The instant the last thug hit the pavement, Liu Yiru spun around.
"Ye Fei—are you hurt?" Her voice cracked on his name.
"I'm okay, Mom." He gave a shaky grin, but his face was chalk-white and his shoulders trembled just enough to make her heart clench.
Sirens wailed up the block; Times Square on a Saturday night is never short of cops. Five minutes later they were all in the back of a squad car—muggers cuffed, mother and son riding up front like VIPs. Paperwork took twenty minutes tops, either because the NYPD loves tourists or because Ye Fei's fixer had already greased the gears.
Back at the rented townhouse she marched him straight upstairs: shower, pajamas, lights-out. She'd promised him daily "stress relief," but tonight he looked rattled, not horny—so she tucked him in without a word. Ye Fei played the docile patient: quick rinse, zombie-walk to the guest-room bed, eyelids fluttering like he could barely keep them open.
