Chapter 22.2

Mo Zimu sat outside a bar, enjoying the perfect weather. In this Drink Kingdom, the bar’s outdoor seating was nearly full, as the pleasant day drew Europeans who loved to bask in the sun, let the alcohol slowly settle in their veins, and lazily pass the time.

He chose a quiet, shaded seat away from the sun. Taking out his phone, he hesitated briefly before dialing a number.

The call connected after a single ring. He had barely uttered a “Hello” when a voice on the other end interrupted him. Unlike its usual lazy tone, the voice was slightly urgent. “Seven, where are you?”

“I don’t want to answer that question,” Mo Zimu replied coldly.

The voice on the other end softened, even letting out a light laugh. “Okay, baby, then choose what you’d like to tell me.”

“I know you love playing the martyr. You almost had me fooled, but it looks like you’re living quite comfortably now. I suppose this scheme of yours was as successful as always. I once promised to repay the favor I owe you. Right now, my phone is uploading data on the Bonanno family, including proof of Henry Bonanno’s deals with Norton. You need this, don’t you? Whether it’s Norton and Henry extorting their own family or covering up murders, you’ll need evidence,” Mo Zimu said calmly. “Ivan, isn’t this a perfect way to repay you?”

Ivan let out a long breath. “Seven, even without your files, I can still take Henry down.”

Mo Zimu chuckled lightly. He opened the violin case at his feet, took out a violin, and said with a smile, “Uploading data takes time. Let me play a tune for you.”

He placed his phone on the table and began playing the violin. The melody was cheerful, like a sparrow leaping in the morning sunlight after the rain, full of lively chirping. The notes soared, clear and rapid, like a bird flapping its wings furiously to ascend to the heavens, brimming with passion. His mastery of the E string, fluid and effortless, drew a small crowd of onlookers. When he finished, applause erupted from the audience.

Mo Zimu lowered his violin and bowed gracefully to the gathered crowd in thanks.

Picking up his phone, he asked, “Did you enjoy it? No regrets now, right?”

Ivan took a deep breath and laughed. “Hmm, Romanian Folk Dances. Not bad. There’s a touch of Heifetz in your performance.”

Mo Zimu let out a low chuckled.

Ivan, hearing the sound, added with a laugh, “But honestly, between the two, I’d say your moans in bed are far more appealing.”

At that moment, a waiter approached and, in Italian, said, “Sir, your coffee.”

Mo Zimu picked up his cup and said coolly, “Ivan, the data transfer is complete. We’re even now. Oh, and by the way, that piece is called Skylark. It wasn’t composed by Heifetz, but by the Romani-Gypsy violinist Dinicu.”

He ended the call.

On the other end, Ivan immediately slammed the phone down and turned to the man furiously working at the computer beside him. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere in the UK… near Wales, but we couldn’t pinpoint his exact location,” the man stammered, sweat dripping down his forehead. “The call was too brief, and he’s too far away.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Wales? But the waiter spoke Italian. Was he trying to make me think he’s in Italy?”

Meanwhile, Mo Zimu reached for his wallet. “Check, please.” He pulled out a £50 note and set it on the table.

The waiter glanced at the untouched coffee on the table and said, “Sir, the coffee is only £2.50.”

Mo Zimu stood, picked up his violin case, and smiled. “Consider the rest as payment for teaching me Italian.”

He turned to leave, but the waiter quickly called after him, “Sir, I also speak Hungarian and Spanish! Sir, your coffee!”

Mo Zimu smiled faintly, glanced back at the waiter, and then walked away without a word.

Ivan replayed the recording twice, smiling to himself before turning to a handsome young man beside him. “Mike, looks like your music lessons could use some work.”

Mike gave a bitter smile. “Are you planning to chase him all the way to Europe, Mr. Ivan?”

Ivan pondered for a moment, placing a cigarette between his lips. “I once watched a prison film. In it, there was a man who reminded me of Seven. Well-read, proud, and unwilling to admit their wings were stained, even after falling into the mud. But there was a line in the film that I really liked. ‘Some birds are too beautiful for any cage to hold.’”

Mike hesitated, then cautiously asked, “So… does that mean you plan to let Seven go?”

“No…” Ivan’s deep-set eyes gleamed as he replied, “What I mean is, for a bird like that, you need to use strategy.”

Mike gave an awkward smile but said nothing more.

