The Mafia Boss Calls Me His Little Ancestor

The monsoon season of Nanyang carried a humid sensuality as Liao Qiao pushed open the hotel’s carved wooden doors, only to overhear Shang Lu’s mocking sneer: “Are you following me? Still not over me?”



A sharp reprimand cut through the drama. “Show some respect to your sister-in-law!”



The shadow of a black shirt swept over Liao Qiao’s shoulder. Shang Yu exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze dropping to the crumpled figure on the floor. “Take him to the Dark Hall,” he ordered, his voice like glacial steel.



Liao Qiao studied the man’s chiseled profile. This was Shang Yu, the ruthless tycoon of Nanyang. He stood at the rain-soaked veranda, cigarette smoke curling around him, the faint scent of snow pine lingering in the air—a blade sheathed in elegance.



Their next meeting unfolded in the underground lounge of a nightclub. Liao Qiao sipped a Mojito, watching Shang Yu stub out his cigar with a snap. “Mr. Yan requests your presence.” Before the bodyguard could finish, she sauntered into the private room.



Under crystal chandeliers, Shang Lu retched into a toilet bowl while Shang Yu tapped his fingers on the marble table. “Explain the annulment yourself.” Before the words echoed, Liao Qiao leaned against the doorframe, spinning a car key between her fingers. “I heard Mr. Shang owns a Maybach. Care to lend it for a spin?”



On the manicured lawns of Nan Yang Manor, Shang Yu knelt to tend to a cut on her ankle. Liao Qiao traced the mole near his eye, laughter bubbling. “So anxious, Mr. Shang? Could it be…” His hands yanked her into an embrace, his palm pressing against her wounded back. “If it hurts, bite me.”



The night Shang Lu’s yacht exploded, Liao Qiao stood by the manor’s floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Shang Yu’s silhouette rigid against the lightning-flashed horizon. Thunder cracked. For the first time, she understood why her father called her “Nanyang’s curse”—she had a knack for shattering and reshaping the trajectories of those around her without rhyme or reason.



When Shang Yu returned from Palma, he pressed a platinum card into her palm. “Want to see where you were born?” Liao Qiao traced the intricate engravings, finally deciphering the truth in her father’s indulgent eyes—she was never just a heiress. She was the wildfire he’d always kept burning in his palm.