Chapter 23 - 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.

"Care for a drink?" The voice, low and melodic, carried through the velvety darkness, teasing the edges of his consciousness like a whisper against his ear. It was subtly alluring, leaving a faint, tickling sensation in its wake.

 

Shuai Zhaomin shifted his gaze from the dim moonlight outside to the man sitting nearby. His tall, broad-shouldered frame exuded the air of a predator lurking in the shadows—elegant yet dangerous, savoring the taste of blood on its claws.

 

"I thought we were supposed to be rivals." Shuai Zhaomin chuckled lightly, adjusting his position to let Tengshe settle on the carpet beside him.

 

Shuai Zhaomin's posture was almost childlike, knees hugged to his chest, his feet tapping rhythmically against the carpet.

 

Tengshe sat down gracefully, his movements so fluid and light that not even the faintest ripple of air was stirred. A soft clink of glass against glass as a bottle met the rim of a cup drew Shuai Zhaomin's attention. He cast a glance toward him.

 

"No, you and Fitch are the real opponents here. I'm merely a witness, along with Mr. Muhammad." A glass slid across the thick carpet, lightly bumping Shuai Zhaomin's side. He reached for it, stretching his long legs as he did.

 

"So, is this a peace offering? Or are you just bored?" It was a whiskey glass, chilled and already filled with ice. The frosty surface sent shivers up his palm.

 

He'd stopped trying to decipher Tengshe's motives a long time ago. This man wrapped himself in too many layers of deceit and wielded lies with expert precision—a mix of three parts truth to seven parts falsehood. Dealing with him was exhausting.

 

Besides, none of the Brelini family ever really listened to him. So why waste his breath?

 

"Just felt like having a drink." Tengshe chuckled lowly, biting down on his cigarette. The faint red glow of the embers, smoldering in the darkness, seemed unusually warm. "Pure malt Scotch. You're not one to dislike strong liquor, are you, Attorney Shuai?"

 

"Questions like that should be asked before you pour the drink. If not, then kindly keep your mouth shut." Shuai Zhaomin swirled the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid dance among the ice cubes under the dim light. It looked appealing enough.

 

"Attorney Shuai, you seem a lot calmer than before. Getting used to it?" Tengshe's cigarette-wielding hand now held a glass as well. His playful tone straddled the line between jest and malice, but Shuai Zhaomin only shot him a glance in response.

 

"Barely." He had no plans of diving headfirst into this game of crime. Murder, theft—it all seemed far too troublesome.

 

Taking a sip, he winced at the burn. Neat whiskey was harsh, its bold flavor and sharp kick not at all to his liking. He preferred something sweeter, smoother.

 

Tengshe, on the other hand, wasn't as delicate. He downed most of his glass in one go, the ice rattling as it tumbled inside the empty vessel.

 

"Attorney Shuai, have I ever told you about my brothers back home?"

 

Why was he bringing this up now? Suspicious, Shuai Zhaomin turned to study Tengshe's chiseled profile. His scruffy beard was slightly unkempt—so much so that Shuai Zhaomin had the sudden urge to grab a comb and tidy it up.

 

"No." He rested his face against his bent knees, abandoning the whiskey in favor of enjoying its aroma. "Mr. Brelini, forgive my skepticism, but what are you planning now? Can't you just be upfront for once? I'm tired of playing guessing games."

 

He loved a good challenge—he truly did. Puzzles, mind games, debates… these were his bread and butter. But even he wasn't a bottomless well of energy. At this point, he was both physically and mentally drained.

 

"Sara's a bit spoiled. She's the youngest of us six, so everyone dotes on her."

 

Shuai Zhaomin snorted. Spoiled? Was that what they were calling it? His own little sister was somewhat spoiled, but at least she wasn't insufferable. Sara, on the other hand? She was a menace.

 

"How lovely. Why not just go all the way and lie down for her to kill? Really pamper her to the end." He licked a melting ice cube and grimaced at his own sharp tongue.

 

"Zhuque, on the other hand, has been insufferable since childhood." Tengshe's casual remark sent a shiver down Shuai Zhaomin's spine.

