Chapter 15.2

Berrick leaned against the wire fence, chatting with the prison doctor, Mike.

As Mo Zimu approached, Berrick cast him a cold glance. There was something about Mo Zimu that he instinctively disliked. To him, Mo Zimu was like a fish when he wanted a meaty bone. No matter how exquisite, it wasn’t to his taste and never would be.

“Boss, I need to talk to you,” Mo Zimu said.

Mike glanced at Mo Zimu while Berrick replied lazily, “Go on, Master Seven. What do you need now? Didn’t Ivan satisfy you yesterday?”

He burst into laughter at his own crude joke.

Mo Zimu paused for a moment before saying, “Chief Adolf isn’t here. There’s something I need to consult you about Hunter Night.”

Berrick’s eyes flickered. “Alright, alright, no rest for the wicked. Mike, we’ll talk another time.”

Mo Zimu and Berrick walked along the wire fence. He could sense Mike’s gaze lingering on his back as they moved away.

“Speak!” Berrick said, tapping his baton against the wire fence.

“I want to buy tonight’s names,” Mo Zimu said directly.

Berrick smirked. “Seven, tonight’s not your turn.”

“I’m buying for Jack, Tom, and Tommy.”

Berrick wasn’t always presented with such profitable opportunities. While money flowed easily in Mammon, most of it ended up in Norton’s or Adolf’s pockets.

“That’ll be fifty thousand dollars,” Berrick said slowly, studying Mo Zimu with a calculating gaze.

“Fine!” Mo Zimu agreed, showing no concern over the inflated price.

Berrick sneered. “Seven, I don’t accept blank checks.”

Mo Zimu smiled faintly. “There’s someone who will pay you.”

“Who?”

“Donald.”

“Duke Donald?” He blurted out.

“Yes.” Mo Zimu’s gaze remained fixed on the wire fence.

Berrick’s horse-like eyes flashed with mockery. “Seven, you’re quite the noble hero. So, when should I arrange for you to spend the night with the Duke?”

Mo Zimu replied flatly, “A hundred thousand dollars is the price for spending the night. Tell Donald, fifty thousand dollars, and I’ll wait for him in the visiting room.”

Berrick burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as he gasped, “Fifty thousand for just talking to you? You really think highly of yourself, Seven.”

Mo Zimu gazed into the distance, seemingly unbothered by the sarcasm in Berrick’s tone. His voice remained calm as he said, “Boss, that depends on what Donald thinks. Why not give it a try? Fifty thousand dollars is about the same as your annual salary, right?”

The understated tone seemed to strike a nerve with Berrick. He shoved Mo Zimu against the wire fence, pressing him hard. “Kid, are you trying to make me look like a fool in front of Duke Donald?”

Mo Zimu struggled to speak. “If making a fool of myself could earn me fifty thousand dollars, I wouldn’t mind. If it were Chief Adolf… I doubt he’d miss such an opportunity.”

“Don’t compare me to him!” Berrick snarled and released Mo Zimu roughly.

Rubbing his neck slightly, Mo Zimu added, “Boss, make the call quickly. Tell Donald that if the money doesn’t arrive today, the deal is off.”

Berrick seemed swayed by Mo Zimu’s confidence. Fifty thousand dollars was no small amount, after all. “Kid, you better deliver on this, or I’ll make you understand what it feels like to be a drowning rat!” he growled before storming off.

Mo Zimu watched Berrick’s hurried departure and pulled out the pocket watch.

It was already 10:45 a.m.

His gaze shifted and spotted Mike still lingering near the same spot, leaning against the wire fence.

Mo Zimu tucked the watch away and headed toward him.

10:46

“Hi!”

“Hi,” Mike turned his head with a smile. “Not many people have the luxury of taking strolls today.”

“Were you waiting for me?” Mo Zimu asked nonchalantly.

Mike chuckled. “I was wondering why you dared to provoke Geoffrey. Turns out you have the Bonanno family backing you. But, Seven, Geoffrey is a very serious man. Whether he loves someone or hates them, he always goes all in.”

Mo Zimu turned his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. It was a gesture of near disdain, but in Mike’s eyes, it carried a kind of quiet shock.

