Chapter Text
Chongqing, China
Two years, three months, and seven days. Xie Lian stared out the fogged-up car window as it wound through the steep streets of Yuzhong, the crowded alleys and stone staircases blurring into a damp smear. He wondered if he’d ever stop counting the time. If there’d come a day when he’d check the calendar app on his phone without automatically tallying the weeks since his life—as he’d known it—had crumbled completely. He doubted it. Adding up the days had become as natural to him as breathing Chongqing’s thick, humid air. He tried not to dwell on it, but in moments like this, when he was forced to do something he didn’t truly want, the past crashed back with overwhelming force, impossible to ignore. All he could think about was what he’d lost: his children, his home, the life he’d worked so hard to build.
As if trying to distract him on purpose, the driver hurled the car into the chaos of Jiefangbei Avenue, the side mirror nearly grazing an electric bike loaded with packages up ahead. Chongqing’s streets were a maze of clogged alleys and avenues, and the traffic felt endless. Xie Lian gripped the backseat, realizing too late that the seatbelt was broken. With a sudden jolt, he slid across the cracked faux-leather bench to the other side. He shook his head and clutched his briefcase tighter. Cars in Chongqing were like everything in this southwest China metropolis: worn out and running on fumes. In the two years he’d spent here, the whole city seemed on the verge of collapse—a state he could relate to all too easily.
The battered car broke free of the chaotic traffic and turned onto Minzu Avenue, Chongqing’s main commercial strip. It was past eight p.m., and the area was still packed and noisy, a gray haze of smoke and exhaust hanging over the skyscrapers. Most of the vehicles around him were old, rust spotting their side panels. He’d been in the city four months when his Mandarin got fluent enough to ask about those odd flaws. He learned then that many cars came from shuttered factories up in Shenyang, northern China, hastily repurposed for the local market. They’d lived their best years in other provinces and arrived here on their last legs. Just like most people.
The driver barreled through three intersections without hesitation, honking and weaving past traffic signals with skill. A block later, he slammed on the brakes at a light he couldn’t dodge. Thinking of the reception he was headed to at the Yunlu Hotel—dreading what might happen—Xie Lian pulled his focus from the traffic and glanced out the side window. He realized his mistake and turned his face away, but not fast enough. His brain caught what he didn’t want to see, and a wave of pity and pain flooded his chest. Cuocuo’s mother, who stood on that corner every day, rain or shine, humidity or heat, was there. Xie Lian took this road—Ciqikou—to work and always saw her. From his office window, he could spot her begging too. The poor woman didn’t look much past thirty, but she seemed twice that. Her skin, toughened by daily sun and Chongqing’s acidic haze, was like weathered leather. She wore a faded gray cap—not the black one she sometimes had on. Beneath it, her short, dark hair was messy, streaks of gray showing, maybe from city dust or early aging, Xie Lian wasn’t sure.
The rest of her outfit was plain and unchanging: a threadbare padded jacket, loose cotton pants, and a faded T-shirt—practical layers for Chongqing’s damp climate. And then the sling. Woven with faded red and blue stripes, the fragile shawl was torn and patched so many times Xie Lian marveled it still held together. As always, she’d tied it behind her neck and crossed it diagonally over her chest. Every rural village in Chongqing had a distinct pattern; anyone who knew them could tell where she came from. Holding his breath, Xie Lian fixed his eyes on the sling. Cuocuo was there, bundled so tight he could only move his eyes. Two black dots stared back at him beneath a fringe of equally dark hair. A pale smudge marked the baby’s cheek. A physical ache gripped Xie Lian’s throat, squeezing it shut like fingers were choking him. He fought it, tried to swallow, but the feeling wouldn’t budge. He almost wished someone were strangling him for real; then his mind might quiet too, and he wouldn’t have to think anymore. But that wouldn’t happen. He’d seen Cuocuo’s mother plenty of times and hoped for that relief without it coming. There was always a baby in the sling. Sometimes older, sometimes younger, but always there. And seeing it always hit him the same way.
Without meaning to, Xie Lian leaned toward the car window, his open palm pressing against the glass, fingers splayed as if reaching for the baby. The pain in his chest swelled, making it hard to think—but not to remember. Xie Li had been eight months old when he’d left her in Russia, about Cuocuo’s age in the sling. Her eyes were brown too, the soft strands on her head dark and wavy. Xie Chen, nearly five, looked more like Xie Lian: green eyes, short medium-blond hair, features he’d inherited from his Russian father, a man Xie Lian barely knew. When he’d brought Xie Li home from the maternity ward, Xie Chen had wanted to hold her. Bai Wuxiang protested as usual, but Xie Lian ignored his partner. He’d settled the boy carefully on the couch and placed the baby in his arms. Standing back to look at those precious kids, the image burned into his heart. At the time, he hadn’t understood, beyond the obvious, why it stuck with him so fiercely. But maybe, deep down, he’d known. On some subconscious level, he’d been bracing for disaster for years. Bai Wuxiang had picked him, pulled him into his life, so different from Xie Lian’s own. It’d all seemed too good to be true from the start: no worries about money, no hesitation over food, housing, or anything his kids needed. Then it all went horribly wrong, almost overnight.
