Chapter Text
If Deng Han has to hear another pouty whine from Wang Yibo again, he swears he’s going to take a kitchen chopper to that kid.
Or he would, if there was any chance at all of him surviving after that.
Deng Han is under no illusions about the slow, painful death that he’ll be subjected to if he lays a single hand on Wang Yibo. His leader, Xiao Zhan, has made it clear that whatever Yibo wants, Yibo gets, and he’s not interested in hearing the opinions that anyone might have about it, not even from his most loyal right hand man.
It isn’t that Xiao Zhan is less effective as a leader because of Yibo. Yibo hasn’t noticeably made Xiao Zhan any less sharp, cunning, or merciless. But Xiao Zhan deserves more than a snotty blond nineteen-year-old college kid; he deserves someone equally brilliant and dignified, someone who can lead with him, someone who’s worthy of China’s youngest and most lethal gang leader.
Not someone who is, at this very moment, cuddled up on his lap, whining, “Zhan-ge hasn’t kissed me yet today.”
“I kissed you this morning, baby,” Xiao Zhan says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yeah, but without tongue,” Yibo replies, and grinds down on Xiao Zhan’s crotch.
Deng Han motions to the two lieutenants to leave, which they thankfully do. The meeting is over, anyway. Xiao Zhan has said all that he’s needed to say about the job at the harbour tonight, and he has moved on to placing his tongue very firmly in the kid’s mouth, licking into it in the filthiest way that Deng Han has ever seen.
And Deng Han, in his youth, had run brothels.
Yibo gives a needy little moan, locking his legs around Xiao Zhan’s waist and grinding harder against him, and Deng Han decides that it’s time for him to make his own graceful exit.
It’s been one year since Xiao Zhan brought Wang Yibo back to the Xiao mansion, a lean, icily beautiful then-eighteen-year-old who seemed utterly disinterested in anyone and anything except Xiao Zhan, and even after twelve months, Deng Han still can’t get used to the shamelessly loud noise that Yibo makes when he comes. It resounds around the spaces in the mansion, makes even the most stoic of their men flush. They can hear it downstairs; they can hear it in the kitchen where a group of men are eating a late lunch. Everyone swallows and nobody says anything. There’s been an uptick in pregnancies and births among their men’s wives lately, and Deng Han doesn’t think it’s too much of a stretch to connect it to the constant stream of moans emitting from Yibo’s mouth whenever Xiao Zhan is in the vicinity.
When Xiao Zhan summons him on the walkie talkie, his voice as neutrally pleasant as it always is, Deng Han re-enters the room to find Yibo sleeping against Xiao Zhan’s shoulder. His pants are on the floor and his naked ass is cupped in Xiao Zhan’s hand, thumb stroking the skin in slow circles. “Call for Lin Jiezhong,” Xiao Zhan says briefly. “I wish to speak to him about tonight.”
“Lin Jiezhong?” Deng Han repeats. “But he’s not involved in tonight’s job. It’s Meng-ge and Qian Yang’s show.”
“He will be,” says Xiao Zhan.
-
Qian Yang tries something funny. Lin Jiezhong shoots off his hand first, but Meng Lining is the one who shoots off his head.
The body goes into the sea, the goods are retrieved without a fuss, and Meng-ge reports that they’re safely in the warehouse.
Such betrayals in the Xiao organisation are few and far between. The last one was four years ago, back when Xiao Zhan was twenty-one and struggling to raise the Xiao organisation up from the ashes. Deng Han had killed the second conspirator; Xiao Zhan had killed the first. Deng Han asks if Qian Yang had been acting alone or if the betrayal can be traced to a deeper rot within the organisation.
“He was acting alone,” Xiao Zhan says confidently. “The Zhangs approached him with promises of a pay increment and a gambling den of his own to run. I’ve had it thoroughly checked out; nobody else has been compromised.”
“When did you start suspecting him?”
Xiao Zhan smiles. “When he started making a number of calls to a girlfriend who doesn’t exist.”
Deng Han sighs. “Brilliant.”
Xiao Zhan stands up and stretches. “Be sure to give Meng-ge and Lin Jiezhong a nice bonus for their work tonight. Jiezhong’s been wanting to take his wife to see Huangshan. Pay his way, get him the best hotel in the area.”
“Done.”
Xiao Zhan glances over to the sofa in the corner of the room where Wang Yibo is crouched, playing some video game on a handheld console. “Zhuzhu.”
Yibo looks up. “Are you done?”
“Yes, stop pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” Yibo says. “I’m just bored.”
Xiao Zhan walks over to him, puts his hands under Yibo’s armpits and hauls him up. “Let’s go to bed, baby.”
“Finally,” Yibo sighs, wrapping his arms around Xiao Zhan’s neck.
Deng Han watches them leave. Xiao Zhan’s bedroom is on the third floor, a sprawling suite with its own balcony. He’d lived there alone, not even bringing any of his fuckbuddies-on-dial over, until Yibo crashed into his life. Now, Yibo is a fixture in the third floor suite. Lounging around half-dressed when he’s back from college, smoking on the balcony, practising noisy skateboard moves in the middle of the room.
For the thousandth time, Deng Han sighs. Of Xiao Zhan’s affairs, the most impressive one had been Ayunga, a statuesque Mongolian who lasted almost two years, longer than anyone before or after him. Ayunga was older, dignified, handsome, someone who turned the heads of the right people. If only Ayunga had been the one who’d moved in instead of this unbearable kid. If only.