Chapter 26 - 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.

His homeland lay in the Middle East. Rather than a country, it was more fitting to call it a tribe. Like other Middle Eastern nations, its wealth stemmed from oil and precious metal mines.

 

His father had four wives and countless concubines. As the eldest legitimate son, Serg would one day inherit the tribe. Marrying numerous wives, fathering many children, and living a life of extravagance and pride amidst abundant wealth—like a frog at the bottom of a well, arrogant, detached, and self-assured.

 

It was terrifying, revolting, and utterly meaningless. So he chose to relinquish his claim to inheritance. After studying abroad in America, he decided never to return.

 

Everyone knew he was gentle and caring, without the slightest air of a prince or royal authority. Yet they also knew he was exceptionally stubborn—once he made a decision, he would not waver.

 

No one tried to dissuade him. Persuading him would be more troublesome than clashing with him directly, and besides, his father had no shortage of heirs.

 

Even so, he was still considered royalty. If his family found out he was offering himself as a bargaining chip, he could only imagine their expressions—but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't picture them clearly.

 

There was perhaps an element of self-destructiveness in this decision. Shuai Zhaomin had made things abundantly clear—they would always just be friends. Close friends. Cherished, irreplaceable friends...

 

He had once thought that was enough. But when someone capable of stirring Shuai Zhaomin's emotions appeared, he realized he wanted more.

 

Serg's elegant, beautiful black eyes were fixed on the red-haired man. The man's lips glistened faintly with the dressing from his toast, and his slow, deliberate movements—licking the sauce off his lips, chewing with a steady rhythm—carried an unintentional, subtle sensuality amidst the tension.

 

"Why should I agree?" Taotie's silvery-gray eyes blinked once, his calm response igniting a rare impatience in Serg.

 

A stone thrown into water should create ripples, a splash—but instead, his stone sank straight to the bottom, leaving no trace at all.

 

Serg bit his bottom lip and frowned slightly, his mind blank. The suffocating pressure left him unable to think clearly, to collect himself. He desperately needed breathing room, or at least some kind of reaction to guide him.

 

"Master, Mr. Muhammad is an excellent cook," Vito interjected, offering Serg a lifeline. Relieved, Serg smiled gratefully at the young man.

 

"Hmm." Taotie nodded slightly, licking his fingers, seemingly savoring the toast from earlier. "Are you offering your cooking skills as a trade?"

 

Serg froze for a moment, unprepared for such a question.

 

He was royalty, a man whose beauty could silence even the harshest critics. Many sought wealth and power from him; others desired his person. But… his cooking?

 

"If Mr. Taotie is willing," Serg said, his voice soft but steady. Despite the heavy air around him, he still smiled with his eyes.

 

"Hmm." Taotie nodded again and muttered something in Italian to Vito in a low voice. Vito nodded repeatedly, his sharp blue eyes occasionally darting toward Serg.

 

Not understanding Italian, Serg couldn't help but feel nervous. If he failed to seal the deal today, there would be no second chance.

 

The conversation didn't last long. Vito ended it with a laugh, while Taotie remained as composed as ever, his expression unreadable. Only the slight arch of his thick brows hinted at any emotion.

 

"Mr. Muhammad," Vito said, hopping over to Serg in a few light steps. "The master wants to know if you truly understand what you're offering."

 

Taotie had already turned back toward the small furnace.

 

"Yes, I understand," Serg replied. His voice was calm, though tinged with bitter resolve. "Zhaomin doesn't want to win, and Fitch doesn't want to lose. Someone has to do something."

 

"Master just told me that it's better for you to understand the nature of the relationship between Tengshe and Fitch. Your sacrifices may not hold the meaning you think they do." Vito boldly took hold of Serg's hand, the warmth of his palm as he grasped Serg's felt almost scalding.

 

Vito's blunt honesty made Serg want to retreat.

 

"Why do you say that?" Serg asked softly.

 

Vito's grip was firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure Serg couldn't pull away.

 

"Mr. Muhammad, isn't it safer to stay out of other people's affairs?" Vito's bright blue eyes sparkled mischievously as he tugged Serg to a chair near the door and motioned for him to sit, taking the seat opposite.

 

Serg felt utterly exposed, like his darker, more selfish thoughts had been seen through. Embarrassed, his face flushed red.