The light flipped from red to green, and the car lurched down the street, leaving the dirty little Cuocuo and his begging mother behind. Xie Lian turned and peered through the rear window, but grime clouded it, and he couldn’t see them. Heart unsteady, he faced forward, leaned his head against the cracked faux-leather seat, and closed his eyes. Two years, three months, and seven days.
(…)
Hua Cheng leaned against the bar counter and sipped his ice-cold Qingdao beer, the bitterness sliding over his tongue and filling his mouth with a pleasure he could hardly believe. All his senses were sharp. The rough metal texture at his back, the spicy scent of grilled skewers cooking at a nearby table, even the neon sign above the mirror by the soda bottles—the colors seemed brighter than they should, the images more real. The Tianhe Lounge in Chongqing was so far, so unbelievably different from where he’d been six months ago, it almost threw him off. It was as if the last five years had happened to someone else. Almost. He finished the beer, set the empty bottle on the counter, and waved for a chilled lychee juice, his thoughts hardening. Those years had happened to someone else, in a way. The young, idealistic Hua Cheng who’d existed before being sent to Guangzhou’s underworld was a completely different figure from the man now propped against the bar. They shared the same name, but nothing else. His mind, his body, his very soul had been taken apart, shattered, and rebuilt into something entirely opposite.
Hua Cheng’s gaze swept the lounge. It was an open-air space, but classy, with white tablecloths and potted plants on the tables. An artificial pond, ringed by bamboo and LED lights, shimmered across from where he stood. At each end of the pond, swinging chairs hung between modern posts, swaying lightly in the night breeze. A Chinese pop playlist hummed through the speakers, filling the relative quiet. The place was starting to fill up with women in tight dresses and men in dark suits or casual jackets, arriving in waves. Someone turned up the music, and the pulsing beat drowned out the distant traffic noise. At the far end of the polished steel counter, the bartender popped open two cans of ginger soda for a waitress in a black uniform. Without turning her head, she flicked a glance at Hua Cheng. He met it, his body reacting before he could think. There was something about Chongqing women, he thought. The short, sharp haircuts, the lean frames, the way they carried themselves. He’d been to Hanoi once—in his other life—and the women there were similar. Stunning.
As she walked off, Hua Cheng watched her back and wondered if it was something they learned or just in their genes. He turned to grab his drink, and the bartender was waiting, wiping the steel countertop between them with a white cloth. The man nodded toward the door leading inside the hotel.
“Behind you, that’s who you’re looking for,” he said.
The bartender’s Mandarin had Chongqing’s rough edge, not too far from what Hua Cheng had learned to speak fluently, though his own tone carried a faint Vietnamese trace from his Hanoi childhood. He turned and looked. The man he’d been waiting for stood at the doorway. Running his hand over the yuan notes he’d left under the bottle, he slid them to the bartender. Afraid of losing sight of him, he’d enlisted a second pair of eyes to track the banker down.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Hua Cheng said.
“You’re welcome,” the man replied, his dark eyes glinting. “The guy up there’s pretty sharp, huh? Good luck, sir…”
Good luck? Hua Cheng nodded in thanks for the remark but didn’t need it. He made his own luck. Shifting focus, he zeroed in on the man. Xie Lian. He’d seen him before, of course, but each time, his appearance caught him off guard. The tall, lean man wasn’t what he’d expected, though he couldn’t quite say why. That night, he wore a light gray high-collared tunic, fitted with subtle ivory clasps. The lightweight fabric draped softly over his frame, lending a quiet elegance. A front slit revealed an inner lining in a pale sand tone, adding depth to the outfit. Black straight-cut pants, refined and crisp, contrasted with the top’s airy fabric. To top it off, he’d thrown a thin cream cloak over his shoulders, giving the ensemble a touch of calm sophistication. He’d probably read on some finance site that the detail turned it into cocktail attire. He’d misjudged that call. It still looked like a banker’s uniform: practical and functional, even if they dressed almost alike.
His eyes climbed to the man’s face. The first time he’d seen him, he’d decided his features were too interesting to call pretty. The cheekbones, so high, shadowed the firm jaw beneath, and the nose, straight and sharp, dodged conventional beauty. The medium-blond hair, layered past his shoulders, shone silky and bright; the eyes, clear emerald, inherited contrasting genes, cool and deep. Only the lips stood out. Full, lush, and a rosy shade that had to be natural, they looked made to be tasted. There was something about him, something indefinable Hua Cheng couldn’t pin down. A slight uncertainty, a subtle hesitation in how he held his shoulders. Not something others would catch, but Hua Cheng had spent the last few years hunting people’s weak spots. He’d learned that skill because his life had depended on it. Now, it was second nature.
As he watched, Shi Qingxuan approached and greeted Xie Lian. They exchanged formal hellos and started talking. The other man dressed low-key and opposite to him and Xie Lian, in a dark blue polo and casual pants, but he was clearly local. Short, dark hair, a stockier build, he gestured lively as he spoke. He teetered on high-soled sneakers, a bold trend in Chinese urban fashion. They were friends, he already knew, close ones, and Xie Lian visibly relaxed around him, some tension easing from his body as they chatted. Hua Cheng grabbed his juice, biding his time. No rush. He’d do this like he did everything now: on his own terms.
