Chapter 21 - 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.

"Don't you think you owe me an explanation?" The room was spacious enough for one person to live comfortably, but cramming three people inside made it feel suffocating—especially with the tension in the air.

 

Clenching a cigarette between his teeth, Shuai Zhaomin held his temper for thirty minutes before finally speaking.

 

"An explanation about what?" Tengshe arched a brow, chuckling lightly. His powerful fingers played with Fitch's radiant golden hair, an action that drew a sharp, annoyed click of the tongue from Shuai Zhaomin.

 

"About everything that's happened so far. Why did Miss Sara bring me here? And why does she keep saying I'm important? She seems to utterly despise Fitch."

 

The bitter tang of nicotine swirled in his chest before he exhaled a faintly purple stream of smoke, venting his displeasure along with it. Truthfully, Shuai Zhaomin wanted to bash the pair before him, oozing hormones like some caricatured master and servant duo. The room wasn't so small that they had to sit that close together, was it? No, that wasn't quite accurate—Fitch was sprawled on the carpet beside Tengshe, resting his face against the man's thigh like a contented kitten.

 

The entire scene felt like something out of a wild Arabian Nights tale—a decadent old sheikh surrounded by his harem of sultry beauties. All it needed was a platter of grapes to complete the picture.

 

Damn it, now wasn't the time to be daydreaming. Making light of his misery on someone else's turf was beyond pointless.

 

"Why don't you use your lawyerly skills to investigate these questions yourself, Mr. Shuai?" Tengshe's sly tone was like nails on a chalkboard.

 

Hell! Would it kill him to speak like a normal person? Shuai Zhaomin crossed his arms, curling his lips into a mocking grin.

 

"Mr. Brelini, I've always felt like you're deliberately picking a fight with me. Why is that?" He decided to drag the conversation back to its starting point. Since they had time to spare, it was better to methodically outline the situation than to sit around glaring at each other.

 

"Because it's fun. I thought I'd answered that before." Tengshe's unapologetic smirk and blatant malice sent a vein throbbing in Shuai Zhaomin's temple.

 

"Is it because we're alike?" Shuai Zhaomin posed the question he'd neither wanted to ask nor admit to. Back at Columbia, during that encounter where Tengshe had hidden his true nature so well, they'd seemed to overlap in certain ways.

 

Still, Shuai Zhaomin believed the underlying significance was entirely different.

 

Tengshe merely raised a brow and smiled silently at the question, but Fitch, with his amber eyes blazing, shot upright, the angry set of his crimson lips signaling he was ready to lash out.

 

"I already know I'm just a lowlife," Shuai Zhaomin preempted, his remark catching the stunning boy off guard. Fitch's menacing expression instantly morphed into something comically dumbfounded. Shuai Zhaomin chuckled, cigarette clenched between his teeth. "Can't you be more creative? Try something like scoundrel, fool, or worthless trash."

 

"You..." Fitch's pale, pink-tinged face flushed red, his amber eyes misting with unshed tears, making him look pathetically endearing.

 

Oh, great. Now it looked like he was bullying the kid. Scratching his cheek, Shuai Zhaomin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands.

 

Would Fitch start crying? Or maybe he'd leap at him to reclaim his dignity?

 

"Can't hit the master, so you're taking it out on the dog, huh?" Tengshe remained lazily sprawled on the couch, casually pulling Fitch into his embrace with a sweep of his arm.

 

"Master..." Fitch's soft whimper, paired with his delicate beauty, did make for a rather picturesque scene.

 

Not that Shuai Zhaomin himself found it remotely appealing.

 

"So, how's playing the ordinary guy working out for you?" Shuai Zhaomin pressed, steering the conversation back on track. Tengshe was a master at deflecting topics, which was undoubtedly part of why Shuai Zhaomin found him so infuriating.

 

"It's not bad." Tengshe's response was surprisingly straightforward, though still evasive. His broad shoulders shrugged, causing the golden head resting against him to bob slightly.

