Chapter 16.1

At that moment, countless thoughts raced through Mo Zimu’s mind, but none of them offered a perfect solution to deal with Ivan.

He suddenly realized how little he truly knew about this potentially formidable enemy. Without enough understanding, he couldn’t devise an immediate countermeasure.

When he looked up, he was startled to find Ivan standing alarmingly close. Instinctively, he recoiled, but Ivan seized his wrist, halting his retreat.

“Don’t be afraid, Seven. I’ll keep your secret,” Ivan said softly. His usual playful gaze carried an unexpected tenderness that left Mo Zimu momentarily stunned.

But he quickly snapped out of it.

To him, tenderness was a trap. A pit he had fallen into before, one he would never trust again. Especially not with someone like Ivan, whose every action was calculated, always seeking something in return.

For a fleeting moment, Ivan felt as if he had gotten closer to Mo Zimu, only to have the distance between them widen again just as quickly.

Even someone as carefree as him couldn’t help but sigh inwardly. Still, he smiled and said, “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be doing things like this.”

He gently stroked Mo Zimu’s slender fingers and continued, “You should be in a quiet house, writing music and playing the piano, with the Danube flowing by your doorstep and fresh flowers blooming inside your room. Digging tunnels all over Mammon doesn’t really suit you.”

Mo Zimu’s face turned pale. “You can report me, but don’t think you can use this to threaten me.”

Ivan burst out laughing, raising his eyebrows as he replied with a smile. “Seven, have I ever threatened you?”

His expression seemed to remind Mo Zimu of how their relationship had started. How he had hung that sheet as a signal, how he had said he wanted to be Ivan’s partner, and how he had claimed they were lovers. None of it had been voluntary, but he had spoken those words of his own accord, without any overt coercion from Ivan.

Mo Zimu pressed his lips tightly together until they formed a thin line, adding a touch of firmness to his otherwise youthful features. He didn’t argue. He knew that when it came to shamelessness, he was no match for this natural-born scoundrel.

Ivan’s tone softened as he added, “Sweetheart, once you say ‘start,’ you can’t just say ‘stop.’ As long as I haven’t let you go, you belong to me I have the right to enjoy your body, and so do you. I can interfere in your private matters, and so can you. But we’re not equals. I have an obligation to ensure your safety and take care of your life.”

Mo Zimu remained silent for a moment before speaking flatly, “If I can interfere in all your private matters, then tell me, when is the prison riot planned?”

Ivan smiled faintly.

In many ways, Mo Zimu was completely different from him, yet in certain aspects, they were strikingly similar. Both were meticulous and unwilling to fixate on short-term gains or losses.

“This isn’t a private matter,” Ivan replied with a smile. “But since you’re so good at asking the right questions, I’ll tell you this. So long as you don’t act rashly, I’ll protect you.”

A prison guard approached, and Ivan stood up. He glanced at Mo Zimu before turning away. “I have some matters to attend to.”

The cell door unlocked with a metallic click, and Ivan stepped out, following the guard down the corridor.

Mo Zimu leaned against the bars, his eyes half-lidded.

As their footsteps faded into the distance, a faint smile played on his lips.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, the expression beneath his long lashes turning cold.

11:35

Berrick arrived, his expression slightly complicated as he glanced at Mo Zimu. Unlocking the cell, he said, “Kid, Duke Donald wants to see you.”

Mo Zimu stood up from the bed and followed Berrick out of the main block to the visitors’ room.

Mammon was an aging, decayed prison, its walls steeped in the remnants of a brutal past. Violence and bloodshed were routine, the food barely edible, and the visitor rooms separated by wire mesh. On the other side of the barrier, Donald sat with effortless elegance, his posture relaxed but composed.

Mo Zimu walked to the seat opposite him and sat down.

Donald smiled warmly. “Seven, it’s been a while.”

Mo Zimu responded flatly, “I didn’t want to see you.”

Donald sighed softly. “Seven, you’re still the same. After half a year in prison, I thought the sharp edges of your arrogance would have worn down by now.”