Finishing the juice, he ordered a Qingdao beer. The alcohol didn’t faze him. The party noise ramped up, and within an hour, the music was nearly lost under the guests’ chatter. Hua Cheng caught snippets of talk, some in local dialects, others in standard Mandarin, a few in English. He didn’t know anyone there, but several people struck up small talk with him, the usual party banter. Chongqing folks were friendly, polite, curious about outsiders, always ready to chat business or just shoot the breeze. He got pulled into more conversations than he wanted, making it tough to keep Xie Lian in sight. The man’s medium-blond hair glowed gold under the LED lights, though, and when Hua Cheng finally decided to move, just past midnight, he had no trouble spotting him across the pond.
Stepping away from the counter, he wove through the crowd and headed to the edge of the open-air lounge. Facing a row of windows with modern blinds, he walked parallel to them, eyes locked on the glass, which doubled as mirrors. That’s when he saw him. Jun Wu. He mingled with the guests, flashing a smooth smile and moving slowly to chat with everyone. He blended in like he was born for it. He was closing in on Xie Lian, relentless, and Hua Cheng paused to watch the drama unfold. He’d banked on this meeting all night—counted on it for his plans—but now that it was happening, the sight twisted his gut. Watching Jun Wu zero in on Xie Lian was like seeing a snake stalk a rat.
Hua Cheng snagged a ginger soda can from a passing waiter and told himself it didn’t matter. He had a job to do, and nothing else counted. Xie Lian was Jun Wu’s rat, and that’s exactly why he, Hua Cheng, was here. He and Jun Wu were the same. Users. Predators. Men who took what they wanted without looking back. In his other life, Hua Cheng had been peaceful, a law-abiding citizen, even a gentleman, some might say. That all changed because of Jun Wu. Now, they were identical. Both sniffed out the weak and conned them for their own gain. That realization should’ve saddened him. In his other life, it would have.
(…)
“He’s coming this way. No! Don’t look. Stay still, I’ll tell you what he’s doing. Smile. Act natural,” Shi Qingxuan instructed.
Xie Lian tried to follow his friend’s advice, but it was impossible; he had to look. Turning his head, he glanced over his shoulder and faced Shi Qingxuan again.
“That one? The older guy in the blue blazer?”
Shi Qingxuan nodded.
“Jun Wu. Handsome man, don’t you think?” He raised a hand to his short hair and fluffed it around his head. “Maybe I can win him over. I’m tired of Ming Yi and his issues. Did I tell you what he did last week?”
“No, you didn’t. But right now, I just want to hear about Mr. Jun, please,” Xie Lian said.
Shi Qingxuan pulled a face, but only for a second. Nothing rattled him for long, and that was one reason Xie Lian valued him so much. He needed the balance Shi Qingxuan brought to his life: the laughter, the teasing, the Chongqing-style acceptance that life is what you get, not what you make. They’d met, literally, the day Xie Lian arrived in the city. The bank had set up Shi Qingxuan, a local real estate broker, to pick him up at the train station and start hunting for apartments. In the chaos of the North Station, Shi Qingxuan had taken one look at the exhausted, visibly broken Xie Lian and driven him straight to the Yunlu Hotel. They checked in, Shi Qingxuan led him to the suite, and ordered room service for them both—spicy noodle bowls and cold beer. They’d been friends ever since, and it had brought Xie Lian more than just company. Shi Qingxuan was a bottomless well of info and gossip.
“What do you need to know?” Shi Qingxuan said, his perfect eyebrows arching over bright black eyes. “He’s rich, from Chongqing, and needs a banker.” He nudged Xie Lian lightly in the ribs. “That’s you.”
Xie Lian couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“Didn’t you already take his money? Last time we talked, you said you were taking him to Nanshan to look at houses.”
“I did,” Shi Qingxuan replied, smugly. “And he bought the biggest one there. You know, the gray one, huge lot, pool and terrace.” He leaned closer. “Cost a fortune, and he didn’t even blink.”
Xie Lian’s interest sharpened, and he risked another glance. Jun Wu had stopped to chat with someone, a manager from a state-owned company, he realized, surprised. The man grinned and laughed with Jun Wu like old pals. Next to them stood a local government worker. Xie Lian noticed he didn’t look as pleased, but gave him only a quick glance. His focus was Jun Wu. He wasn’t tall, but his steady posture and icy blue eyes carried an authority that filled the room. He had to be closer to sixty than fifty, Xie Lian guessed, with short, gray hair combed back. As he watched, he tilted his head toward the manager, and then Xie Lian saw there was someone with him. A very young, beautiful woman in a tight gold dress that showed off a knockout figure. She lingered at Jun Wu’s side, looking bored, her dark eyes scanning the room for something better, her body swaying unconsciously to the music.
“You’re staring,” Shi Qingxuan whispered. “Turn around. I’ll tell you when he heads over.”