 

"That's not entirely true…" he murmured defensively, his gaze unconsciously drifting to the broad back of the man named Taotie. The thin T-shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his wide shoulders, accentuating every shift of muscle beneath.

 

They'd barely spoken for ten minutes, and yet Serg felt completely laid bare. A shiver ran through him. He finally understood why Tengshe had reacted so strongly upon hearing Taotie's name.

 

"Mr. Mohammed, do you dislike Master Tengshe?" Vito followed Serg's gaze, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Don't worry, the master doesn't mean to be offensive."

 

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what you're implying," Serg replied uneasily, brushing back the strands of black hair that had slipped over his chest. His long lashes cast shadows over his lowered gaze, obscuring the turmoil in his dark eyes.

 

"The master is like water," Vito said, his previously lively tone softening to something almost somber. Did he chuckle bitterly at the end? Serg couldn't be sure. "Mr. Mohammed, do you truly dislike Master Tengshe?"

 

Dislike him? Serg's black eyes reflected a flicker of confusion. He quickly glanced at Vito before looking away. He couldn't confidently say yes or no. His feelings were too muddled.

 

"Master Tengshe is waiting—waiting for the agreement to be broken, yet compelled to defend it all the same."

 

"I thought you two were enemies now." Serg was puzzled by how gently Vito spoke of Tengshe. Weren't they supposed to be rivals competing for the family's power?

 

"The old master hasn't given his command yet. We aren't enemies—not yet," Vito laughed, a lighthearted sound that couldn't entirely mask its underlying ferocity.

 

Serg sighed softly. The fight for succession was always cruel, a truth he both understood and detested.

 

"I don't want to know about Mr. Tengshe. If Mr. Taotie is willing to make a deal with me, I hope he'll let Fitch win the competition." He wasn't naïve enough to think his heart was soft enough to sympathize with or understand Tengshe. Even if it was only jealousy, he didn't want Shuai Zhaomin to have any involvement with Tengshe.

 

"The master is quite fond of your culinary skills. If it's not too much trouble, would you mind preparing some pastries? In three hours, it will be the master's lunch and rest period. He's been in a terrible mood lately due to the bland American cuisine." Having made his stance clear, Vito didn't waste time on pleasantries.

 

"Should I add some meat to your lunch, just for you?" Serg couldn't help but smile at the memory of Vito devouring smoked chicken and toast with such enthusiasm in the shop.

 

"Oh, really? Could you? I can't survive on just greens like the master does!" Vito's bright blue eyes sparkled as he clasped Serg's hand and shook it energetically. "Mr. Mohammed, please, no need for such formality! Just call me Vito."

 

Greens, huh? A soft, pleasant laugh slipped from Serg's lips, impossible to suppress. It seemed both Taotie and Vito had been suppressing their frustrations for quite a while.

 

"Then, please just call me Serg," he replied, watching Vito's tousled brown hair sway as he moved. Serg's fingers twitched, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it.

 

Even though this was a transaction, Serg thought he was rather lucky. If Shuai Zhaomin knew about this deal, how would he react? Would he rush over to take him away? Would he…

 

A dull ache pressed against his chest, so intense it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He shouldn't think about it anymore. He shouldn't.

 

***

 

His memories of his mother were of someone very Eastern, classical, and entirely out of place within their family. She wasn't the only foreign bride in the family—despite being an Italian mafia dynasty, intermarriage with foreigners was common.

 

But his mother was special: gentle, serene, and sorrowful. Her long black hair was always tied into a neat chignon, adorned with a single silver hairpin. The carved butterfly on it was inlaid with emeralds, delicate tassels swaying from its body.

 

That hairpin was her only accessory. She never changed it—not until the day she passed away. It was then carefully stored in her makeup box, later hidden in the bottom drawer of his father's study desk.

 

Black, white, and a hint of pink were her colors. Black hair and eyes, pale skin paired with white dresses, and soft pink lips that seemed to smile yet carried an air of melancholy.

 

Other than his hair color, he shared almost no resemblance with his mother. As a boy, he might have retained some of her delicate features, but as he grew older, he became the spitting image of his father.

 

After the brutal fight last night, Tengshe's face was swollen like an eggplant. A gash marked his forehead, a testament to the unforgiving hardness of marble.

