Chapter 9:

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The thugs had breached the courtyard and smashed through the front door.
A burly, bald man led the charge, spitting on the floor as he bellowed, “Fucking Qins! Nowhere left to hide! Pay up today or we torch this place!”
Qin Ming stepped forward, shielding Jiang Zhi and Cheng Shuwen. “Compensation requires due process,” he stated firmly. “This mob solves nothing.”
The bald man sneered. “By then you’ll be bankrupt! My niece died for nothing! Two million now, and we disappear.”

Jiang Zhi understood: these were vultures circling tragedy.
Cheng Shuwen’s eyes bulged. “Two million?! Dream on, extortionist!”
The bald leader grinned. “This mansion’s worth that much. Sell it.”
Cheng Shuwen—pathologically greedy—saw her lifeblood threatened. A venomous gleam lit her eyes as she shoved Jiang Zhi forward. “Shang Chi’s wife! Our niece! She’s loaded—squeeze her!” If Jiang Zhi thought she’d escape this marriage, think again.

Jiang Zhi stumbled but caught her balance, eyes narrowing.
The bald man’s gaze turned predatory as he noticed her—a stunning figure even in casual wear. His eyes crawled over her curves. “Tch. That waist… those legs… Wouldn’t she be a fucking delight beneath a man?” He leered at Cheng Shuwen. “Bullshit. The Shangs wouldn’t touch trash like you.” His oily hand reached for Jiang Zhi’s arm. “But for this beauty? We might wait…”

Crack.
A sickening snap echoed through the room as bony knuckles wrenched the thug’s wrist backward.
“Agh—!!” The bald man’s scream cut off as Shang Chi—materializing like vengeance in a half-undone suit—drove his fist into the man’s left eye. Smoke curled from the cigarette dangling between his lips, his gold-rimmed glasses glinting coldly under the lights.

“Who the fuck are you?!” a lackey shouted.
Shang Chi didn’t glance at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the whimpering leader. “Your daddy.” Unworthy eyes deserve blindness.
The bald man, clutching his broken wrist and bleeding eye, roared at his men: “Kill this suit-wearing bastard!!”

The thugs charged—a wave of muscle. Shang Chi’s mouth curved. “Suicide it is.” He slipped off his Patek Philippe and tossed it to Jiang Zhi. “Hold this.”
As her fingers closed around the watch, the first fist flew. Shang Chi dodged, his tailored leg snapping up. Thud. A man flew backward, crashing into a wall.
Buttons flew as Shang Chi rolled up his sleeves. What followed wasn’t a fight—it was slaughter. Limbs cracked. Teeth scattered. Within minutes, fourteen men writhed on the floor.

Zhou Xu arrived to chaos: Qin Ming shielding the women, Shang Chi dragging the bald leader by his collar.
Crunch. The other eye exploded into a matching bruise.
Zhou Xu knew his boss’s duality—the elegant predator who frequented Muay Thai gyms abroad. These brutes never stood a chance. He offered a handkerchief.
Shang Chi wiped blood from his knuckles. “Took your time.”
“Hospital records delayed me,” Zhou Xu explained swiftly.

Jiang Zhi approached, her voice soft with a thread of concern. “President Shang, are you hurt?”
He flexed his unscarred hand—knuckles raw but unbroken. “No.”
She offered his watch. As he took it, his fingers grazed her palm. A current shot through her; her own fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
Shang Chi fastened the timepiece with lethal grace. Only the lingering fury in his eyes betrayed the violence.
Four words seared into Jiang Zhi’s mind:
Suited Butcher.