The party wound down at three in the morning.
Alcohol and revelry had drained everyone's energy. Li Fei left the nightclub, but he did not go to the same place as the women.
Under Manhattan's night sky, three different taxis headed in three different directions.
The first stop was the St. Regis Hotel on Fifth Avenue.
Monica Bellucci's suite carried the faint scent of Yves Saint Laurent's Opium perfume. She had already showered and was wearing a robe as she stood before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at New York's sleeping nightscape.
When Li Fei gently wrapped his arms around her from behind, she turned around, her eyes shimmering like the deep sea off Sicily.
"You know, Li," she said in a lazy, husky voice, "every time I watch you play basketball, it feels like watching an art of violence. That combination of power and beauty is intoxicating."
Li Fei lowered his head, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "And every time I see you, it feels like gazing up at a perfect sculpture. It fills me with awe."
Outside the window, the Empire State Building glowed brilliantly, reflecting the steadily rising heat inside the room.
When the clock hand pointed to four-thirty in the morning, Li Fei silently left the St. Regis Hotel and headed to Angelina Jolie's room at the Mercer Hotel.
The place's design was steeped in postmodern industrial style, making it a favorite among artists and Hollywood stars.
"I thought you got lost," Jolie said, stepping aside to let Li Fei in.
Li Fei smiled. "The road to treasure always requires a little spirit of exploration."
"Then tell me, explorer—did you find your treasure?"
Her presence was like the strongest whiskey, sharp and direct.
Even the air in the room seemed to carry a dangerous,