Xie Lian faced his friend, but as he did, he suddenly felt the weight of his thirty-five years. The reformed hanfu and boots he’d picked felt dull. He hadn’t bothered fixing his hair or touching up makeup and cologne. Touching the ends of his short strands, he knew there was nothing he could do now. Shi Qingxuan read his mind.
“You look perfect,” he said. “Exactly how a stylish banker should. Few could pull off your vibe.”
“I know,” Xie Lian replied. “It’s just…” He shook his head. “That girl with him. So young, so gorgeous…”
His voice faded.
“They’re all young and gorgeous, my friend, but we’ve got experience. That’s what counts!” Shi Qingxuan shot back.
A moment later, Jun Wu was beside them, the young woman trailing at a distance.
“Shi Qingxuan!” He leaned in and shook his hand. “How’s my favorite broker?”
Shi Qingxuan beamed.
“Doing great, sir. And your business?”
“Keeps growing,” he said. “As always.”
Before he could go on, Shi Qingxuan reached out and touched Xie Lian’s arm.
“This is my friend, Xie Lian.”
Xie Lian offered his hand, and Jun Wu took it. He squeezed hard, enough that Xie Lian felt the ring dig into his fingers, but he matched the grip by reflex. The man’s eyes narrowed for a split second, then he eased up.
“So you’re the banker, huh? I’ve heard a lot about you. Your name pops up in all the right places.”
“Glad to hear that,” Xie Lian said, holding his gaze with a smile.
“You’re with the People’s Bank of China, right?”
“That’s right. I work at the People’s Bank of China branch. I handle foreign exchange and special client accounts.”
“Convince me it’s a good idea to put all my money in your hands and your bank.”
He smiled politely. There was a jeweler in Jiefangbei that sold sapphires the exact shade of Jun Wu’s eyes. Xie Lian had never liked the stone—its color was cold and impersonal.
“I don’t need to convince you,” he said. “Talk to my other clients, and you’ll convince yourself.”
His expression didn’t shift, but Xie Lian had dealt with enough men like him in St. Petersburg before Moscow to know what they’d say before they opened their mouths. Like Bai Wuxiang and his family, they had money and thought it made them special.
“I’ve heard everyone’s opinions,” he said. “But I make my own calls.”
“Don’t you find that tough without the facts?” Xie Lian asked.
Jun Wu smiled. It was a chilly look, matching his eyes.
“Not really. I think most ‘facts’ are overrated.”
Xie Lian tilted his head quickly, as if agreeing with the irony. He needed this man’s business—no point ticking him off.
“We’re not the biggest bank in town, Mr. Jun, but we handle all the big accounts. I’m sure you’d be very happy with us.”
“I’ll swing by to see you next week,” he said, offering his hand. “That work for you?”
Xie Lian took the shake. This time, it was lighter, like he’d passed some test.
“I’d be delighted to host you anytime.”
He nodded and stepped away after giving Shi Qingxuan a pat on the shoulder. Xie Lian took a deep breath and let it out slow, his shoulders slumping before he could stop them, relieved now that the moment had passed. He’d come to the reception for one reason: to let Jun Wu size him up and land a meeting. He hoped it’d be worth it. Shi Qingxuan grabbed his arm and grinned.
“Let’s grab another beer,” he whispered. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll have something to celebrate soon.”
(…)
Hua Cheng watched the two men head to the bar, the Jun Wu encounter apparently done. Xie Lian looked looser. Glancing at his friend, he tipped his head back and smiled, his medium-blond hair swinging against his neck. Even his step was lighter, less stiff and anxious. He was clearly pleased with how the introductions went. Hua Cheng allowed himself a faint flicker of matching satisfaction, then scanned the room and found Jun Wu to gauge his reaction. The man was in a group, laughing and chatting. The young woman with him was out of sight. He seemed engaged, but as Hua Cheng watched, he saw Jun Wu’s attention was elsewhere. Following his gaze, he got it. Jun Wu was studying Xie Lian, watching him with calculated caution.
In the past, Hua Cheng had always tackled his problems head-on. As a lawyer and dealmaker, he’d analyze the situation, set priorities, and roll out his plan—usually complex and layered, but never outside the law. He believed in doing things right; justice and fairness always guided him. But the rules changed. Jun Wu changed them when he ruined his life. Honesty and ethics got tossed out, replaced by lies and schemes. Hua Cheng, though, could handle deceit as slickly as he’d handled truth. Finishing his last beer, he didn’t dwell on it further. He set the bottle on the counter and crossed the room, heading for Xie Lian.
(…)
Hua Cheng was five steps from Xie Lian when a swarm of party guests cut between them. Momentarily annoyed, he had to stop, and as he did, he felt the old, familiar tingle at the back of his neck. The one that had saved his life more than once. The one telling him someone had clocked him. Trapped in the middle of the group, he turned. Jun Wu was staring right at him. All Hua Cheng could do was stare back. Sooner or later, he’d expected Jun Wu to know he was in Chongqing, so it didn’t really matter. Still, his muscles tensed as their eyes locked. He’d wondered how he’d react the first time he looked into that man’s eyes. Now he knew. He felt only an empty satisfaction for what he knew was coming. It seemed odd, but that was it. Jun Wu’s eyes narrowed, his face showing confusion. A second passed, maybe two, and a waiter stepped between them, breaking the moment. In that instant, Hua Cheng realized Jun Wu hadn’t recognized him. For five years, he’d thought of nothing but revenge against this man, and it seemed Jun Wu didn’t even remember him. In another setting, it might’ve been funny. For now, Hua Cheng just weighed what it meant for his plans. He decided fast that if Jun Wu didn’t know him, all the better.
