Chapter 38: Agreement Reached

“Sis, what did brother-in-law say to you just now? Why do you look so upset?” On the highway, the Panamera sped along the smooth national road. Su Sen was at the wheel, Li Lan sat in the passenger seat absorbed in her phone, and in the back, Su Qingxue couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer. She’d noticed Su Qingcheng’s blank face as she gazed silently at the scenery streaming past the window, and finally spoke up.

“He didn’t say much. Just told me to be more careful in the future, so you don’t end up running out in the middle of the night again.” At this, Su Qingcheng’s expression turned a little awkward, her reply vague.

“All right then.” Seeing this, Su Qingxue could only pout her rosy lips and quietly shrink back into her seat.

Watching her younger sister and parents drop the subject, Su Qingcheng breathed a silent sigh of relief. No matter what, she would never let the three of them know what Mo Ran had really said.

Her mind drifted back to the scene at the police station, to the words Mo Ran had spoken—which still left her heart pounding with lingering fear. “President Su, if I remember right, the surveillance at your villa—both at the entrance and in the living room—has an alarm function. If there’s any movement at night, your phone will sound an alert.”

Su Qingcheng’s head still buzzed with those words. Combined with his earlier remarks about settling scores, the meaning was all too clear. He was telling her in no uncertain terms: stop using Su Qingxue as a pretext to get close to him. This time, she’d been lucky it ended as it did—he wouldn’t expose her intentions, nor would he help her pass any message to Secretary Xiao for the Su Group. Everything ended here.

“What should I do?” Su Qingcheng felt a wave of discouragement. She’d always considered herself resourceful, yet now she couldn’t come up with a single workable solution to the Su Group’s current predicament.

If she couldn’t resolve this crisis, Su Dashan would never let her return to the company. A short absence might be fine, but if this dragged on, the trusted confidants she’d promoted in every department as CEO would be reassigned or turn against her. By the time she did return, she’d be left with an empty title and no actual power, and would have to start all over again.

While Su Qingcheng was lost in her troubled thoughts, elsewhere, Mo Ran was making his way back to his rented flat, half riding, half pushing his battered secondhand three-wheeler.

“What a piece of junk! Sooner or later I’ll replace you,” Mo Ran muttered breathlessly as he plugged in the charger, finally allowing himself to relax as he grumbled in the courtyard.

After a moment, he finally had time to check his phone. After all the morning’s commotion, it was already noon; he hoped it wasn’t too late to meet the father of the university student from last night.

Sure enough, there were 99+ unread messages from that young man—clearly, the other party was anxious. Without hesitation, Mo Ran sent a voice call request; within five seconds, it was answered, a few words exchanged, and the call ended. Moments later, a location pinged on Mo Ran’s phone.

Glancing at the location, Mo Ran quickly went inside, changed out of his work clothes, slipped into the outfit Xiao Xiao had bought him in College Town, washed his face, and headed out. After all, it was basic courtesy to look presentable when meeting someone.

He hailed a ride, and half an hour later arrived at the address: Lao Wang’s Barbecue.

As soon as he stepped out, Mo Ran spotted the young man waiting anxiously by the road. Their eyes met, and Mo Ran saw the tension melt from the young man’s face.

“Brother, you’re finally here! My dad’s been waiting for you, he’s getting anxious,” the young man greeted him with a broad smile, hurrying over to welcome him.

“Sorry, I ran into some trouble this morning and didn’t get a chance to check my phone,” Mo Ran apologized, explaining briefly.

“No worries, my dad’s in the kitchen. I’ll go get him.” The young man nodded politely, motioned for Mo Ran to sit, and hurried off to fetch his father.

While he waited, Mo Ran took the chance to look around the barbecue shop. The place was spacious, with about a dozen tables in the dining area. He ran a hand over a few of the tabletops—clean and grease-free—and noticed the floor was spotless too, with no sticky residue underfoot. Clearly, the owner took hygiene seriously. In the corner, the fridge was neatly stocked with barbecue ingredients, leaving Mo Ran with a very favorable impression.

Three or five minutes later, a hearty middle-aged man emerged from the kitchen, followed by the young man. At the sight of Mo Ran inspecting the dining area, the man’s eyes lit up and he approached with a smile, hand outstretched.

Mo Ran reached out and shook his hand. The man’s palm was clean, not greasy—clearly, he’d washed up before coming out. Mo Ran said nothing about it, simply exchanged a few pleasantries.

After a round of polite business banter, they got down to business.