“I’m just stating the truth,” Mo Zimu said, his gaze avoiding Donald’s eyes. Instead, he focused on Donald’s hands, particularly the black ring on his finger.

That hand brought back memories he would rather forget.

It was the same hand that had lifted his barely conscious body onto that cursed antique bed. The same hand that had pinned him down in the visitation room and assaulted him. Now it tapped leisurely on the table, a silent display of control and superiority. Its owner, seated comfortably, spoke as if passing judgment on Mo Zimu’s supposed lack of compliance.

Something burned inside him. Anger, defiance, and hatred merged into a fire that refused to be extinguished. Slowly, he lifted his head and met Donald’s gaze head-on.

Like any child who grew up without a father, Mo Zimu had once fantasized about having a heroic and invincible father. That idealized image had always shone brightly in his mind, making it impossible for him to confront Donald directly.

He feared facing this man who had treated him as a mere object for his desires, a man who had not only violated him but had also joined forces with his half-brother to further humiliate him.

As Mo Zimu looked at him now, he finally understood why Donald had always been able to do whatever he wanted to him while he had been too afraid to even meet his gaze.

In his eyes, Donald was his biological father, a reality he could not escape. But in Donald’s eyes, he was never anything more than a byproduct of a sperm donation, a child he refused to acknowledge.

Mo Zimu smiled faintly.

Donald felt a slight stir in his heart. To him, Seven had initially been a beautiful boy he desired to possess. Sexy, elegant, and charismatic.

Among the aristocracy, decadent indulgences were common. Sharing a supermodel, a handsome actor, or even a high-society debutante with Kiefer was nothing unusual.

When Kiefer noticed his interest in Seven, he went to great lengths to bring the boy to him, naturally leading to a threesome.

Yet, when he saw Kiefer on top of Seven that night, an indescribable feeling welled up within him. It felt as though something precious had been tainted.

That unease lingered, so much so that he left the room as soon as the act was over.

The next morning, when the kid calmly pulled the trigger and shot him, Donald’s first reaction wasn’t pain or anger. It was exhilaration, as if he were reliving the thrill of first love.

Now, he finally understood why he had been drawn to the boy at first sight. Seven was a paradox, embodying qualities that seemed at odds with one another. He was both sexy and innocent, serene yet dynamic, righteous yet laced with a hint of danger.

That faint trace of wickedness was what captivated Donald, giving the angelic figure an edge that made him unforgettable.

It was the same allure now reflected in Mo Zimu’s subtle smile.

He had always been a temptation to Donald, keeping him in a state of constant unease and desire.

Over time, he found himself becoming more attached to the boy, feeling as though he were falling in love. Despite Norton frequently disrupting their weekend meetings, Donald couldn’t stop himself from dropping everything to visit the Caribbean prison every week.

“Seven,” Donald said, leaning closer to the wire mesh. “Staying by my side isn’t as difficult as you imagine. It would certainly be far better than your current situation.” He paused, noting the faint smile on the boy’s face. “If you weren’t truly desperate, you wouldn’t have sent that guard to ask me for fifty thousand dollars. But in this prison, fifty thousand is just the beginning. What will you do the next time, and the time after that?”

“Donald,” Mo Zimu replied calmly, “I heard you enjoy collecting things.”

“I do,” Donald said, a hint of pride in his tone. “I can confidently say I’m one of the top five collectors in Europe, perhaps even the world.”

He was intrigued by the seemingly unrelated question but pleased that Mo Zimu had broached one of his favorite topics.

“There’s a rumor you own a statue of Mithras,” Mo Zimu remarked.

Donald smiled. “Indeed, I do. The Light Bearer’s statue isn’t just a rumor. It’s an artifact from Pergamon, far older than the Roman versions housed in the British Museum.”

“And when the British Museum tried to borrow it, why did you refuse?” Mo Zimu asked, his tone calm and direct.

