Chapter 27

Epilogue

At the airport, on the walkway to the Vienna-bound flight, a clean-cut young man handed his passport to the checkpoint. His phone rang just as he passed through. Glancing at the number, he frowned slightly but answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“Seven, why did you run off again?”

“I’ve been here for a week already!” Mo Zimu replied irritably.

“That doesn’t mean you should sneak off. My bodyguards are heartbroken, you know.”

“If I didn’t, could I have left at all?”

“When did you steal your passport? Sticks wants me to ask you.”

“I’ll explain it to him when his IQ reaches an acceptable level.”

The sound of shouting, loud and cracked like a broken gong, erupted from the other end of the line. Mo Zimu’s expression remained calm, unbothered.

“Sir, you may proceed,” the immigration officer said, handing his passport back. Mo Zimu took it and replied faintly into the phone, “I need to go.”

“Baby, I’ll come find you next Monday!”

“Oh? Are you willing to leave your criminal empire behind?”

“I haven’t dealt in drugs or prostitutes for years. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

Mo Zimu smiled faintly, his eyes sparkling as he teased, “Whatever you say.” He ended the call and walked away.

On the other end of the line, Ivan slipped his phone into his pocket. Glancing at the still-fuming Sticks, he smirked.

“Notify Mad William, I need a batch of Rhinestones. And let Geoffrey know I’m increasing the order for M16 rifles,” Ivan instructed.

Sticks froze for a moment. “Boss, didn’t you say you were done with the underworld?”

Ivan gave him a once-over, his tone cool. “Are you a vegetarian?”

“N-no, Boss!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Right. We don’t eat pork, but we can eat chicken. Compared to drugs and prostitution, arms smuggling is practically ethical.”

“Glad you understand. Now, go call Seven and ask how he managed to steal his passport.”

Their voices faded as they walked away.

Mo Zimu settled into his seat on the plane. Looking out at the clouds beyond the window, he smiled faintly. No one knew why he smiled or what it meant.

Maybe he had simply learned that happiness belongs to those who know when to compromise.

–

In a Vienna nightclub, the final performance of a renowned Austrian pianist, Kruger, was coming to an end.

The promotional material for the concert had mentioned a special mystery guest for the finale. Since Kruger was known for his seriousness and would not use gimmicks to promote his performances, many music enthusiasts were eager to see what this special segment would be.

After finishing his last piece, Kruger spoke into the microphone. “I have prepared a surprise for everyone. Mr. Mo?”

A young man dressed in black stepped onto the stage, carrying a violin. His tall and slender figure, paired with a white dress shirt beneath his black jacket, gave him a strikingly handsome appearance. He smiled and gave a polite bow to the audience before beginning his performance, accompanied by Kruger on the piano. The piece he had chosen was Paganini’s La Campanella.

As the first notes rang out, his impeccable technique effortlessly navigated the complexities of the piece. The sheer intensity of his performance nearly overshadowed Kruger’s accompaniment. Paganini’s compositions often emphasized dazzling technical prowess, sometimes at the expense of emotional depth. However, the young musician’s elegant stage presence filled this gap beautifully. His commanding aura and mastery of the violin seemed to breathe new life into Paganini’s legendary magic.

When the final note faded, the audience rose to their feet, offering a thunderous round of applause that lasted a full minute.

Everyone present knew that from this night on, the name of this young musician would shine brilliantly on the world’s stage.

Mo Zimu leaned against the piano stand, staring absentmindedly at the thick curtains that had just fallen.

At that moment, a man with silver-gray hair entered the backstage area. His cool demeanor and strong masculine presence exuded an undeniable charm, yet there was also a distinct air of danger about him.

The music staff instinctively felt that he was not someone from the world of classical music.

He carried a massive bouquet of roses, so large that several black-suited bodyguards wearing sunglasses had to assist him. The whole scene felt mismatched and out of place, but the man seemed utterly indifferent to how others perceived him. Despite his wild aura, he carried himself with surprising composure and patience, sitting motionless throughout the performance without causing the trouble many had feared.

Even so, the staff remained on edge. It was not just the ominous aura of this man but also the excessive number of blood-red roses that suggested an intimate connection with one of the performers.

It was unlikely to be Kruger, who was far too old for the mysterious guest’s taste. That left only the elegant young violinist.

Same-sex relationships were not uncommon, so that part did not shock them, but this particular pairing seemed entirely mismatched.

Such an outstanding young musician, paired with a man who radiated a dangerous, almost criminal energy… He was probably being forced into it.

Compared to powerful underground figures, musicians were incredibly vulnerable.

At that moment, the ever-confident Ivan had no idea that, in the minds of these music professionals, his charm had plummeted into the negatives.

No matter how much effort he had put into learning about music, to him, the only reason these sounds were captivating was because the one controlling them was Seven.

Finally, as the performance ended, Ivan exhaled deeply in relief and took the bouquet, preparing to step onto the stage.