With the crowd still pressing around him, Hua Cheng gave up and let himself get swept out of the lounge. The whole group spilled from the bar and started piling onto electric bikes lined up on the street out front. They were off to somewhere else, and though they were strangers, they insisted Hua Cheng come along. Laughing and playing it off, he brushed them off, but then saw the opening. He could catch Xie Lian another time; right now, dodging Jun Wu felt more pressing. A moment later, he was on a bike, peeling off with a guy and two women, headed to a party he knew nothing about. When they hit the next intersection, Hua Cheng threw a casual glance over his shoulder back at the lounge. He wasn’t shocked by what he saw. Jun Wu stood under the entrance awning, a cigar in one hand, a drink in the other. His eyes tracked the departing bikes, and in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp, his face still showed confusion. It wouldn’t take him long to figure it out.
(…)
Xie Lian sat at his desk Monday morning when the phone rang. He wasn’t reading the stack of forex reports in front of him or writing the email due in a few hours; he was just sitting there. Saturday night’s reception had wiped him out, and Sunday had been as brutal as ever. He lived all week for the moment he could call Russia and hear his kids’ voices, but as soon as the call ended, their absence hit him hard, and he fell apart. The rest of the day was always a painful blur, just hours he had to endure until he could talk to them again. The phone by his side rang once more, and he reached for it without thinking. The voice on the other end wasn’t one he expected, at least not this soon.
“Mr. Xie, this is Jun Wu. I assume I’m not interrupting anything…”
He straightened in his chair.
“Mr. Jun, of course you’re not interrupting. I’m glad you called.”
“I’d like to discuss my banking situation with you as soon as possible.”
“I can see you today,” he replied, pulling his phone closer, though he didn’t really need to check his schedule. If Jun Wu had as much money as Shi Qingxuan claimed, the day was his. “When would you like to come by?”
“That’s the problem,” he said. The slight hesitation in his voice sounded rehearsed, but Xie Lian told himself he was imagining it. “I can’t make it today. Too many commitments. I’d like to invite you to dinner, though. Could you meet me at the Jade Garden, say, nine o’clock?”
Something about the man bugged him, and he paused, but then scolded himself. There was no solid reason not to meet Jun Wu for dinner, none at all. He had no plans, and dining at the Jade Garden—the city’s best restaurant—was always a treat. More importantly, if he turned this down and Quan Yizhen, his boss, found out, he’d kill him. He’d already told him about meeting Jun Wu, and Quan Yizhen was practically salivating to land this guy’s business.
“The Jade Garden sounds great, sir,” he replied. “I’d be happy to meet you there.”
Xie Lian jotted the appointment into his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“Excellent. Give me your address, and I’ll send a car.”
“That’s not necessary,” he protested. “I can take a cab.”
“I insist. It’s the least I can do for keeping you working so late.”
He wouldn’t take no for an answer. When they hung up, Xie Lian had given him directions to his apartment and a promise to see him at nine. He felt vaguely uneasy, but what did it matter? This guy could be a major client. If he landed him, they’d see each other plenty. His clients were the type who kept a close eye on their money.
Before he could fret more, the phone rang again, this time on the internal line.
“You have a visitor,” the secretary said.
“Feng Xin, in English, please,” Xie Lian requested. He spoke Mandarin perfectly now, but he insisted the secretaries and assistants in his department use English for the international clients around. Rich people were usually paranoid; expats or investors felt better when they could understand what was said nearby. He frowned. It’d been a while since he had to remind the young guy of that.
“Sorry… You have a visitor,” Feng Xin said, his voice dropping in a way Xie Lian had never heard before. “A gentleman.”
“Who is it?”
Feng Xin gave him the name, but it didn’t ring a bell, and there was no appointment. That wasn’t unusual, though. With the wealth level of his clients, they expected to show up unannounced and still get the red carpet. Xie Lian told the assistant he’d be right out.
He checked his hair in a small mirror he kept in his drawer, straightened his reformed hanfu, and stood, crossing the carpet. Just past his private office was a reception area reserved for his clients. They could enter that part of the bank from the main lobby or a door straight to the street. Xie Lian stepped into the reception room and glanced at his assistant. Feng Xin met his eyes and tilted his head toward a man by the windows. He stood with his back to them, hands clasped behind him, but as Xie Lian watched, he turned to face him. An energy field seemed to wrap around him, waves of intensity rolling off where he stood. Xie Lian told himself it was silly, but he swore he could feel the man’s power from across the room. He walked toward him, his shoes clicking on the ceramic floor.
“I’m Xie Lian,” he said, extending his hand as he neared. “How can I assist you, Mr. Hua?”