 

No matter how Shuai Zhaomin looked at them, the scene was unsettling... Adjusting his glasses, he squinted, still unable to grasp why Tengshe's attitude toward Fitch was so contradictory.

 

But his own predicament took precedence. "Mr. Brelini, as I recall, heirs aren't allowed to leave Italy unless they're on special assignments."

 

He phrased it tactfully, but the implication was clear: taking out an enemy or cutting off a traitor's limbs—something along those lines. Tengshe was certainly on a "special mission." Otherwise, there was no way two heirs would both end up in the U.S.

 

"Nothing will stop you from leaving if you ask," Tengshe murmured, his red-brown gaze dropping to mask the gleam in his eyes.

 

That one short sentence carried a wealth of implications. Shuai Zhaomin furrowed his brow, unable to immediately parse its exact meaning.

 

Was Tengshe saying that heirs could leave Italy simply by asking, and that no one had ever tried? Or had Tengshe blackmailed the old patriarch into granting him an exception?

 

The possibilities were endless, and Shuai Zhaomin didn't feel like guessing. "Could you elaborate? This concerns my personal freedom, after all."

 

"I was clear: if you speak up, you can leave." Tengshe's lifted gaze gleamed with a predator's ferocity, but his broad smile was unnervingly cheerful. "Isn't it the same for you, Attorney Shuai? Open your mouth, and you're free to leave."

 

Damn it, what on earth is he even talking about now? Shuai Zhaomin stared blankly for a couple of seconds before tapping his temple. "Are you saying that if I'd outright resigned at the start, I could've turned down the job?"

 

Why did this man insist on speaking in such maddening riddles? Did he get some perverse thrill out of it? Shuai Zhaomin could almost feel his hand twitching at the thought of decking that infuriating smirk right off Tengshe's face.

 

Just an hour ago, they had been... comforting each other? What the hell was wrong with him—was he under a spell, or had someone slipped him something?

 

"Attorney Shuai, I find conversations with you endlessly entertaining."

 

Damn it, but Shuai Zhaomin was not amused in the slightest.

 

Dragging him into this case, obstructing his efforts, provoking him at every turn—was it all just to get him to finally explode and say, "I quit"? If that was the goal, why insist on hiring him in the first place?

 

"I assumed you wanted to return to Italy quickly, which is why you had me handle the case." Shuai Zhaomin couldn't help but feel he'd met his nemesis in Tengshe, even if he was reluctant to admit it.

 

No matter how carefully he thought things through, Tengshe would effortlessly overturn his assumptions, leaving him perpetually off balance. The only thing Shuai Zhaomin had truly figured out was his burning desire to shut Tengshe up.

 

"Why would I want to go back?" Tengshe arched a brow, his expression tinged with boredom as he toyed with an unlit cigarette between his strong, elegant fingers.

 

Now that was a good question. Shuai Zhaomin found himself momentarily at a loss. "You don't want to? As an heir, shouldn't you be eager to return and claim your share of the inheritance?"

 

He knew it was a clichéd assumption, but it seemed like the most logical explanation.

 

"I earn enough to live comfortably. Why bother? Being the privileged young master suits me just fine." Tengshe grinned, a flash of teeth accompanying a comment that might have sounded breezy if it weren't for the sharp cunning in his tone.

 

Damn it, the man had a point. Shuai Zhaomin ran a hand down his face, bouncing his knee irritably. "So, you're doing this on purpose? Choosing to stay 'trapped' in America rather than going back to Italy?"

 

"That's about right. Once the next head is confirmed, I'll return for my grandfather's funeral." For a fleeting moment, Tengshe's usually carefree tone dipped when he mentioned his "grandfather," betraying a subtle trace of emotion.

