The night breeze over Manhattan blew in from the Hudson River, carrying the damp warmth unique to early summer.
Li Fei's mansion stood on high ground by the river. When he opened the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see all of Manhattan's skyline—the Empire State Building's spire glimmered in the night, the World Trade Center's twin towers stood like two silver needles piercing the city's heart, and the distant lights of Brooklyn were scattered like countless stars fallen onto the river.
Li Fei lay on the living room sofa with a glass of red wine in his hand. On the television, highlights from the Lakers' Western Conference Finals played.
O'Neal's low-post spin and dunk replayed again and again. Kobe's pull-up jumper was broken down in slow motion into a series of frozen moments—takeoff, hang time, release, basket.
He watched the footage with a calm expression, as if he were reading a report he'd already seen countless times.
Monica came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of sliced steak.
She wore a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was casually tied back. No makeup, no high heels, no unnecessary adornments. But her beauty needed no embellishment: the beauty of an Italian woman, carved into her bones and radiating from every pore. She set the plate on the coffee table and sat beside Li Fei.
"Still watching?" Her voice held the languor of someone fresh out of the shower.
Li Fei lifted his glass and took a sip. "It's a habit. Before every game, I watch footage of our opponents. I can't sleep if I don't."
Monica leaned against his shoulder, watching Kobe's face on the screen. "Is he good?"
"Very good." Li Fei set down his glass. "Better than I was at his