In Mammon, respect for power was ingrained as second nature for people like Mike. He had never imagined someone would face Geoffrey’s influence with such a lazy and dismissive expression.

“He’s always been like this. Too fixated on details,” Mo Zimu said lightly. “Pity it’s all for nothing.”

Mike looked slightly awkward. “You seem a bit disappointed about not participating in Hunter Night.”

“What difference does it make?” Mo Zimu replied. “Even if Geoffrey faces me again, he still won’t gain anything.”

Mike frowned slightly. In his impression, Mo Zimu wasn’t someone who was blindly overconfident or reckless.

Yet Mo Zimu continued calmly, “It’s a pity I was reassigned to a different block. Otherwise, even if I had to take along a fat guy, a cripple, and a coward, he still wouldn’t beat me.”

“Do you really think so?” A cold voice interrupted.

Mo Zimu turned around. On the other side of the wire fence stood a strikingly handsome young man.

The young man approached, his pale golden eyes glaring intensely at him.

Mo Zimu remained composed, his expression unbothered.

The young man grasped the fence with one hand, his slender fingers clutching the metal tightly. His gaze fell on Mo Zimu’s slightly delicate wrist, and for some reason, a strange feeling stirred in his chest.

But Mo Zimu spoke again, his tone calm and unshaken. “Yes, that’s exactly what I think. Competing with you has never been fair. In school, you attended a prestigious academy where your father was on the board. When playing the violin, you used a Stradivarius. In Hunter Night, you played the hunter with state-of-the-art weapons. Tell me, which of these games have you ever truly won against me?”

Geoffrey stared at Mo Zimu, anger bubbling within him, but the words wouldn’t come out. Mo Zimu had hit a nerve. He had always been exceptional in everything he did, yet whenever he faced Mo Zimu, he was always one step behind, unable to surpass him.

He stepped closer, his hand tightening on the fence as he rasped, “So you do recognize me, Seven.”

“What difference does it make?” Mo Zimu said indifferently. “Let’s make a bet, Geoffrey.”

“How do we bet?” Geoffrey asked coldly, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. Mo Zimu’s icy and dismissive attitude had completely infuriated him. This was the person he had always sought to surpass, crush, and possess, and now, more than anything, he wanted to bend him to his will, to tear him apart piece by piece.

“Next weekend, I’ll bring people from C Block, Cell 204, and you’ll bring your… friends. We’ll play another round of Hunter. If you win, you take my life. But if I win… if I manage to survive until the dawn after that night…”

“And?” Geoffrey pressed, his voice still icy.

Mo Zimu said calmly, “From that day forward, no matter which city I’m in, you will not step foot there. If you happen to be there, you must leave immediately. Call it ‘fleeing a hundred miles at the first sign of me,’ if you like.”

Geoffroy felt a sharp, inexplicable pain in his chest. He was momentarily speechless.

Mo Zimu raised an eyebrow, his tone casual but mocking. “What’s the matter? Afraid? Scared you’ll lose?”

The words barely left Mo Zimu’s mouth before Geoffroy clenched his teeth and snapped, “It’s a deal!”

Mo Zimu said nothing more. He turned and walked away without a backward glance.

Geoffrey’s eyes remained fixed on his slowly retreating figure. Mike, standing nearby, noticed the slight tremor in Geoffrey’s hand as it gripped the wire fence.

He sighed softly.

Love is a strange thing. Some hide it out of fear that others might see it, while some hide it out of fear that others might not. But in the end, love follows neither the logic of emotions nor the laws of the physical world.

It does not bend to human will, nor does it obey the law of conservation of matter. One person’s loss is not necessarily another’s gain.

—

11:00 a.m.

The bell signaling the end of free time rang, and the library emptied as prisoners poured out, their voices blending into the dull hum of the corridors. Mo Zimu moved with the crowd, his pace unhurried, his mind elsewhere.

As he neared Ivan’s cell, he hesitated. His breath hitched slightly, but it wasn’t just nerves that made him pause. It was the aroma wafting through the air.

A rich, savory scent curled around him, teasing his senses. Before he could think twice, his feet carried him forward.

