Talk?
Chen Feng lifted his head, his eyes fixed on Zhou Fan.
Everything Zhou Fan had said when he left that afternoon, from the news of Liu Chuang's murder to the description of his own symptoms, had struck him like a dagger to the heart.
"How are we going to talk? Surely President Chen doesn't want to talk just like this?" Zhou Fan sat down casually on the sofa, picked up a bottle of liquor from the table, swirled it, and set it back down with a look of disgust.
"Of course not. You're overthinking it, Mr. Zhou." Chen Feng first took out a cigar, offered it to Zhou Fan, and even lit it for him. He then looked at the very delicate-looking young woman beside him. "Go get the liquor I have stored here."
Before long, a new lineup of liquor replaced the old ones on the table. To ensure the ensuing conversation would go smoothly and not be overheard, Chen Feng even sent away all the women except for the delicate-looking one.