“Sir, you cannot go up there!” The venue manager, Jack, finally gathered his courage to block his way.

Ivan turned slightly, frowned, and said, “I am Mr. Mo’s… well, let’s say Mr. Right. Do you understand what I mean?”

Jack’s face flushed red as he stammered, “I… I’m sorry, but you still can’t go up there.”

Ivan simply smiled without responding.

One of the bodyguards behind him spoke up in a sinister tone, “Such a hassle. I told you we should’ve just gotten rid of them.”

Jack immediately turned pale. The righteous indignation that had been building up in his chest disappeared in an instant.

Seeing that no one else dared to stop him, Ivan stepped onto the stage, pulled back the curtain, and walked straight toward the man standing at the center.

“Baby, congratulations on your successful performance.”

Mo Zimu turned around and saw Ivan. He smiled faintly and said, “It’s too early for you to congratulate me. I only played a piece today under Professor Kruger’s recommendation.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Then why did I only hear the violin?”

Mo Zimu knew he was just flattering him and chuckled. “Since when could you even tell the difference between a violin and a piano?”

Ivan tossed the roses onto the piano stand, wrapped an arm around Mo Zimu’s waist, and let his hand slip under his shirt. He murmured in a low voice, “Honestly, I still think your moans sound better.”

His rough palm brushed against the sensitive skin of Mo Zimu’s waist, causing him to bite his lip. “Stop, not here. This is a public place!”

“Stop?” Ivan frowned slightly, then smiled. “Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve said ‘no’? I hate hearing that word.” As he spoke, his movements grew bolder. Mo Zimu let out a sharp breath, cursing softly, “Can you not be such a bastard?”

Ivan chuckled. “Seven, you’re already hard. Saying ‘stop’ now… well, walking out like this might be a little embarrassing in front of those respectable folks.” One hand rested on Mo Zimu’s ass, while the other slowly unzipped his pants.

He was deliberately pushing Mo Zimu deeper into the heat of the moment. The mix of physical hunger and the risk of getting caught by the music hall staff was driving Mo Zimu insane.

Ivan’s hand slipped into Mo Zimu’s pants, gripping his throbbing arousal. He frowned slightly. “Do you want it… or not?”

Mo Zimu bit his lip. Knowing Ivan too well, he didn’t try to be clever with his words. His voice trembled as he said, “Want.”

The next second, Ivan crushed their lips together. If Mo Zimu had tried to dodge the question with some slick remark, he wouldn’t have been let off so easily.

They kissed hungrily, hands roaming over each other. Ivan peeled off Mo Zimu’s black tailcoat, unbuttoned his white dress shirt, and teased his nipples, drawing out desperate moans.

Flipping him around, Ivan pressed Mo Zimu against the piano and tugged his trousers down to his ankles. Everything was falling into place. Ivan had been consumed by the thought of claiming this irresistible body all day, craving it to the point of madness.

And, for once, the typically defiant Seven was unexpectedly compliant.

A piano wasn’t exactly the best place to have sex, but doing it on such a grand stage had its own unique thrill. Ivan wanted this place, which would be so important to Mo Zimu in the future, to bear his mark. No matter how high and far Mo Zimu soared on this stage, he wanted him to carry this memory, this brand, with him.

Ivan slipped a finger into Mo Zimu’s tight entrance, teasing and stimulating him with deliberate patience. Watching Mo Zimu tremble beneath him and hearing those uncontrollable moans gave him a sense of absolute possession.

Once everything was ready, he pushed in, driving deep into Mo Zimu’s body, perhaps even his soul. Wrapping an arm tightly around Mo Zimu’s waist, he pulled him closer, preventing him from slipping down in his weakened state.

The sounds of their bodies colliding echoed through the air, a perfect aphrodisiac that drove them both into an almost crazed frenzy.

Ivan pressed Mo Zimu down onto the center of the stage, spread his long legs, and lifted them around his waist before thrusting in again.

The oak floor was a bit cold, but Mo Zimu barely noticed. He stared up at the dazzling crystal chandelier above the stage. Whether it was the intensity of his climax or the brilliance of the lights, his vision swam in dazzling colors, as if a rainbow were spilling across his eyes.

With one final thrust, Ivan reached his peak. Unlike usual, he didn’t stay inside but pulled out quickly. The sudden emptiness sent a shiver through Mo Zimu’s exhausted body, leaving him feeling a little cold, a little unsatisfied. He opened his eyes in a daze and saw Ivan holding a bouquet of roses. Smiling, Ivan said, “Baby, these are for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The roses scattered over Mo Zimu’s bare body. Flowers didn’t quite suit him, Ivan thought. If anything, Mo Zimu should be paired with something like a Chinese longsword, something that embodied both elegance and lethal sharpness. But he obviously couldn’t throw swords at him, so roses would have to do. Thorny roses were a decent enough match.

Mo Zimu’s slender body, draped in flower petals, was so breathtakingly beautiful that it reignited Ivan’s lust. As he pounced on Mo Zimu again, he heard a weak, helpless curse.