 

Even Tengshe found Zhuque unbearable? That couldn't be good. He vaguely recalled hearing that Zhuque was still in the U.S. Please, please, don't let him cross paths with that man. Maybe he should fly back to Taiwan for a cleansing ritual.

 

"I'm sure Mr. Muhammad has already tracked everyone's movements. Aside from Sara, Zhuque, and Taotie, the other two haven't left Italy." Tengshe's gaze met Shuai Zhaomin's through the slight tilt of his glasses, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "That's good news, wouldn't you agree?"

 

"Sure…" Good news, my ass! Shuai Zhaomin's tongue still smarted from licking the ice, so he took another sip of whiskey. "What about Taotie? What kind of person is he? You seemed genuinely surprised when his name came up."

 

"Surprised? Definitely. Fitch won't stand a chance against him—not even against the guard dog at his gate." Tengshe's candor nearly made Shuai Zhaomin choke on his drink.

 

"Hello? Are you really Tengshe Brelini? Mind if I pinch you to check?" Who the hell was this guy? Was he dreaming? It wasn't enough that Tengshe wasn't busy fooling around with Fitch at this hour; now he was here, drinking and chatting with him like an old friend. What was this, a nightmare?

 

"Why pinch me?" Tengshe's lips, framed by his scruffy beard, curved into that familiar, mischievous smile.

 

"I want to make sure this isn't a dream. Don't worry, I won't pinch randomly—just lend me your left arm." Of course, a lawyer's promise was the least reliable thing on Earth.

 

"Oh?" Tengshe drained his glass in one smooth motion and leisurely swirled the remaining ice. "And what would you offer in return?"

 

"How about a heartfelt gesture of goodwill—like me 'quitting the game' altogether?" Shuai Zhaomin quipped. He was confident that's exactly what Tengshe wanted. Besides, he'd only ever agreed to play along in words. He'd never intended to act on anything.

 

"Is that so?" Tengshe extended his arm without hesitation, and Shuai Zhaomin wasted no time in giving it a firm pinch. Feeling the taut, twisting muscles beneath his fingers was strangely satisfying.

 

"Since you've chosen Fitch, why not reject Miss Sara outright? And why drag both me and Serg into this mess?" It was too dark to see if his pinch had left any marks, but Tengshe's expression remained calm, save for the slight arch of an eyebrow. "Did that hurt?"

 

"Enough to notice," Tengshe retracted his arm, raising it to inspect the spot. "Why pinch me?"

 

Because I'd rather you hurt than me—duh.

 

"I appreciate your willingness to communicate, but forgive me for being blunt—I don't see how Fitch is capable of handling anything." If he wanted to quit, he needed to do so cleanly. He doubted Sara could be easily brushed off.

 

Even if she were fooled temporarily, there was no guarantee she'd give up. He could flee back to Taiwan, but Serg couldn't leave the U.S. His spotless family background was as transparent as a glass of water—anyone could easily find his relatives with a quick online search.

 

He couldn't bear the thought of his family being harassed endlessly. Public authority was useless in these situations. The law might govern honest citizens, but it was powerless against organized crime, and often complicit.

 

"Fitch's methods differ from the norm. While he can defend himself and retaliate to some extent, you've seen it yourself—he's weak," Tengshe said, his detached tone devoid of emotion. It was impossible to discern if the faint derision in his voice was directed at Fitch, himself, or someone else entirely.

 

Shuai Zhaomin raised an eyebrow but had no interest in untangling such complex feelings. They had nothing to do with him. He and Tengshe—and the entire mafia, for that matter—should've been on parallel tracks, never intersecting.

 

"Killing enemies in bed, then?" He twirled his glass with disinterest, figuring Fitch's usefulness lay solely in that realm. Twisted emotions, blind admiration, warped reverence—it all seemed fair game.

 

"No. Fitch only allows me to touch him." Tengshe's lips curved, not with masculine pride but with mockery. "And I wouldn't let anyone else lay a finger on him. That's the arrangement."

 

"And yet you had no issue letting me kick him." So Fich's waist isn't worth much, huh?

 

Tengshe chuckled deeply and refilled his glass, downing it in one gulp.

 

Seriously? Scottish single malt at over 40% alcohol—was this a drinking contest or what? Shuai Zhaomin had no idea how good Tengshe's tolerance was, but chugging hard liquor like this meant anyone would get wasted. He had no intention of dragging a man ten centimeters taller than himself back to his room.