 

"Don't go around casually killing off your grandfather." Clicking his tongue, Shuai Zhaomin leaned back, resting his head against the sofa. He exhaled deeply, staring at the ceiling. "State your demands, and I'll accommodate them."

 

He wasn't just a lawyer who won cases; he was one who tailored his strategies to his clients' needs. If Tengshe wanted to drag things out, Shuai Zhaomin had plenty of ways to make the prosecution pull their hair out in frustration.

 

"I'm sure you will, but…" Tengshe's low chuckle was a warning, his fingers lightly scratching under Fitch's delicate chin.

 

Oh, for God's sake—but what? Shuai Zhaomin snapped his head up, glaring at Tengshe. "I'm not your toy. Isn't Fitch enough for you?"

 

"You know, a pet that doesn't fight back gets boring after a while." Tengshe's hand trailed to Fitch's neck, eliciting a soft, kitten-like sound. Fitch's snowy cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink.

 

Was there anything more nauseating? That couldn't have been a compliment, right? Was Shuai Zhaomin too dense to grasp Tengshe's twisted irony, or was Fitch's pretty head filled with nothing but blind devotion?

 

Blushing? Seriously? He should be kicking that snake of a man in the face and roaring in protest!

 

"You could look for a wild beast to tame instead," Shuai Zhaomin replied coolly, feigning ignorance and deliberately misinterpreting Tengshe's implication.

 

"I already have." Tengshe's crimson-brown eyes narrowed with a sinister smile, his malicious gaze slithering over Shuai Zhaomin like a venomous serpent coiling around its prey.

 

Naturally, Shuai Zhaomin wasn't about to ask something idiotic like, "Who?" Instead, he shrugged nonchalantly, his lips curling in mild disdain as his dark eyes behind his lenses flicked toward Fitch. "I thought everyone was only allowed to keep one guard dog."

 

The boy, who was perched on Tengshe's lap and practically melted into his embrace, trembled slightly.

 

"Your intel is impeccable, Attorney Shuai. Indeed, everyone is only allowed one guard dog." Tengshe finally lit the cigarette he'd been toying with but didn't rush to bring it to his lips, continuing to play with it between his fingers. "But switching to a new dog? That's perfectly possible."

 

"And the old dog? Will you abandon it? Shoot it? Or deem it to exile?" With each option Shuai Zhaomin listed, Fitch's slender body twitched, his thin arms clinging tightly to Tengshe's powerful neck.

 

This was cruel, and Shuai Zhaomin knew it. Asking such blood-soaked questions in Fitch's presence would only wound the boy, who already seemed so fragile.

 

Yet, voicing them felt oddly satisfying. He was curious how Tengshe would handle his relationship with Fitch. Damn it! No wonder those soap operas were so addictive—watching other people's misery truly was cathartic in its own twisted way!

 

"What kind of answer are you hoping for?" Tengshe's low chuckle rumbled as he held Fitch's trembling frame, the sobs mingling faintly with his steady voice.

 

"A failed dog should be abandoned. That's the rule." A soft, cold voice cut in before Shuai Zhaomin could respond.

 

"Sara," Tengshe drawled lazily, turning halfway toward the white-clad figure by the door. He raised a hand in a casual wave. "It's such a pleasure to see you."

 

"Is it?" Sara arched her lips in a faint smile, walking gracefully into the room before gesturing elegantly behind her. "I believe Lawyer Shuai will be even more pleased to see the guest I specially invited. Mr. Muhammad, mind your step."

 

Shuai Zhaomin leaped off the sofa at once, staring at the doorway. There stood his friend, with creamy chocolate-toned skin and clad in traditional Middle Eastern robes. "Serg!" he shouted, his voice cracking in surprise as he rushed forward.

 

Not even bothering to walk around the sofa, he vaulted over it and crossed the room in two strides, grabbing his friend's towel-wrapped hand. "Who the hell hurt you?"

 

"Uh..." Serg offered a weak smile, speaking softly. "A... bread knife."

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