Up close, his pull was even stronger. Xie Lian caught his breath as the man’s dark eyes scanned him expertly. He’d gotten used to men sizing him up in Chongqing, but the way this guy’s gaze swept his body was different. It left him oddly exposed. His touch amplified it. When they shook hands, it came with a vibrant warmth.
“Tôi đến để mở tài khoản,” he said in Vietnamese—I came to open an account—before switching to fluent Mandarin with a slight northern Vietnam accent. “I hear you handle clients with… special needs.”
Xie Lian hesitated a beat, processing the accent. He understood the language because his job demanded he be multilingual, though he didn’t like it, so he answered carefully.
“I oversee the foreign exchange department and serve as vice president of special accounts. On occasion, I assist with other areas.”
He flicked a look at Feng Xin. The young man stared at his computer screen with such studied focus it was obvious he wasn’t missing a word. Hua Cheng turned back to Xie Lian with an amused expression.
“Có lẽ chúng ta nên vào văn phòng của anh để tôi giải thích rõ hơn?” he asked in Vietnamese—Maybe we should go to your office so I can explain better?—before repeating in Mandarin, “Perhaps we could step into your office for me to explain more clearly?”
It wouldn’t be the first time a solid client showed up out of the blue. Never one to pass up a chance, Xie Lian nodded and led the stranger to his office, pausing by Feng Xin to request tea for them both. A moment later, he was seated behind his desk, Hua Cheng in the chair across from him. He was exactly his type, a strikingly handsome man. Fair skin—a coveted standard among the Chinese—dark eyes, long black hair tied in a single mermaid braid with a red ribbon at the end, resting over his left shoulder. He wore a traditional-inspired outfit like Xie Lian’s: a white near-long-sleeve tunic with frog clasps and a high collar with side slits revealing a red-and-blue inner layer, paired with dark pants and boots. He was over six feet and clearly not local. Xie Lian found himself intrigued. Other available men had been in his office since the split, but something about Hua Cheng stood out. Maybe it was his intensity. Maybe the way he fixed him with that dark stare. Either way, despite the pull he felt—or maybe because of it—he made him uneasy. He shivered once before he could stop it and spoke fast to cover the interest.
“What brings you to the People’s Bank of China branch, Mr. Hua?”
Hua Cheng rested his hands on the chair’s arms and looked at him, the long braid with its red ribbon draped over his left shoulder.
“Everyone knows the People’s Bank of China branch is the top one in Chongqing, right?” he said in Mandarin, his voice carrying a faint Vietnamese lilt that gave his words a melodic edge.
“Well, there’s an ICBC down the street and China Merchants too, but we’re the best.”
“In your opinion,” he countered, the subtle accent standing out in his firm delivery.
Xie Lian smiled, a restrained but polite gesture.
“In the opinion of all our clients, I’m sure. We’re the most successful.”
“Doesn’t that depend on how you define success?” Hua Cheng asked, his dark eyes locked on Xie Lian.
“I define it like most of our clients do: by the high returns on their investments.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Hua Cheng admitted, tilting his head slightly. “And what I want too.”
“So we were recommended?”
He nodded, the braid shifting with the motion.
“Yes.”
Xie Lian waited for more—a name, a hint—but Hua Cheng stayed quiet. Feng Xin brought in hot tea—a cultural swap for coffee, common in Chongqing—setting the cups on the desk before leaving, and only then did the man continue.
“It doesn’t matter much why I picked your bank,” he said, the faint Vietnamese accent softening his Mandarin. “What matters is the account I want to open.”
Ignoring the tea, he pulled a long black wallet from his tunic’s inner pocket. The leather looked soft and pricey, fitting his refined vibe. Long fingers revealed a printed check and a business card, sliding both across Xie Lian’s desk.
“I’ll be doing some transactions,” he explained. “I believe this should cover it.”
Xie Lian didn’t touch the check right away, but his clear emerald eyes scanned it. Issued by a Guangzhou bank, it showed a seven-figure sum before the decimal. He reached for the phone and pressed a button. The office door opened in moments, Feng Xin at the threshold. Xie Lian called him in and handed over the check and card.
“Please handle the paperwork for this.”
He turned back to the man across from him.
“Would you prefer to wait, or should I send the documents later?”
“How long will it take?” Hua Cheng asked, his voice calm but steady.
The bigger the amount, the shorter the wait.
“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” Xie Lian replied.
“I’ll wait.”
Feng Xin nodded and slipped out fast, clutching the check tightly as he vanished through the door. Xie Lian faced Hua Cheng again. Usually, chatting with clients came easy to him, but this guy threw him off in a way he couldn’t pin down. Weak, Xie Lian, you really have a soft spot, he thought, chiding himself silently.
“What brings you to Chongqing, Mr. Hua?” he repeated. “You’re not from here…”
Hua Cheng tilted his head, like he was weighing the question.
“I grew up in a village near Hanoi,” he started in Mandarin, the Vietnamese accent adding a slight hue to the syllables. “But I lived in Guangzhou until recently. I moved here for business. I’m an importer.”