“You damn bastard!”

Perhaps, Ivan thought, this was exactly what he wanted to hear.

—

When Mo Zimu finally walked out, he found Jack standing awkwardly in the corner, facing the wall, while Sticks, wearing sunglasses like some kind of executioner, loomed behind him.

Visibly frustrated, and annoyed, Mo Zimu said sharply, “Stop letting people like Sticks harass our staff!”

Sticks smirked. “If I didn’t harass him, he’d be harassing you instead.”

Seeing Mo Zimu’s face turn bright red, Ivan knew he was on the verge of snapping. Mo Zimu rarely lost his temper, but when he did, it was a real headache.

Ivan made the call.

“Apologize to him,” he ordered Sticks coldly. “Then stand here facing the wall for three hours.”

Grumbling but compliant, Sticks muttered, “Sorry, sir. You’re free to go.”

Jack turned around, waving his hands hastily. “No, no, it’s fine! Really! Actually, um… this gentleman doesn’t need to stay here at all. The concert is over, and we’re closing soon. If he stays, we’d have to come back in three hours just to let him out…”

Ivan glanced at Mo Zimu, looking as if he were weighing the decision. Then he whispered, “Just letting him off like that?”

“Get lost!” Mo Zimu snapped.

“You heard him. Get lost.” Ivan turned to Sticks.

Sticks glared at Mo Zimu resentfully. He had disliked this guy from the moment they met. Why couldn’t Boss have fallen for Mike instead? A thousand and one times, Sticks had sighed over this injustice.

Once Sticks was gone, Mo Zimu muttered under his breath, “I was telling you to get out.”

Though his voice was soft, Jack, with his finely tuned ears as a music staff member, heard it perfectly. He broke into a cold sweat, but Ivan only shrugged.

“Alright,” Ivan said. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

Mo Zimu didn’t relax until the damn bastard had fully disappeared. Then, turning back to Jack, he said apologetically, “I’m really sorry for all that, Jack. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

Jack waved it off. “No, no, if anything, I should apologize. I… had some biases. I assumed that gentleman didn’t suit you, that he wasn’t your type… you know what I mean.”

Seeing Mo Zimu’s faint blush, Jack chuckled. “But I suppose I was mistaken. Who cares about ‘compatible’ or not? Listen to me, talking like such a cliché. As long as he makes you happy, then he’s your Mr. Right, right?”

Mo Zimu gave Jack a grateful smile. “Right!”

—

Ivan dropped Mo Zimu off at his place but wisely chose to head back to his villa instead. Mo Zimu had always refused to move into his villa, and Ivan never forced the issue.

The first thing Mo Zimu did was head to the bathroom to wash up and clean himself. Just as he was finishing, the doorbell rang. He slipped on a bathrobe, descended the stairs, and peered through the peephole. Outside stood a man with a full, unkempt beard.

Mo Zimu took a deep breath, slid the safety chain in place, and cracked the door open. His voice was cold as he said, “Jude, I assume you know Ivan is here. Just because I don’t bother chasing you down doesn’t mean he won’t.”

Jude, now sporting a rugged beard that made him look like a different person, gave a slow, deliberate smile. The once-handsome boy he used to know seemed like a distant illusion. Every time Mo Zimu looked at him, he couldn’t help but wonder if their time in Mammon Prison had been just a dream.

“Seven,” Jude drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “That post-coital glow of yours makes it obvious your partner has you wrapped around his finger.”

“So what?” Mo Zimu replied icily.

Jude clenched his teeth. “Do you even know he had people record you while you were fucking on that grand stage tonight?”

“And?” Mo Zimu remained calm, his tone unbothered.

“And?” Jude hissed through his teeth. “He’s keeping it to use against you. He’s been planning for the day you might leave him, figuring out exactly how to deal with you.”

Mo Zimu’s expression didn’t change. “First, I don’t intend to leave him. Second, even if I did, if he wants to release the recording, let him. His reputation is no smaller than mine. If he’s shameless enough to do it, why should I care?”

Meanwhile, in a luxurious car parked far away, Ivan nearly bit his tongue.

“Shit!” He ripped out his earpiece, tossing it aside in frustration.

“I just don’t get it,” Sticks muttered from the passenger seat. “Why does Seven keep that bastard around? And more importantly, why do you? Isn’t this whole situation a giant pain in the ass?”

Ivan let out a long sigh. “Seven feels somewhat responsible for him. Since he keeps him around, I have no choice but to tolerate him too…”

The car sped down the road, and Ivan leaned back, lost in thought. It seems the tape wasn’t much of a threat to Mo Zimu. He would need to come up with a new strategy.

—

After sending Jude away, Mo Zimu returned upstairs. His eyes fell on the gift Ivan had left on his bed. He grabbed it angrily and hurled it against the wall.

“You bastard!” he snapped, breathing heavily.

Yet another war between him and Ivan was on the verge of breaking out.

The End