Chapter 24 - 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.

"You're right. It's none of my business." Tengshe didn't seem to care about the cigarette, still grinning as he leaned forward to deliberately blow a breath of air across Shuai Zhaomin's nose.

 

The bitter scent of alcohol mixed with nicotine hit Shuai Zhaomin hard, making him tighten his grip on Tengshe's collar. His swollen knuckles throbbed with pain, but the sharp pain was like a drug, numbing his reason and igniting an even more primal rage.

 

Their faces were so close that even the air between them seemed to clash. Neither man yielded, and though Shuai Zhaomin had stopped throwing punches, the silent battle for dominance continued.

 

They couldn't go thirty minutes without things spiraling into chaos.

 

"What did you make Serg do?" Shu Zhaomin demanded through gritted teeth. His voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "He's my closest friend. If anything happens to him, I swear I won't let you off the hook."

 

Tengshe chuckled softly, his voice light, as if they were simply exchanging pleasantries. "Lawyer Shu, do you think I have the authority to command Mr. Muhammad? At most, I might have mentioned where Zhuque is staying these days."

 

Before Shuai Zhaomin could react, Tengshe's broad hand shot out and pressed firmly against the back of his head, a move so swift he couldn't dodge it.

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Shuai Zhaomin jerked his head, trying to break free from the force pinning him down. His hands clenched tighter, itching to strangle the man beneath him.

 

"Attorney Shuai, you don't want Fitch to win, but you don't want to lose either. Naturally, someone has to do a little dirty work. Zhuque is more troublesome than you imagine. He may seem like a kind and gentle soul, but I can't stand him." Tengshe's voice spilled out like soda from a shaken bottle, its strange intensity rattling Shuai Zhaomin.

 

"I don't care who you like or hate!" Shuai Zhaomin growled, shaking Tengshe violently. "Just tell me what Serg is doing! That's all I care about!"

 

Tengshe laughed, his reddish-brown eyes narrowing, brimming with malice. The look made Shuai Zhaomin's scalp tingle despite his anger. "Isn't Serg your best friend? Shouldn't you know better than I do what he'll do?"

 

"Yes, I should!" Shuai Zhaomin hissed. His black eyes glinted dangerously behind his glasses as he leaned closer, the tips of their noses brushing against each other. "Where is Zhuque?"

 

"Do you think I'd just let you ruin things?" Tengshe smirked. "Attorney Shuai, if you want something done right, do it yourself. Have I ever given you a straight answer?"

 

Damn it! Tengshe's smugness made Shuai Zhaomin's vision explode into a frenzied red. "I'll tear that filthy mouth of yours apart!" he roared.

 

Fueled by rage, he drove his knee into Tengshe's stomach.

 

"Ugh…" A low groan escaped Tengshe as his face twisted in pain. A thread of bloodied saliva dripped from his lips. His grip on Shuai Zhaomin's hair tightened, yanking him to the side with brutal force.

 

The sharp pain felt like his scalp was being ripped off. Shuai Zhaomin's black eyes welled with tears, but surrendering was not in his nature—especially when he still held the upper hand.

 

His knee struck again with all his might. Tengshe's towering frame shuddered, the blow forcing a sharp exhale from his nose. But his hand didn't loosen; instead, they both collapsed sideways onto the marble coffee table.

 

A sharp pain exploded in Shuai Zhaomin's shoulder, his bones and tendons crying out in protest. He released Tengshe's collar, curling up on the floor in agony. Tengshe didn't fare much better—his forehead slammed against the edge of the table, leaving him dazed.

 

Both men lay sprawled on the floor, their heavy breathing mingling in the dim room. The marble table seemed to stand victoriously between them, the ultimate winner of their clash.

 

"Fuck…"

 

***

 

Perhaps because she was a witness, Sara didn't bother holding Serg back—or more accurately, she couldn't be bothered to care what Serg did.

 

Once the meeting concluded, Serg stood to leave, determined to handle the more pressing matter. He knew Shuai Zhaomin didn't truly want to give up, no matter what he said. Otherwise, he wouldn't have agreed to this in the first place.

 

Deceiving oneself and others. Serg smiled bitterly but kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he decided to discreetly steer things toward the outcome Shuai Zhaomin claimed to want. Tengshe would undoubtedly expect him to take action.

 

Sure enough, as soon as Serg stepped out of the room, a towering figure called out to him. Turning back, Serg greeted that rugged face of his with a polite smile. "Mr. Brelini, what can I do for you?"

 

For Shuai Zhaomin's sake, Serg had made an effort to learn Chinese. It was a beautiful yet notoriously challenging language, but mastering it brought him joy—like sharing a secret world with Shuai Zhaomin. Of course, that was nothing more than his own wishful thinking.

