Chapter 48 - Parallel Lines

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Chapter 48

 

 

In the end, he couldn't make it to see Tengshe off.

 

No heir had ever left their Italian home. No matter how fierce they acted outside, members of the mafia were often deeply attached to their roots, with a strong sense of territoriality.

 

He was no exception, and Tengshe even more so. He knew well that the young man rarely used anything not made in Italy. The things he liked were all distinctly Italian—except for literature.

 

Tengshe's decision to go to America for his studies was nothing short of a shockwave. It seemed Grandpa intended to keep it under wraps until the last moment, but Tengshe had nonchalantly exposed it during a family meeting.

 

With a smile as poisonous as venom, his beautiful face bore a dense, malicious aura. His eyes, the same shade as Grandpa's, stared at him with open provocation.

 

Naturally, chaos ensued. In an instant, everyone's previously relaxed postures tightened. To his left sat Migu, and to his right, Grandpa. Tengshe had always sat at Grandpa's right since he was a child.

 

"Grandpa, what's going on here?" The elder of the family frowned, his disapproval evident. Though he only whispered his dissent, the first to voice the question aloud was the ever-composed and elegant Qingji.

 

He wasn't surprised. Migu blinked her large, watery eyes, wearing an expression of disbelief. He reached over to gently close her gaping mouth.

 

"Tengshe wants to broaden his horizons. The Chulun family happens to need our assistance. Is there any issue with that?" Grandpa's gentle smile and soft gaze made Qingji shrink back ever so slightly.

 

"I don't agree with this." Taking a deep breath, Qingji didn't back down. Instead, he deliberately emphasized every word.

 

"Qingji, you're a smart boy. You've never needed Grandpa to remind you of what should and shouldn't be said, right?" Grandpa's words were always light and warm, but no one dared to respond—except for Uncle Alexander and Tengshe.

 

Qingji's lips twisted. His arched brows knitted together as he cast a cold glare at Tengshe, who was smiling mischievously by Grandpa's side, and muttered a curse under his breath.

 

"Yes, I'm sorry."

 

Grandpa nodded kindly to Qingji, then shifted his gaze to Tengshe. Within that softness, Taotie knew he saw something different.

 

Tengshe seemed to notice too. His eyes, the same shade as Grandpa's, lowered, and his long lashes trembled with each breath.

 

"Tengshe, we can't let people say Grandpa is biased toward you, can we?"

 

Tengshe shot a quick glance at Grandpa, then replied with a cheeky grin. "How could Grandpa be biased toward me? If Qingji wants to prove himself, he can also ask Grandpa to let him handle business matters in Moscow."

 

"You cheeky child..." Grandpa merely chuckled, shaking his head. He stroked Tengshe's cheek and sighed. "Six months, Tengshe. My dear grandson, you have only six months."

 

"To resolve the Chulun family's troubles?" The smile at Tengshe's lips faded slightly, but he still avoided meeting Grandpa's gaze.

 

"Yes. Grandpa believes in your abilities. Six months—beyond that, you must return to Italy and never leave again." Grandpa's aged but firm hand slid over Tengshe's cheek, brushing over some faint, hidden scars, before lifting his chin.

 

When their gazes met, Tengshe narrowed his eyes briefly but soon returned to his usual smile. "I bet Qingji is quite pleased."

 

"I am," Qingji retorted with a cold snort. His dark eyes flashed with anger, but outwardly, he remained impassive.

 

Taotie's gaze drifted between the two, but soon he turned his attention to the ceiling. It wasn't until Migu tugged on him that his vacant gray eyes returned to the conference table.

 

He thought to himself, Grandpa probably didn't truly want Tengshe to leave Italy. That's why he imposed the six-month condition.

 

The Canister family was not easy to handle, and there were also underlying conflicts between the Chulun and Brelini families... He glanced at Grandpa, who no longer seemed concerned with the matter, calmly discussing next month's business with the family executives.

 

Tengshe noticed his gaze and secretly made a funny face.

 

After the meeting, Tengshe, as usual, accompanied Grandpa as he left. The distance between them was always subtle, a gap Taotie often pondered upon—like a bridge half-built, not quite close, yet not entirely distant.

 

"Do you think Grandpa is biased too?" Qingji stood beside him. It was rare for him to initiate a conversation. Zhuque sat on the table nearby, swinging his legs. His slightly upturned eyes bore a beauty mark that stood out against his pale skin.

 

"No. I just wonder, if Grandpa didn't want it, why agree to it?" Taotie never erred in what should or shouldn't be said. He responded only after careful thought, his words slow and measured.

 

"Isn't that favoritism?" Qingji smirked. At twenty-one, he was already a fully matured man. His chocolate-colored skin bore a myriad of fine scars. Taotie found himself nostalgic for the days when Qingji was just a boy with an insatiable appetite.

 

"Qingji, it's too soon to treat Tengshe as an enemy."

 

At this, Qingji raised an elegant brow. He didn't deny it; instead, he smiled. "And what about you, Taotie? Have you never thought about taking Grandpa's place?"

 

The answer to this question was delicate. Taotie tilted his head, gray eyes locking onto Qingji's, meeting a gaze both mocking and provocative.

 

As a candidate for heir, Taotie couldn't claim he had never harbored ambition. Though he adopted a laissez-faire attitude, never actively striving or showing off, finding more joy in the glass workshop than in the family's schemes, the allure of becoming the family head wasn't without its pull.

