking his head. Stepping back, he apologized, "I'm sorry, your lunch might be delayed. I..."

 

"No worries! Don't push yourself. I'll just take some handmade cookies and be on my way," the young man interrupted cheerfully, hopping off his stool. "You should take care of that hand. I'll come back tomorrow."

 

The towel pressed against his wound was already soaked with blood. Serg nodded with a bitter smile. Perhaps he had overthought things. The young man likely had no connection to the Brelini family; otherwise, why wouldn't Sara recognize him?

 

"My apologies. I'll prepare fresh ingredients for you tomorrow."

 

"Please don't be so formal. Can I pack the cookies myself?" The young man pointed to the four glass jars on the counter, filled with cookies Serg had baked himself.

 

"My apologies." The pain in his hand persisted, but Serg pressed harder against the wound, his refined features betraying no discomfort.

 

The young man quickly and efficiently packed five cookies each from a different jar into a paper bag. "How much?"

 

Before Serg could reply, the girl beside Sara skipped over, her small hands resting on the counter as she blinked her bright, round eyes. "Sir, I'd like two chocolate crisps too! Richard said your baking is amazing, and I want to see if that's true."

 

"My apologies. You can pay me next time," Serg said, his mind elsewhere. The girl's demeanor and playful tone unsettled him deeply.

 

Shuai Zhaomin had an English nickname, one he had used among his friends during college but abandoned after graduation. How did this young girl know it?

 

"His name is Shuai Zhaomin," Serg murmured, his chest tightening painfully at the familiar name.

 

"He won't be for much longer," the girl replied with a mischievous smile, her round eyes crinkling. Tilting her head cutely, she added, "Now, about those chocolate crisps?"

Last Chapter | TOC | Next Chapter

 

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