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Before dinner, the guests suppressed their hunger with candy, hot chocolate and ginger snaps.

Cong Nianwei was making a traditional American mince pie on the stove. If it wasn’t for their inspiration to have a traditional holiday, they would have chosen Chinese cuisine.

She put baking powder and salt and softened some vegetable butter into the pie crust. The stuffing contained onions, meat and butter.

Unlike a Chinese pie, which had to be fried in a pan, the mince pie had to be baked in the oven for 10 minutes.

Ding! The oven turned off automatically. Putting on thick oven gloves, Qin Guan took the large turkey out of the oven using a tray.

Then he placed it on a big white porcelain plate, decorated with rose petals. Everyone could smell the butter and pepper coming from it. There was no oil dripping around the turkey, which meant that it had been cooked perfectly. Its golden skin was cracking because of the low temperature in the room. The skin must be crisp and tasty...

The Batiste brothers carefully carried the large plate to the table and on the fine embroidered tablecloth.

"Ouch!" The white tablecloth betrayed Coulibaly, who was trying to stretch his black hand towards the turkey.

Cella hit him with his own gift, a crystal truncheon. She used it like the Spear of Judge.

When the brown pie and tasty polenta were on the table, the guests turned into hungry wolves.

"Shall we thank God before dinner?"

"For what? For the food? Just thank all the Chinese gods. Let’s eat!"

"Okay, let’s tuck in!"

They all stretched their hands. The chicken legs were taken by the Batiste brothers. Who said that the French had good table manners?

Joseph was gloomy. His strong body couldn’t beat those shameless guys. By the time Qin Guan picked up the wine, which was mixed with brown sugar, orange peels, almonds and raisins, only the bones of the turkey were left.

The glasses were filled one by one. Not a single drop was left in the bottle. A glass of warm wine after a satisfying dinner was the most wonderful thing.

"Hey, guys..."

"May the glory of God bless the Earth with peace and men with goodwill..."

Eight members of a choir were going around the building in Santa Claus costumes.

"And..."

"Hark the herald angel sing..."

There were singers everywhere on the streets. They were not professional ones. They had just taken this chance to get together with their friends.

The foreigners knew that that night was doomed to be a sleepless one.

Wrapping paper was lying in the corner, the gifts from their friends arranged by Cong Nianwei.

They were planning on working overnight, when someone unexpectedly knocked on their door.

An elegant china doll and her loyal guard were standing outside the door.

"Er... Merry Christmas."

They went into the apartment leisurely. "Sorry to trouble you, Qin Sang [1]. I just wanted to stay here for the night..."

"What?" Cong Nianwei went out of the kitchen, her eyes wide open. "Qin Guan, who is she?"

"She is the chairman of my Japanese fan club. I met her while I was in Japan..."

Cong Nianwei frowned as the mountain-like fat man beside her suddenly kneeled down on the floor.

"Take us in, Qin Sang. Please!"

You’re scaring me! I think you might perform hara-kiri like the ancient warriors.

If hara-kiri made sense, Dashi might actually commit suicide.

Actually, most of Yamaguchi Tsutomu’s strongholds had been taken over by the New York police, but she had escaped successfully.

When Han Zhujiu and a group of outlaws, including Mexican and Italian gangs, had destroyed all the Japanese forces, Yamaguchi Tsutomu had realized she had no place to go in New York. The failure itself was not devastating, but their very foundation was being pulled up by the roots...

Finally, she had thought of Qin Guan. She knew where he lived, but had never dropped in. If she could survive that night, she would fly back to Japan the next day and never return to New York again.

Thanks to the support of the government, the Japanese Mafia had forgotten about the cruelty of the law of the jungle.

The US was not a good place for the Japanese.

The fat man was kneeling on the floor of the small room. His black clothes still smelled of blood. The girl was staring at Qin Guan indifferently with her big, clear eyes.

Qin Guan was no idiot. He couldn’t make Cong Nianwei worry. He picked up his phone and spoke gently.

[1] Mr. Qin in Japanese.