CHAPTER 5

This brunch would go down in history as one of the most unforgettable meals of Peach’s life.

Not only because it took place at the restaurant of his dreams—the kind he had admired from afar for years, saved in bookmarks and wish lists—but because of the man sitting across from him. A real Russian mafia boss. The kind that existed only in crime documentaries and whispered rumors. The kind who traveled with armed bodyguards and likely kept a gun within arm’s reach at all times.

That fact alone should have been enough to sear this meal into his memory forever.

If the food hadn’t been so obscenely expensive—and, unfortunately, so insanely good—Peach was certain he would have bolted the second he sat down. Instead, he stayed. He ate. He endured. His nerves were wound so tightly that he half-expected his stomach to shut down entirely out of sheer protest.

Midway through the meal, he discreetly popped a couple of antacids and digestive pills into his mouth, washing them down with water without sparing a thought for dosage instructions or timing. At this point, survival instincts trumped medical guidelines.

Honestly, the fact that he wasn’t also swallowing a migraine pill felt like a miracle.

When the last bite was gone and the table finally fell silent, Peach wiped his mouth and straightened in his seat. The quiet stretched uncomfortably between them, thick and awkward, like a held breath that refused to be released.

“Well,” he said, forcing a polite, stiff smile, “I think I should get going now. Thanks for the meal.”

The words sounded reasonable. Normal. Casual.

And yet, his body refused to cooperate.

He made no move to stand. His feet stayed rooted to the floor, as if glued in place. The weight of Thee’s gaze pressed down on him, invisible but heavy, freezing him where he sat.

Thee stood with his arms crossed, posture relaxed yet imposing. His expression was unreadable, sharp eyes studying Peach as if he were a problem waiting to be solved. Seconds passed. Then more. Peach could practically hear his own heartbeat.

Finally, Thee spoke.

“You gave good advice,” he said calmly. “How much do you want for it? Ten thousand. Would that be enough?”

“…Huh?”

Peach blinked, completely blindsided. His brain short-circuited.

Money? Now?

The mafia boss, however, appeared unbothered by his confusion. Instead of explaining, he tilted his head slightly, one hand moving to his chin as he thought aloud.

“Not enough?” Thee continued. “I was planning to pay ten thousand per piece of advice. Yours was solid.” He paused, then nodded to himself. “Fine. I’ll raise it to fifty. Are you satisfied now?”

Peach groaned, rubbing his temples like his skull was about to split open.

He genuinely felt like crying.

Why was it so hard to communicate with this man? Why did every conversation feel like trying to teach emotional nuance to a brick wall—one armed with unlimited funds and questionable morals?

Sure, the money was tempting. Fifty thousand was no small sum. But accepting it felt like signing an invisible contract—one that would bind him to Thee indefinitely. A personal advisor. A consultant. A convenient tool.

And Peach had a sinking feeling that getting involved any deeper with this man would not end well.

More likely than not, he’d be dead long before he ever got to spend that money.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

“Why are you trying to give me money?” he asked carefully.

“You did well,” Thee replied. “I’m satisfied. I reward people when I’m satisfied.”

Peach exhaled slowly, exhaustion washing over him.

Did he really have to explain this from scratch?

“Please,” he said, voice weary, “do me a favor and never say that to Aran. He’ll be irritated.”

Thee frowned, visibly confused rather than offended. That was… mildly reassuring. At least Peach wasn’t about to be shot.

Encouraged, Peach pushed his luck.

“That kind of phrasing sounds harsh,” he explained, choosing his words carefully. “It makes it seem like you’re buying people. Like money is all you value.”

He paused, then added quietly, “I came here because I genuinely wanted to help you, Mr. Thee.”

He wasn’t just explaining—he was setting boundaries. Raising his own worth in a way that had nothing to do with cash.

Thee’s frown deepened. “How is it cruel to reward someone for being good to me?”

Peach let out a tired sigh.

“The meal just now was more than enough,” he said softly. “It was delicious. I’ve wanted to eat there for a long time but never had the chance.”

He hesitated, then continued, voice gentler.

“And if someone does something kind for you… all you really need to do is say thank you.”

Silence.

The room seemed to hold its breath. The bodyguards nearby exchanged uneasy glances, torn between disbelief and barely contained laughter. But Thee paid them no attention. His eyes never left Peach.

Peach swallowed, heart pounding. He didn’t expect anything. Not really.

Still… he waited.

Thee’s lips moved slightly, as if testing unfamiliar shapes. The word seemed foreign on his tongue. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke in a calm, monotone voice.

“…Thank you.”

That was it.

Two syllables.

And yet Peach’s face lit up instantly, a bright, genuine smile spreading across his lips. His eyes curved into crescents, warmth radiating from him without restraint.

“You’re welcome,” he replied softly.

Theerakit Arseny was a Russian mafia boss through and through.

His father had been a legend in the underworld—a weapons dealer who clawed his way up from nothing, transforming himself from a nameless middleman into the owner of a weapons manufacturing empire. The Arseny name ruled the black market, supplying everyone from small-time gangs to governments that preferred their dealings untraceable.

Fear was currency. Power was law.

When investigations began to close in, Thee built a legitimate front: a luxury brand specializing in jewelry and perfume. A perfect laundering machine. Some pieces even doubled as weapons, crafted from the same metal used in firearms.

Under Thee’s leadership, the brand soared.

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He had been raised to believe that gratitude and apologies were meaningless. Reward cooperation. Punish defiance. Control everything.

But today, someone had looked him in the eye and asked for nothing more than a meal and a thank you.

So when Peach smiled—truly smiled—something strange happened.

It lingered.

Later, as his car rolled through the city, Thee’s gaze landed on a small flower shop outside.

“Order a bouquet for Aran,” he said calmly.

“What kind?” Mok asked.

“Any.”

After a pause, Thee added, “Send chocolates to Peachayarat too.”

Mok nearly choked.