—

This was the last anyone heard of Seven before he vanished from the world. Along with him, Norton and Jude disappeared without a trace.

Berrick and Adolf, however, weren’t as fortunate. A sniper took them out in the forests of Mammon. By the time their bodies were found, the island’s wolves had nearly devoured them.

Those left to clean up the aftermath called Mammon a living hell.

After all, Mammon itself means “devil.”

Duke Donald was barred from leaving the United States and faced a long, grueling legal battle.

Geoffrey also vanished from the public eye, likely needing time to come to terms with the outcome of this high-stakes gamble.

—

On Gower Island in Wales, there was a seaside pub with a beautiful view of the coastline. Many tourists enjoyed going there to order food or drinks and sit outside, watching the sunset over the ocean. Every Sunday evening, a man wearing a smiling mask would play a cheerful Romanian tune on his violin, a favorite among regular patrons.

Whether it was the always-smiling mask or the joyful music, both lifted the spirits of the guests. Many people gathered on weekends to listen to the black-haired man play. Once again, it was a successful performance.

As the man stood to leave, the guests, as usual, tried to persuade him to stay. Though he never spoke or revealed his face, he didn’t seem like someone hard to approach. Typically, if anyone asked for another song, he would gladly oblige.

But tonight, he merely nodded apologetically and quickly left the pub.

He made his way to the inn’s backroom, a space the landlady had specifically set aside for him. Removing his mask, he revealed himself to be Mo Zimu, who had been missing for nearly two years. He grabbed the black coat from the chair, slipped it on, and wrapped a scarf around his face. With his violin case in hand, he swiftly exited through the back door.

Earlier, a tall, thin man, like a walking stick, had entered the pub. He ordered a beer and appeared to be waiting for someone.

Mo Zimu’s heart nearly skipped a beat. It was Sticks, the long-lost figure he never expected to see alive again. He wondered if this had anything to do with Ivan.

A surge of unease washed over Mo Zimu. He hurried down the quiet streets of the small British town, heading toward the house he had rented. As he passed by, the neighbor’s spotted dog, injured in a car accident and now dragging a little cart, eagerly ran up to greet him.

He often played with the dog whenever he passed by, but today was different. He gave the dog’s head a quick pat and hurried inside the house.

The house was warm, with the heater on. Mo Zimu took off his scarf and coat, then sat down on the sofa and rubbed his forehead in frustration. He considered whether he should leave or not.

Maybe Sticks’ appearance here was just a coincidence.

He closed his eyes. He had gotten used to this rural life, but now he was torn. Should he abandon everything again and start over somewhere new, chasing a mere hunch?

He felt uncertain.

Mo Zimu stood up, walked into the kitchen, and toasted some bread in the bread maker. He took out some bacon from the fridge and quickly fried it, cutting a few tomatoes.

Once the bread was toasted, he spread some mayonnaise on it and placed the fried bacon in between, then made himself a cup of instant coffee.

He wasn’t skilled in cooking, so when he wasn’t eating out at the pub, he often made simple sandwiches like this.

After everything was settled, he sat in the yard with a sandwich, nibbling as he looked at the greenery around him.

British houses often come with a small yard, and ordinary families would plant some green plants or flowers, or even set up a barbecue grill.

However, he didn’t have that kind of leisure.

His yard was filled with herbs commonly used in Chinese cooking, such as small onions, as well as basil, which is popular in European cuisine. When he grew tired of sandwiches, he would alternate between the two herbs to make simple pancakes. The basil and onions grew together in a lush, disordered but green patch.

Food, perhaps, helped calm his nerves.

After eating, Mo Zimu felt that things weren’t as bad as he had imagined. From what he knew about Ivan, he understood that Ivan didn’t care for people like Sticks. If he needed a loyal follower, Mike would be a better choice. Although Ivan himself was a bit of a thug, it was obvious that this thug looked down on others. Mo Zimu sneered inwardly at the thought.

As for how Sticks had left Mammon, Mo Zimu wasn’t concerned. What mattered to him now was that he was no longer Seven. Yes, he would live with a completely new identity, no longer as the humiliated Seven.

He sighed deeply at the thought then went upstairs, entered his bedroom, and threw himself onto the bed. Exhausted, he closed his eyes.

In his dreams, it seemed like someone was gently kissing him. His lips parted, and a tongue slid inside, sweeping over his mouth like a storm. It was a fiery kiss, intense and overwhelming. Despite not having experienced it in a long time, it awakened all the heat in his body.