 

A deep bruise darkened the bridge of his nose—two more punches, and it might have been broken. He studied his reflection in the mirror, twisting his split lip, the sharp sting sending a low, raspy chuckle from his throat.

 

If he had to put his emotions into a single word—satisfaction.

 

A cigarette clamped between his teeth, his left eye half-lidded from the swelling, while a thin cut extended from the corner of his right eye, curving downward like a smirking scar.

 

This face—neither his father's nor his mother's. The red-brown irises staring back at him belonged to his grandfather.

 

Lighting up the cigarette, he let the smoke curl against his chest before exhaling toward the mirror, obscuring his own image. Only then did he turn, smirking at the white-clad figure standing just outside the bathroom door.

 

"Sara, you're up early. Something on your mind?"

 

"Fitch's hand has been taken care of." Sara's violet eyes narrowed coolly as she shifted against the doorframe, finally crossing her arms. "What were you looking at?"

 

"Isn't it obvious?" Tengshe chuckled lowly, leaning lazily against the sink, tilting his head back to send another plume of smoke toward the ceiling. His mood was unmistakably good.

 

"Why keep Fitch at your side? There are better ways to care for him." Even mentioning the name seemed to disgust Sara. Her delicate brows twitched as she spat a quiet curse under her breath.

 

"Why do you hate him so much? My dear little sister, you weren't always like this." Tengshe's voice was devoid of surprise, his red-brown eyes tracing the dissipating smoke before him. Another laugh rumbled from his throat, low and unhurried.

 

"Do you actually like him?" Sara sneered, stepping forward abruptly and plucking the cigarette from Tengshe's lips. She placed it between her own, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke in his face. "Getting rid of him wouldn't be difficult. Grandfather wouldn't blame you."

 

"I made a promise to Father."

 

A solemn vow—slowly twisted over time.

 

His father had lain there, bleeding out over what had once been an ocean-blue bedspread, the vivid red soaking deep, warping the gentle hue into darkness. A gaping void, black and bottomless, swallowing the sunlight streaming through the window.

 

It hadn't mattered. Light would always be drained away eventually. Sooner or later.

 

A hand, slick with blood, clutched his tightly, as if he were the one who had killed him.

 

『B-Bude… Bude… Bu…』

 

Tengshe gave his head a small shake, casting off the echo of that long-forgotten name. Then, grinning, he turned to Sara. "Do you really think that lawyer seriously wants to win? Sara, you're still just a little girl."

 

"And you—do you truly want Fitch to win?" Snuffing out the cigarette in the sink, Sara scoffed before stepping even closer—so close that their body heat mingled "At the very least, he interests you."

 

"I have many interests," Tengshe murmured, voice playful. "Like why Zhuque made his move so soon. Why you knew he would. Why Taotie accepted the invitation to America."

 

With each question, he leaned in closer, until his breath skimmed the delicate curve of Sara's pale ear.

 

Her shoulders flinched slightly—but she didn't pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around him.

 

"She, come back to Italy with me. You've been gone too long. That promise—it's meaningless."

 

"Then break it," Tengshe whispered, lips brushing the slender column of her throat. His laughter vibrated against her skin. "Tear it apart, right from within my protection—from my own hands."

 

His mother had always been quiet, gentle, sorrowful. Sitting on the balcony—watching something in the distance.

 

That silver hairpin, so carefully hidden away in the depths of his father's study, had never been retrieved. Even after his father's passing, he had never found it again.

 

"She, I don't understand." Sara pushed away, violet eyes gleaming with the faintest trace of red.

 

Tengshe merely shrugged, the same ever-present smirk on his lips. "And I don't understand you, either. Why you sought out Shuai Zhaomin. Why you chose such... an adorable approach."

 

"I—"

 

"Master?" A soft, sugary voice interrupted her indignation.

 

Sara's expression twisted instantly in revulsion.

 

"Sara, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed again." Tengshe brushed his fingers over her lovely face before stretching his arms and stepping away from her side.

 

"Master! Y-Your face… Was it that lawyer?" Fitch's voice quivered with the hint of a sob, blending with Tengshe's careless, low laughter—until both dissolved into whispers.

Last Chapter | TOC | Next Chapter

 

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