“Mr. Wang, I’ll get straight to the point. I brought some meat with me—marinated this morning with my own tenderizing spice blend. Try grilling a few skewers and see what you think, then we can talk price.” Sensing the man’s shrewdness beneath his bluff exterior, Mo Ran decided not to beat around the bush. He pointed to the small bag of lamb he’d brought and suggested they taste it first.

Mr. Wang didn’t stand on ceremony. He glanced at his son, who immediately understood and fetched a grill, efficiently preparing for barbecue.

“Mr. Wang knows his stuff—fruitwood charcoal! That’s what gives it that aromatic flavor,” Mo Ran observed, instantly spotting the quality of the charcoal from its color and the hue of the flames, giving a thumbs-up.

“Ha! Mr. Mo, you know your barbecue!” Mr. Wang’s face showed a flash of surprise before he grinned.

The young man worked quickly and skillfully, and soon the prep was done.

Mr. Wang took some long bamboo skewers, pulled on a pair of clean disposable gloves, and took out the lamb.

“This weight, this feel…” Years of barbecue had given Mr. Wang a keen sense for portions. He’d barely picked it up when he noticed the difference, glancing at Mo Ran in surprise—no wonder it sold for twenty a skewer, the quality was worth the price.

Without hesitation, Mr. Wang skewered all six pieces of lamb, making two skewers.

As he worked the grill, the aroma of lamb drifted out, stoking the appetite as the high heat seared the meat, fat sizzling onto the fruitwood coals and sending up fragrant blue smoke. Even the proprietress emerged from the kitchen, drawn by the enticing smell.

A few minutes later, the couple each took a skewer and tasted the lamb, leaving their son drooling on the sidelines.

“Mr. Mo, I want your lamb—name your price,” Mr. Wang said decisively after exchanging a glance with his wife.

“How much do you need?” Mo Ran didn’t rush to set a price; he wanted to hear what volume they required.

“To be honest, my wife and I have our own tenderizing recipe too. Thanks to it, we’ve opened two barbecue shops in Shanghai. This one is the oldest, and there’s another about three kilometers away. Combined, the two shops bring in about 200,000 yuan a month.” Mr. Wang’s introduction gave Mo Ran a sense of their scale.

By Mr. Wang’s calculations, he could get 45 skewers from a kilo of lamb, selling at 8 yuan per skewer. The two shops together sold around 6,000 to 7,000 skewers a day. Mo Ran did the math: his own method yielded 20 skewers per kilo, and the current price of lamb was 35 yuan a kilo. For 7,000 skewers, at least 160 kilos of lamb would be needed, factoring in some wastage. Selling all 7,000 skewers would bring in 56,000 yuan, and his cost for marinating 160 kilos would be 5,600 yuan. The profit margin was impressive.

“Mr. Wang, let’s do this. For 7,000 skewers, at 45 per kilo, that’s about 155 kilos, but let’s round up to 160 kilos. How does that sound?” Mo Ran thought for a moment and made his proposal.

Mr. Wang and his wife exchanged a glance and nodded.

“All right, one price: 12,000 for 160 kilos of lamb. I’ll marinate it fresh each day and deliver it to your door—you just need to skewer it yourself.” Mo Ran calculated and quoted his price.

“Mr. Mo, isn’t that a bit high? That comes out to 75 yuan per kilo. Top-quality lamb only goes for 35 a kilo now, and if you buy in bulk, it’s even cheaper,” the couple hesitated, clearly wavering at the price.

“Mr. Wang, opportunities like this don’t come twice. It was your son who first discovered me—if he hadn’t recommended me, I wouldn’t be here. Shanghai’s a big place; if another barbecue joint strikes a deal with me first, then…” Mo Ran paused, giving them a meaningful look, “well… you know.”

“All right, deal.” Mr. Wang and his wife, persuaded, exchanged another glance and agreed. Mo Ran had hit the nail on the head—business was getting harder, with more and more newcomers flooding into Shanghai, and competition among peers was fierce. More snack bars and barbecue stalls had sprung up nearby. If it weren’t for their years of reputation and loyal customers, they’d have struggled too.

“Excellent. But I’ll need some time to prepare. Let’s start with a two-week trial, gradually increasing the amount, and payment is cash on delivery.” Mo Ran smiled—he didn’t have the capital for monthly settlements and didn’t want to shoulder the risk.

“Agreed. Let’s draw up a contract.” With the biggest terms settled, Mr. Wang was happy to agree to the rest.

“I’ll have the marinated lamb delivered right away.” With everything in place, Mo Ran broke into a smile…