 

Moreover, he had no desire to leave this room, only to face Fitch's accusatory glare that screamed, You're stealing my man, you fox! and endure being called a "lowlife" with the same tired insults.

 

Still… Watching Tengshe grip the bottle, Shuai Zhaomin continued licking the whiskey-flavored ice cube. He had no plans to wrestle the bottle out of the man's hand.

 

"Attorney Shuai, have you ever had to protect someone's safety even though you wished for their death?" Tengshe's voice, elegant yet powerful, carried a haunting cadence. It was impossible to tell whether he was drunk or serious.

 

Shuai Zhaomin quirked an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at his lips. He didn't answer directly, his dark eyes instead sweeping over Tengshe with a sidelong glance.

 

What a question. Damn it, this was the most thought-provoking thing Tengshe had said since their first meeting! It hit way too close to home—his mood in a nutshell. Though, unlike the blood-soaked implications, Shuai Zhaomin didn't exactly want to kill anyone. He just wanted to crack open Tengshe's skull and stir around to see what kind of nonsense was inside.

 

"Do you hope for Fitch to succeed?" Tengshe asked, his question curiously vague, though Shuai Zhaomin knew exactly who he meant. That also explained Tengshe's extreme attitude toward Fitch—a mix of gentle protection and cruel detachment.

 

The reason behind it? Shuai Zhaomin had no interest in knowing. It wasn't like he could save Fitch from the mess he was in.

 

"Against Taotie?" Tengshe laughed, his towering frame shaking as he downed yet another glass. "No. He won't. Not unless I cheat."

 

"Go ahead and cheat. I don't care, and neither would Serg." Despite Sara's insistence on fairness, no witness could truly remain impartial. This so-called "fairness" was nothing but a joke.

 

The so-called impartial witnesses were always the closest confidants of the competitors. Who could possibly stay neutral? Shuai Zhaomin was tempted to dig up the old bones of whoever invented these rules just to whip their corpse!

 

"But I don't want to cheat." Tengshe's reddish-brown eyes narrowed, his full lips curling into a malicious smile. Shuai Zhaomin's temples throbbed at the sight.

 

"Because you think I'll give up?"

 

"No. Because your good friend will make a move first. Why would I face Sara or Taotie head-on?" Tengshe laughed heartily, his movements nimble as he dodged Shuai Zhaomin's swinging fist and leapt to his feet. The clinking of ice cubes in his glass was almost unbearably grating.

 

"Tengshe Brelini! You're setting up Serg!" Shuai Zhaomin roared, but instead of jumping to his feet, he lunged forward, tackling Tengshe at the waist. Whether it was the alcohol or his sheer fury, Tengshe seemed caught off guard, stumbling and spilling liquor all over himself.

 

His fist collided hard with Tengshe's face, the impact sending blood splattering everywhere. But Tengshe didn't flinch. If anything, he laughed louder, his body trembling beneath Shuai Zhaomin's assault.

 

The stench of alcohol, nicotine, and blood filled the air—primitive, wild, and maddening. Shuai Zhaomin's grip on his rage slipped entirely, his anger overtaking his last shred of rationality.

 

The man beneath him was primal. Animalistic.

 

"Why the hell did you drag Serg into this?!" Shuai Zhaomin shouted, his fists aching from the relentless blows. His knuckles were swollen and raw, especially after his final punch landed square on Tengshe's mouth, his teeth cutting into Shuai Zhaomin's skin.

 

Grabbing Tengshe by the collar, Shuai Zhaomin shook him violently. He could endure being toyed with; he'd keep a ledger and settle the score someday. But involving his friend? That was crossing the line.

 

"Because he likes you." Tengshe spat out a mouthful of blood, his features obscured in the dim light. Yet, the gleam in his red-brown eyes remained sharp and venomous, like a coiled snake.

 

And he was still smiling. Even as Shuai Zhaomin screamed and shook him, Tengshe reached for his cigarette case, deftly extracting one and clamping it between his lips.

 

"It's none of your business!" Shuai Zhaomin snatched the cigarette away, crushing it in his fist as he leaned in close, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. "None of your damn business!"

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