 

"I'm guessing Mr. Muhammad is planning to play as well, hmm?" Tengshe sauntered over, draping an arm casually around the boy shoulders. Sara, standing nearby, watched them warily, her eyes narrowing as the two men exchanged words in a language she couldn't understand.

 

"It's not a game." For Serg, it was something far more important.

 

The man shrugged, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The boy promptly struck a match to light it. "Mr. Mohammed, do you enjoy glass art? Italy has a long-standing tradition of exquisite glass craftsmanship, far superior to the mass-produced, inferior goods from the United States. You should take the opportunity to see it."

 

"Thank you for the suggestion. I'll visit if I have time." Though he remained skeptical of Tengshe's underlying intent, Serg maintained his composure, responding with a warm smile.

 

"There's no time like the present. A friend of mine—one of Italy's premier glass artists—is currently holding an exhibition here in the U.S. You should go; it'll be a worthwhile experience." Tengshe's reddish-brown eyes crinkled into a smile, but the malice lurking within their depths was impossible to miss. It was the kind of unfiltered hostility that would send chills down one's spine.

 

Serg's elegant brows furrowed slightly, but his inherently mild temperament kept him from showing his displeasure. He nodded politely. "All right, I'll make time to visit. Thank you, Mr. Brelini, for the information."

 

"The sooner, the better. It'll be far more productive than wracking your brain in front of a computer." Tengshe's low chuckle was velvety and pleasant, yet it crawled across one's nerves like a serpent, leaving a faint tremor in its wake.

 

"Mr. Brelini, I'm sorry, but I'm not quite following your meaning…" Serg hesitated. Could Tengshe really know about his private endeavors, or was it just a casual remark?

 

With a slight lift of his chin, Brelini gestured, and Fitch immediately handed over a business card, presenting it with swift politeness.

 

Startled, Serg hesitated before reaching out to accept it. The card was simple yet refined—ivory white, embossed with intricate floral patterns surrounding a single name: Taotie Brelini.

 

His beautiful eyes widened in shock, the long lashes trembling slightly as he stared at Tengshe's grinning face in disbelief. "Why… why would you…"

 

He couldn't understand this man—couldn't begin to.

 

"Mr. Mohammed, I wish you the best of luck." Tengshe waved nonchalantly, slinging an arm around the boy and strolling away.

 

Even after returning home, Serg still couldn't fathom Tengshe's motives. Why give him a lead? Was it to sabotage Shuai Zhaomin? Yet Tengshe seemed to have some interest in Shuai Zhaomin himself.

 

Otherwise, why provoke him? Why cling to him so persistently? Why go to such lengths to manipulate him?

 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Serg couldn't sleep a wink. By morning, his eyes stung with exhaustion. The warm sunlight streaming through the window only made him feel worse. With just a few hours until his store opened, he rubbed his nose bridge and rose, feeling slightly dizzy. The business card slipped from his hand, landing on the floor.

 

Taotie… What a strange name. And yet, it suited that boy with his expression so cold it seemed hollow. Fiery red hair, diaphanous skin, and those emerald-green eyes…

 

The information Serg had been able to gather on Taotie was scant, almost as if he were a shadow. Sighing, Serg tucked the card into his pocket and headed downstairs to open the shop a little earlier than usual.

 

As if on cue, the bell over the door jingled crisply right at the usual opening time. The sound made Serg's temples throb. At his age, even staying up for just one or two hours was punishing. He really should've rested, even for a bit.

 

"Good morning! Sorry, am I too early?" A lively voice greeted him, perfectly suited to the morning sunlight. Chestnut-brown hair caught the light, shimmering with soft, golden highlights.

 

"Good morning." Serg returned the greeting with a gentle smile. He couldn't deny his surprise at the young man's visit. Despite their conversation the day before, he hadn't expected him to show up so early.

 

"The cookies I brought home yesterday were amazing! My boss really wants to try your toasted sandwiches, so here I am." The youth practically danced over to the counter, his blue eyes twinkling as they met Serg's darker gaze. "How's your hand? I've been worried since I left yesterday. Your friend doesn't seem very… friendly."

 

"We're not friends," Serg corrected softly. To be honest, he didn't like any of the Brelini family.

 

"Is that so?" The young man nodded, not pressing further. Instead, he leaned against the counter, craning his neck slightly as though to check on Serg's hand.

 

"I'm fine. Would you like to see?" Serg couldn't help chuckling. The young man's behavior, reminiscent of a curious and eager puppy, wasn't annoying at all—in fact, it made Serg want to ruffle his chestnut hair.

 

"Ah, sorry! My boss always says I'm too nosy, meddling in things I shouldn't and overestimating my abilities." The youth stuck out his tongue playfully, but then, with surprising boldness, gently picked up Serg's hand resting on the counter. His blue eyes narrowed as he inspected the neatly bandaged fingers.