 

"You're right. I have thought about it." His mouth craved movement. During meetings, he disciplined himself, but afterward, he always treated himself to a generous snack.

 

It seemed, however, that his conversation with Qingji would delay his indulgence a bit longer.

 

"Tengshe is leaving for America next week. Don't you see this as an opportunity?" Qingji licked his lips, a soft chuckle escaping his throat. "You know what I mean."

 

"If Grandfather finds out, it won't end well." Taotie knew Qingji's style all too well—there was only one thing he would do. He would secretly collude with the Canister family, sabotage Tengshe's mission, and in the end, turn on the Canisters themselves.

 

"Tengshe is not Uncle Alexander. Grandfather needs to accept that. Uncle is already dead." Qingji's lips twisted, his fist pounding against the conference table. Zhuque, who had been sitting on it, hopped down lightly, his round eyes filled with concern.

 

"Qingji, you could just tell Grandpa directly." There was a rare note of impatience in Taotie's voice, laced with the slightest hint of mischief He loved his family and hated hearing their gossip against one another.

 

Qingji could be angry, dissatisfied, even sabotage Tengshe—but he shouldn't drag their deceased elders into it.

 

Narrowing his dark eyes, Qingji slid his right hand into his pocket and shrugged. "Taotie, I will. One day, I'll tell Grandpa—but not now."

 

"Brother Qingji, I want to go home." Zhuque's pale hand, too slender for a sixteen-year-old boy, tugged coquettishly at Qingji's sleeve.

 

"Hmm? Are you feeling unwell?" At the sound, Taotie, who had been tense all this time, finally relaxed slightly. Qingji reached out, brushing a gentle hand against Zhuque's face, his voice unconsciously lowering.

 

"No, I'm fine. But I want to go home." Zhuque blinked slowly, his soft lips pouting.

 

"All right." Qingji hesitated, his dark gaze casting a faintly dissatisfied glare at Taotie before gripping Zhuque's cold little hand. "Taotie, will you see Tengshe off?"

 

"I will."

 

Hearing his answer, Qingji chuckled. "Life is always full of surprises. If you want to give Tengshe a gift, you'd better deliver it in the next couple of days."

 

"Are you declaring open war on me?" There was a trace of resignation in Taotie's voice, but he couldn't say he was surprised. He thought, perhaps Grandpa's real motive for letting Tengshe go to America was to force the candidates into an early conflict.

 

None of them were children anymore. Even the youngest, Sara, was already fourteen.

 

"No. Consider it my kindness."

 

Taotie watched as Qingji led Zhuque away. Just before they turned the corner, Zhuque glanced back, but his expression was too fleeting to grasp before the two vanished from sight.

 

In the end, he didn't make it in time to see Tengshe off.

 

The furnace had exploded unexpectedly. He'd been melting glass at the time, and by sheer luck, the molten glass and shards had spared his eyes. The remaining wounds would heal eventually... though it took six months of recovery.

 

Tengshe never returned from America. The gift he had intended to give was destroyed in the blast. As for Qingji, Grandpa had sent him to Moscow under the guise of handling business.

 

For the past eleven years, the six of them had never all been in the same country at the same time. Taotie had never left Italy; Migu roamed the world for work; Sara spent half the year in France; and only last year had Qingji moved back to Italy from Moscow.

 

What must come will always come—just as he had once told Tengshe, "One day, the six of us will clash over our respective stances."

 

But was this inevitable conflict truly theirs? Or was it Grandpa's will?

 

A tug on his arm snapped Taotie out of his daze. It was as if he had awoken from a dream, his gaze drifting from the ceiling back to the long table. Migu and her servants, along with Vito, were already gone. The room was filled with the sweet aroma of pastries and rich coffee.

 

Serg sat in the chair beside him, worry etched on his face. "Mr. Taotie, are you alright?"

 

Warmth, softness, sweetness… These were Taotie's first impressions of Serg. His beautiful face wasn't androgynous or overly feminine, yet there was no word other than "beautiful" to describe him. His milk-chocolate skin had a lush, velvety richness.

 

This must be what desire feels like. Taotie evaluated himself with a calm detachment. Though as a child, he often gnawed on his younger cousins' tiny hands, adulthood had taught him restraint.

 

Ah, children—so soft, so tender, so lovable.

 

"May I start?"

 

Serg blinked his dark eyes in surprise, a soft blush quickly spreading over his cheeks. He cleared his throat lightly. "Mr. Taotie, I must confess something to you."

 

"Hmm?" Taotie reached out, his fingers threading through Serg's fine black hair, combing through it repeatedly until his fingertips brushed against the young man's spine, hidden beneath the long strands.

 

Serg shivered but didn't pull away. His breathing merely grew a little unsteady.

 

His fingers continued their unhurried path, trailing over the delicate curve of Serg's back. His hair was so long that it spilled over the chair when he sat, pooling around him. As his fingertips grazed the sensitive dip of his lower back, he stopped—not pushing further, not withdrawing either. Just lingering, before repeating the motion once more.

 

"I... I'm not very...desireful about having sex." Serg bit his lip, apologetically and with a soft reticence.

 

"Don't worry. This isn't sex." Taotie leaned in, his lips pressing against Serg's temple, hidden beneath his hair. "Just rubbing against each other."

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