Xie Lian hid his surprise, keeping a mask of polite interest. Importer? The answer was vague enough to raise flags in Chongqing’s underworld, where the term could cloak shadier dealings.
“I see,” he said finally. “An importer…”
“Exactly. I import money,” he paused, his lips curving faintly. “And export goods.”
“You must be good at it.”
Hua Cheng smiled for the first time, and something—a quick, unexpected spark—stirred in Xie Lian’s chest.
“I’m good at everything I do, Mr. Xie,” he said, his tone thick with confidence. “Very good.”
Why did Xie Lian feel like those words carried more than business—something dangerously personal? He couldn’t say, but he nodded anyway, unsure what to reply. Surprisingly, Hua Cheng sidestepped the awkward silence by turning the talk to him.
“And you? What brought you to Chongqing?”
The question caught him off guard, but Xie Lian had a rehearsed answer after years of dodging probes about his past.
“International banking’s my specialty. I wanted a shot at seeing the system in action.”
“Why here? Couldn’t you have done that in Shanghai?”
“There, it’d take years to climb the ranks. I came to the branch, a smart bet, and got promoted fast to vice president of expat accounts. That wouldn’t have happened in Shanghai.”
“So you’re good at what you do too.”
Hua Cheng’s gaze was dark and unreadable but carried a weight Xie Lian couldn’t ignore as he sipped his tea.
“Yes, I’m good at it,” he echoed. “Very good.”
“Then we’ll make a great team.”
The words had an undertone that heightened his unease, but Xie Lian flashed a diplomatic smile.
“No doubt.”
Minutes later, Feng Xin returned with the papers. Hua Cheng skimmed them fast and signed without hesitation, showing he knew the terms cold. When he finished, he stood, and Xie Lian walked him to the office door. He stopped closer than Xie Lian liked, but in Chongqing, people had a looser sense of space. Still, the nearness made him sharply aware of every detail—the faint scent of wood and spice, the gleam of the braid against dark fabric.
“I’ll be traveling a lot, but my base will be Chongqing,” he said, smoothing his tunic with his hand, long, ringless fingers on display. “I’d like to get to know the city. I know it’s not your job, but could I invite you to dinner tonight to learn more about it?”
The offer threw him.
“I… already have plans,” he replied, hesitant.
“Too bad,” Hua Cheng said. “Another time, maybe?”
His pulse kicked up, though some instinct told him to keep his distance from this guy. Something in his presence hinted at danger. Still, he couldn’t risk offending him. He tilted his head and repeated, “Another time…”
Hua Cheng acknowledged it with an enigmatic smile, and Xie Lian wondered if it matched his real feelings.
“I’ll be in touch.”
He watched him leave and returned to the office. Seconds later, movement beyond the window caught his eye. Stepping to the tinted glass, he spotted Hua Cheng on the sloped street below, next to Lan Chang, Cuocuo’s mother. He was smiling at her and the baby, reaching out. The woman, in worn clothes with a bamboo basket beside her, grabbed what he offered and bowed her head in thanks. A moment later, he moved down the sidewalk, vanishing into the fog cloaking Yuzhong district. Mesmerized, Xie Lian watched as she opened her palm and counted the yuan notes he’d given her. It took a while.
(…)
The restaurant’s entrance hid behind a stone wall and an ornate iron gate, typical of Nanshan’s discreet spots, Chongqing’s upscale neighborhood. When Xie Lian stepped out of the car Jun Wu sent, a valet rushed over, unlocked the gate, and led him down a stone path flanked by bamboo and azaleas. The night’s fog hung thick, bouncing the soft glow of lanterns lighting the inner garden. The place, Jade Garden, didn’t look like a restaurant at first glance, blending with the surrounding mansions—a detail Xie Lian had noticed on his first visit, when he’d nearly asked the driver to turn back.
The maître greeted him by name as he crossed the threshold.
“Mr. Xie, you look impeccable tonight!”
Xie Lian wore a modern tangzhuang in a pearl-gray shade, simple cut with a high collar and subtle clasps. His layered, slightly wavy dark-brown hair fell relaxed past his shoulders. He smiled at the gray-haired man.
“Mr. Li, you flatter me as always. How are the grandkids?”
“Growing too fast, as always, sir. Thanks for asking.”
Leading him to the table, the maître kept chatting until Xie Lian sat.
“Mr. Jun called and said he’ll be a few minutes late. He apologizes and ordered baijiu for the table.”
Xie Lian doubted Jun Wu had ever apologized for anything in his life. His attention shifted, though, to the waiter who appeared beside the maître, uncorking a bottle of strong liquor.
“None for me,” he said, covering his glass with his hand.
The maître, prepared, brought over a glass of lychee juice, setting it in front of him. The clear, sweet liquid gleamed under the soft light. Leaning in, he adjusted the glass with precision.
“Lychee juice,” he announced. “Good enough?”
Xie Lian looked up with gratitude.
“Thank you so much,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.”