Donald’s smile faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Mo Zimu. The boy’s inquiry wasn’t as innocent as it seemed.

“The God of Light… Mithras certainly belongs in a cave,” he said with a smile. “Such a precious artifact deserves proper preservation.” His emerald green eyes studied Mo Zimu curiously. “Why are you so interested in this statue?”

“I admire its symbolism,” Mo Zimu replied flatly, though inwardly he recalled how this man had completely forgotten the time he had brought Li Mo to view his Mithras collection.

It was in that dimly lit, yet dazzling, chamber that Donald had first had his way with her.

“Seven, you do have good taste. Receiving the God of Light’s favor is the path to status and prestige. I hope your good judgment leads you to make the right choices.”

Mo Zimu didn’t respond, remaining silent.

Li Mo had once described the statue to him in vivid detail. “He holds a sword and leaps onto the back of a bull, driving his blade deep into its neck. Blood spills instantly, yet as he looks back, his expression remains calm. People say the blood of the bull Mithras slew brings new life. I used to think that if I could be reborn, I would want to look like Mithras. Seven, just look at yourself. You are just as handsome as he is.”

Donald’s voice broke through Mo Zimu’s reverie. “If you like it, I can leave it to you in my will.”

Mo Zimu smiled faintly. “You’re very generous. But while you’re alive, what could I possibly offer to exchange for such a posthumous gift?”

Donald rested his well-manicured left hand on his right, his tone deep. “Seven, think about it. If you stay by my side, I can make you my primary heir. I’m not the type to flaunt my wealth, but if you were my heir, you’d have three castles, countless priceless jewels, and a collection worth billions of pounds.”

“You’re truly wealthy…” Mo Zimu sighed softly. In his mind, flashes of his and Li Mo’s struggles to survive surfaced. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Your offer is tempting, but to me, it’s still uncertain.”

Donald leaned forward slightly, a hint of urgency in his tone. “Seven, I’m serious.”

Mo Zimu replied, “How about this? Lend the statue to the British Museum under my name.”

Donald hesitated briefly, then smiled. “That’s not a difficult request. I’ll have someone contact the British Museum immediately. They’ll be thrilled.”

“I want you to personally escort it there,” Mo Zimu added calmly. “And by this weekend, I want to hear news of its display at the museum.”

Donald frowned slightly but agreed. “Fine.”

Mo Zimu stood up. “One more thing. I need some money.”

“How much?” Donald smiled, his unease easing slightly.

Like all wealthy people, he believed in the power of money. Even someone like Seven, he thought, would eventually yield to its influence.

“How much do you have?” Mo Zimu asked, his hands folded on the table, appearing slightly uneasy.

Donald took out his wallet and pulled out all the cash inside, handing it over to Mo Zimu.

Mo Zimu accepted it, murmuring, “Thank you.” He then stood, preparing to leave.

“Seven,” Donald called out, crossing his arms. “I’ll come back to talk to you this Sunday.”

Mo Zimu’s eyes flickered briefly before he replied, “Suit yourself.”

Donald watched as Mo Zimu’s figure disappeared through the doorway. Picking up his phone as he exited, he made a call.

When the recipient heard Donald’s request to ship a priceless Mithras statue worth millions of pounds to the British Museum in London at his own expense, they couldn’t help but exclaim, “Father, why are you doing this?”

Donald frowned. “Kiefer, just do as I say. Get the statue ready. I’ll arrange a flight back.”

He ended the call and dialed another number. “Get me someone who can keep me updated on Seven’s every move inside the prison.” After a pause, he added, “Also, notify Johnson. I need to amend my will… Yes, he agreed to talk, but I think he’s just humoring me. This boy thinks differently from everyone else.”

With his calls finished, Donald began the trek down Mammon’s rugged mountain path.

As he walked behind his bodyguards, his perfectly pressed trousers and polished shoes were soon stained with mud from the prison’s treacherous trail.

He took a deep breath, telling himself that it wouldn’t be long before he would never have to climb this cursed mountain again.