Inside, Ivan sat comfortably, his expression warm, a quiet amusement flickering in his eyes as he watched Mo Zimu step in. On the table in front of him, steam curled lazily from a box of freshly made soup dumplings.

“Come on, have some,” Ivan said, his voice smooth, his smile patient. He wasn’t one to fuss over small things with a kid.

Mo Zimu sat down, though he instinctively nudged his chair just a little farther from Ivan.

His fingers tightened around the chopsticks as he reached forward. But instead of eating, he merely prodded a dumpling, watching the skin dimple beneath the pressure.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked, feigning politeness while secretly harboring ill intent. He wanted to see this mafia man burn his mouth on the hot broth or have the soup splash messily onto his face.

Ivan smiled faintly, effortlessly picking up a dumpling with his chopsticks. He placed it on his plate, bit into the tip, sucked out the broth, dipped the dumpling in vinegar, and then popped it into his mouth. Chewing contentedly, he nodded. “Without a proper steamer, the skin loses some of its elasticity.”

“You made these?” Mo Zimu asked, somewhat incredulous.

Noting his surprise, Ivan shrugged with a smile. “I was already tall at eight years old and worked in a Chinese restaurant for three years. By the time I left, the chef had nothing left to teach me.”

Mo Zimu said nothing more and started eating.

Despite his many skills, cooking was not one of them. He had inherited Li Mo’s musical talent, but unfortunately, he had also inherited her atrocious cooking skills.

The years he and his mother spent together had been filled with meals that were either half-raw or burnt.

He could make soup dumplings, but never with such thin, delicate skin and juicy fillings as these.

Silently, he finished the last dumpling, then lay down on one side of the bed, facing the wall. Whether it was his own appetite or his lack of culinary skill that unsettled him, even he wasn’t sure.

He pressed himself against the wall, leaving most of Ivan’s spacious, custom-made prison bed unoccupied. Curling his legs together and burying his head in his arms, he closed himself off.

Ivan chuckled softly and spoke in a calm voice. “Let’s talk, Seven.”

He had been full of surprises today. Until now, Mo Zimu had thought Ivan only ever said things like, “Seven, get in bed.”

The next sentence, however, proved he hadn’t entirely changed. “Do you still enjoy being in bed with me?”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath.

He knew that if he answered “no,” Ivan would waste no time pressing him into the mattress to prove otherwise. Instead, he replied coolly, “It’s alright.”

Ivan chuckled again. “That’s great to hear. I have no objection to you continuing your studies. During vacations, I want you to stay in New York, or we can agree on a different destination. While you’re studying, I will make time to visit you at least twice a month. I also have a villa in Austria where I would like you to stay. Everything will be arranged for you. Your meals, clothing, and accommodations will all be taken care of.”

Mo Zimu sat up abruptly, his expression incredulous. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

Ivan’s deep-set eyes glimmered with amusement. “I’m talking about our future life together, baby.”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath, then burst into laughter.

“Ivan, did your Chinese mentor ever tell you that you overthink everything? When you were learning to make Chinese pastries, did you ever imagine you’d end up making a living as a gangster rather than a pastry chef?”

Ivan’s heavy eyelids lowered slightly, “When we’re together, I’ll handle all the cooking. Of course, you won’t get to do nothing. You can play the violin for me. Then, we’ll take walks along the Danube. I’ve heard Vienna’s scenery is beautiful, especially at dusk. We can stroll along the riverside paths.”

Mo Zimu’s smile faded slightly.

The mention of Vienna stirred memories. The narrow riverside paths, packed with tourists, had forced them to walk in single file. Rong Qing always walked ahead, his figure framed by the bridges arching over the emerald-green water. Mo Zimu had followed close behind, keeping just near enough to brush against him, yet holding his breath as if afraid to be noticed.

Those once-precious memories resurfaced, bringing a pain so sharp it felt like it would steal his breath away.

“Stop it!” Mo Zimu suddenly shouted. “In my life plan, the only intersection with you ends here, in Mammon.”

Ivan was silent for a moment before a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Is that so? Then it looks like your life plan might need some adjustments.”

He leaned back slightly, his voice calm but laced with amusement. “Do you really think that with a handful of incompetent cellmates devoted to you and a single tunnel leading to D Block, you can escape Mammon?”