Anyone who has experienced the taste of desire, when alone in the darkness of night, feels an inescapable loneliness.

Mo Zimu was no exception.

The simple, peaceful life in the countryside brought him calm, but it also brought him isolation.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, he would wake awkwardly from a sex dream involving Ivan, feeling wet between his legs.

In those moments, his feelings toward Ivan were complicated. He resented him for introducing him to desire, yet couldn’t help but feel grateful for the lessons he had taught him, one of which was how to truly enjoy sex.

At this moment, Mo Zimu was completely relaxed. Like many sexual dreams, he would soon wake up from this one.

However, today’s dream was a little different. It felt too real, so real that Mo Zimu felt a slight fear of opening his eyes.

A pair of hands slid into his shirt, touching his nipple. The slightly rough palms rubbed against his skin, sending a tingling, electric shock-like sensation through him.

He couldn’t help but moan, “Ivan…”

The person laughed softly in his ear.

Mo Zimu’s earlobe was sucked into the person’s mouth, causing their voice to sound muffled. “I’m here… baby,” they said, the words carrying a playful, almost mocking tone.

They unzipped Mo Zimu’s pants and began to play with his lower body, causing a tremor to run through him.

When he laid eyes on Mo Zimu after their two-year separation tonight, he hadn’t intended to have sex. He didn’t want him to think that all they shared was lust. That wasn’t his purpose.

Mo Zimu was casually lying on the bed in a shirt, his sweater vest still on, and black jeans. He looked more like a student, exuding a faint bookish charm. But he knew, beneath those clothes lay the world’s most seductive body. A slender waist, firm rounded ass, and long legs.

Nothing about him could be anything but irresistible.

Mo Zimu was deep in sleep, his face slightly turned, but his handsome features, dark hair, and sharp eyebrows reminded one of a Chinese ink painting. There was an indescribable elegance to his expression, his lips naturally curving slightly, exuding innocence.

To him, however, this innocence was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Well, he guessed he’d go ahead with it then.

Mo Zimu kissed the man passionately, his body aching with desire. The man, noticing this, removed the last of his restraints.

The rough jeans brushing against Mo Zimu’s sensitive skin and he couldn’t help but moan, gasping in response to the friction. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, bending his right leg against him, making it easier for him to enter.

The initial entry was slow, but the man didn’t rush, taking his time to savor the moment. He knew better than anyone that patience made the experience all the more rewarding.

The bed began to shake under the man’s powerful physique, creating a sense that the wooden bed couldn’t bear the weight, gradually moving away from its original position. The indescribable pleasure made Mo Zimu lose his rationality, his wild desire mixing with the broken moans caused by the thrusting.

After the first climax, Mo Zimu breathed heavily, but the hard sensation within him made him realize the man was still not satisfied.

The man turned him over and placed a pillow under his abdomen, lifting his hips. His rough hands roamed over the smooth curve, as if appreciating a rare masterpiece, taking his time to admire the delicate tattoos on his skin.

He chuckled softly, “This shape suits you perfectly. It’s a place that could make even angels linger.”

Mo Zimu seemed to still be asleep, but the man behind him was already thrusting into him with rapid movements. The force made him frown slightly, but the pleasure that followed quickly masked the discomfort.

The man’s hand slid down to Mo Zimu’s lower abdomen, stroking his shaft, soon bringing Mo Zimu, who had just climaxed, back to life. Moans and thrusts mixed together as the pleasure came like a tidal wave, overwhelming him to the point where he couldn’t think.

Mo Zimu screamed as he reached another climax… but the man showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.

He flipped Mo Zimu over and gazed into his face.

Mo Zimu remained asleep.

Chuckling softly, the man leaned in and gently bit his lip, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to leave it slightly swollen. He followed the curve of his body, trailing kisses downward, leaving faint marks with each one.

When his lips reached Mo Zimu’s shaft, which had already released twice, he felt him shudder involuntarily. It seemed as if he wanted to turn away, but the man firmly gripped his thigh, holding him in place.

He licked the tip, watching as it inevitably began to stiffen, a milky fluid slowly seeping out. A triumphant smile played on his lips, but just then, Mo Zimu’s eyes snapped open.

Gritting his teeth, he growled, “You bastard, Ivan!”