 

Of course, the wound itself was hidden beneath the gauze. Shuai Zhaomin, who often got injured in fights, had honed his bandaging skills to perfection. The clean, precise wrapping left no signs of swelling or discomfort.

 

"Am I troubling you by coming so early? Your hand's still injured, after all." Though he held Serg's hand, it wasn't a forceful grip, nor did it feel invasive.

 

"Not at all. I did promise to let you try the toast today. One serving or two?" Serg didn't pull his hand back and didn't feel awkward, either. The youth had an easy, natural warmth that made people feel comfortable. His palm's steady warmth was, in fact, soothing.

 

He reminded Serg of a dog he'd once had—those innocent, curious, yet mischievous eyes, coupled with dark, tousled fur that seemed to bounce with endless energy.

 

"Two servings! One for me to eat here—goat cheese with smoked chicken—and another veggie combo for the boss. He's a vegetarian, though he does eat eggs and dairy." The youth grinned sheepishly, sticking out his tongue as if confessing to a crime. It seemed he'd been suppressing his cravings for the sake of his boss.

 

"Got it. Is it okay if I add a bit of cheese to the veggie combo?" Serg asked, already planning the preparation in his mind. Though his finger still stung slightly, it wouldn't hinder his work. Only washing vegetables posed a small challenge.

 

"I'll help you with that! You shouldn't get your injury wet for the next couple of days. Your fingers are so delicate—it'd be a shame to leave a scar." Without waiting for Serg's reply, the youth rolled up his sleeves and stepped behind the counter, picking up the basket of vegetables.

 

It was a little pushy, but not unpleasantly so. And he wasn't wrong—wetting the wound wasn't a good idea. Fingertip injuries had a way of sending sharp, nerve-rattling pain through one's body.

 

"Thank you. I'm sorry for troubling you." Serg stepped aside slightly to make room for him. The counter space was small, designed for one person, but the youth moved deftly, avoiding any unnecessary contact while respecting the space between them.

 

In no time, the vegetables were washed, and the youth naturally reached for a knife to start chopping. "Should I tear the lettuce leaves instead?"

 

Serg's eyes widened in surprise as he watched the youth work. The pile of vegetables—onion, bell pepper, tomato, and cucumber—was diced into neat, uniform pieces, each perfectly sized.

 

"You're very skilled with a knife…" That peculiar chill from the day before crept up Serg's spine again. He glanced at the youth but quickly averted his gaze.

 

He must have been overthinking. If this young man had any connection to the Brelini family, Sara would've recognized him yesterday. But the way she'd ignored him suggested they were mere strangers passing by.

 

"It's just a little skill I've picked up!" The youth's cheerful smile remained unchanged, his tone and demeanor as lighthearted as ever.

 

Perhaps it really was all in his head. Serg had been on edge from his dealings with the Brelini family these past few days, leaving his nerves frayed.

 

"I'll handle the lettuce, thank you. Would you like an espresso?"

 

"That would be great, thanks." The young man nodded happily and stepped away from the work area.

 

Seated at the counter, he hummed a tune as he waited. His blue eyes glanced at Serg occasionally—not enough to feel intrusive, but noticeable enough to be felt.

 

The atmosphere was subtle, a blend of lightheartedness tinged with faint tension. Serg didn't mind the young man's humming—it was a beautiful Italian folk song. Yet, his recent encounters with Italians had been anything but pleasant.

 

"May I ask your name?"

 

"Oh? Of course. Vito Giovanni." The name was unassuming, yet it struck a chord of familiarity within Serg.

 

"Mr. Giovanni…" He was certain he had recently come across a similar name, but he couldn't recall where.

 

The young man interrupted him with a bright laugh. "Just call me Vito, Mr. Sergi bin Lama Muhammad."

 

Hearing his full name, Serg stiffened. A chill ran through his body as though he'd been submerged in icy water. He couldn't even muster the strength to look up at Vito. How did he know his name?

 

"Apologies. Yesterday, I saw Miss Sara in the shop, so I looked into you." Vito's tone carried an apologetic sincerity, but Serg's body started trembling uncontrollably.

 

"Why…" He didn't know what to ask, his luxurious dark eyes meeting Vito's bright blue gaze in confusion.

 

"It seems you're trying to find my master, regarding a certain… game." Vito brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Though his expression remained cheerful, a shadow of something darker lingered beneath.

 

"No, this isn't a game." Serg finally remembered where he'd seen the name—articles in art magazines and newspapers recently featured a glass art exhibition by a young Italian artist: Vito Giovanni.

 

"Your master is…" Bitterness clung to his throat, and Serg almost couldn't utter the name.

 

"Taotie Brelini."

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