The two men stepped away, and Xie Lian waited, fingers curling around the glass’s thin stem. He hadn’t touched alcohol since leaving Russia, a hard line drawn after the chaos of the divorce. In Chongqing, with its business dinners and constant toasts, that wasn’t always simple. He’d been tempted—always would be—but he hadn’t caved. I can’t risk it, he thought. He’d get Xie Li and Xie Chen back someday, and when he did, no one would have ammunition against him.
Sipping the juice, he focused on the diners around him. In a city where the average income barely supported a family, few could afford a meal worth a month’s pay. So the tables held expats, local tycoons, or underworld figures—sometimes all at once. He nodded discreetly to a few. Clients, after all.
And Hua Cheng? What was he?
He didn’t fit the mold of local crime bosses, but in Chongqing, looks deceived. The gleaming skyscrapers and luxury electric bikes often belonged to those thriving in the shadows. He touched the silver spoon beside his plate and debated with himself. He could be legit—the region exported electronics, spices, and had a growing lithium market. Maybe he fronted for foreign investors. He should’ve asked straight up, but he suspected the answer would’ve been as slippery as the man.
Hua Cheng had the look of someone hiding secrets. Xie Lian knew it because he carried his own.
Jun Wu’s arrival minutes later yanked him from his thoughts. The tycoon, in a flawless suit with silk accents, shook his hand and sat. A waiter filled his glass with baijiu and, before Xie Lian could object, his too. He stared at the clear liquid with a frown but smoothed his expression fast.
Jun Wu raised his glass for a toast, waiting for him to join.
“To new beginnings,” he said. “And successful ventures.”
Xie Lian brought the glass to his lips and held it there a moment, not drinking. Jun Wu didn’t notice. He launched into talk, firing off questions about forex, the Asian market, and financial projections. By the time spicy noodles and grilled skewers arrived, Xie Lian had covered the yuan, global trends, and Chongqing’s trading future. Jun Wu soaked it all up fast, his questions sharp—almost too sharp. Was he being paranoid? Xie Lian wondered. Something in the man’s tone nagged at him, but he couldn’t place why.
Maybe it was Jun Wu’s past. Shi Qingxuan had mentioned he’d served the government in Beijing years back, possibly in the Ministry of Public Security. Chongqing, with its strategic spot and economic clout, made sense for an ex-official to settle in. He claimed to love the city—the humid climate, the chaotic energy—but Xie Lian found the choice odd for someone supposedly retired.
At the meal’s end, Jun Wu summoned the waiter and, without asking Xie Lian, ordered sesame dumplings and more baijiu. Standing, he looked down at him.
“I’ve got a call to make. Mind if I step away for a minute?”
Under the soft lights, his pale blue eyes looked cold, calculating.
“No, of course not,” Xie Lian replied.
Jun Wu pointed at his glass with an unlit cigar in hand.
“Finish that, and I’ll be right back.”
He’d noticed after all. Xie Lian watched him head toward the back of the restaurant and stared at the baijiu. His one goal was clear: make enough money to hire a top Beijing lawyer and bring Xie Li and Xie Chen home. That meant keeping Jun Wu happy. But he couldn’t drink that liquor. Alcohol had wrecked his life once already, stripping away everything he loved. If Jun Wu got offended, that was his problem. The money mattered, but his resolve mattered more.
Reaching for a bamboo planter beside him, he poured the baijiu into the leaves. At that exact moment, a shadow fell over the table. He looked up and saw Hua Cheng.
(…)
Hua Cheng wore a reformed hanfu with a stark edge, its near-black charcoal tunic accented by teal clasps and detailing. The inner lining, a lighter blue, offered subtle contrast. The fabric had a faint matte texture, bolstering his serious, commanding air. His dark hair in its braid gleamed under the lantern light. Xie Lian looked startled to see him.
“Mr. Hua!”
“Please, call me San Lang,” he said, nodding at the empty glass in his hand. “Bad baijiu?”
Xie Lian glanced at the glass, then at him. Hua Cheng’s gaze was steady, almost taunting.
“Yeah,” he lied. “Didn’t want to embarrass Mr. Li.”
“Naturally.”
Hua Cheng didn’t push it. It wasn’t his business, after all.
“Here for dinner, San Lang?”
“Yeah, thanks to your assistant. He recommended this place, you know?”
After snooping through your schedule, Hua Cheng thought, not saying it.
“I didn’t know that. I’ll tell him you approved.”
Xie Lian’s eyes slid to the figure beside Hua Cheng, and he caught the doubt that crossed his face. Had Hua Cheng made plans with this person before asking him, or called them after he’d declined? The truth was simpler. He Xuan, in a low-key suit and thin-framed glasses, was an old contact from the Chongqing consulate. Officially, an admin worker; in reality, someone who kept tabs on who needed watching. They had a long history, some of it personal.
Hua Cheng didn’t explain any of that, just gave the name. The two shook hands.
“You here alone?” he asked. “Want to join us?”
“I’m with someone,” Xie Lian replied. “But thanks.”
They talked a bit longer until the maître led them to a table tucked on the far side of the room, partly visible from Xie Lian’s spot. Two minutes later, Jun Wu returned, pulled out his chair, and sat. This time, when his eyes met Hua Cheng’s across the room, a cold recognition sliced through them.
On the other side, Hua Cheng smiled.