America's No. 1 financial conglomerate

Chapter 602 An Invitation from Buffett

One-third of the world's richest people live in New York, but they mostly reside in a few specific areas.

The Upper East Side and Upper West Side are synonymous with New York's old-money class.

This place is filled with century-old houses, museums, private schools and high-end galleries, and every detail is permeated with the family heritage and aristocratic temperament passed down for centuries.

Long Island, with its vast green spaces, private estates, and long coastline, has become another choice for established wealthy families. The mansions hidden behind towering trees have witnessed the rise and fall and inheritance of generations of families.

In contrast, the newly rich favor the West Village and the area around Central Park, where modern, top-tier apartments and Manhattan's rare urban green spaces become symbols of status for the newly wealthy.

In addition, there's Tribeca, a haven for celebrities and fashion icons, where every penthouse apartment might be home to an Oscar winner or a world-renowned director.

Many celebrities in the entertainment industry own property in New York, but Ernst has never really heard of anyone owning property in Queens.

The North Shore of Queens is home to some of the few manor-style luxury residential areas in New York City that offer river views.

Sitting on the sofa, watching those so-called experts on TV speaking eloquently and confidently, with righteous indignation, Ernst couldn't help but laugh.

"YueDong Games' stock price is severely detached from its actual value. YueDong Games will definitely help Wall Street institutions liquidate their positions, and the price will certainly not reach its current level."

In this world, if there were a competition for blatantly lying, half of the top ten would be so-called experts, and the rest would be politicians. "What's wrong? What are you looking at? That's so funny."

A soft, alluring female voice sounded from behind, accompanied by warm breath and a soft touch.

Ernst instantly felt two full, soft mounds pressed tightly against his back, and a pair of slender, fair arms wrapped around the back of his neck. The delicate body, carrying a faint scent of gardenias, pressed close, making him involuntarily think of the other's charm.

He gently patted the other man's hand that was resting on his chest twice, and with a little force, Monica Bellucci immediately understood. She giggled and walked around the sofa, gracefully sitting in his lap.

At this moment, she was completely naked, and her skin, illuminated by the fireplace firelight, had a snow-white sheen. Her neck and cheeks were flushed with a natural rosy blush, like fine mutton fat jade tinged with a light rouge color.

Ernst reached out and covered her full breasts, his fingertips tracing the smooth, delicate skin and defined contours. His tone was slightly teasing. "Choosing this mansion really just because you see its investment potential?"

Monica, like a docile kitten, reached out and hooked her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest, her warm breath spraying onto his shirt, carrying a clear hint of provocation. "What else?"

Her voice was soft and gentle, with a hint of languor. "Didn't you say that Queens would have significant future development and was an undervalued area?"

This mansion is her latest purchase; it covers an area of ​​over 60,000 square feet, approximately 1.5 acres.

The lawn and vegetation alone cover an acre, tightly surrounding the house, while a dense ring of black pines and oaks forms a natural barrier, ensuring absolute privacy.

Such mansions are nowhere to be seen in Manhattan, but there are quite a few on Long Island.

But the price? A similarly sized mansion on Long Island would cost at least three times as much. "I think you bought this mansion more because of its room layout."

He tugged at the tip of her breast, causing her delicate body to tremble. Ernst teased, "You're getting bolder and bolder, daring to walk into the living room completely naked."

This is something the other party would absolutely never do, whether it's in their mansion in Central Park or in Hidden Mountain City.

But here, he's as bold as a completely different person.

This mansion has a maid's room, a separate maid's room, which is not common in many mansions.

Located on both sides of the mansion are four two-story simple houses, each about 80 square meters in total.

With the curtains drawn, the battle raging inside remains undetected from the outside, and there's no need to worry about being seen by others.

Monica's cheeks flushed even more deeply, clearly her secret had been exposed.

She rolled over in Ernst's arms, deliberately avoiding the topic that embarrassed her, and turned to look at the TV screen, changing the subject by asking, "You still haven't told me what you were laughing at just now? You were laughing so happily."

Ernst held her slender waist tightly, his tone tinged with disdain. "I'm laughing at these so-called experts. They're treating retail investors like complete fools."

His fingertips gently traced Monica's smooth back as he continued, "The battle between bulls and bears at Leap Games isn't simply a matter of financial maneuvering; the core conflict lies with China Telecom. There's still no clear information about China Telecom in the market. How could I possibly help Wall Street get out of its predicament? It would only push them further."

Monica Bellucci knew a little about this, but not much, and didn't care, because she trusted Ernst. She was more concerned about tomorrow's Christmas dinner.

She looked up, a hint of hesitation and trepidation in her bright eyes, and asked softly, "Do you really want me to come with you to the Christmas dinner tomorrow?"

Ernst reached out and gently pinched her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. His tone was playful. "What, you don't want to? Then I'll call someone else."

"You're so annoying!" Monica playfully punched his chest with her small fist, saying coquettishly, "I was just worried about causing you trouble!"

That was Warren Buffett's Christmas dinner, attended by New York's top tycoons and social elites, each name capable of influencing the landscape of an industry.

On such a festival, such an important occasion, no one would bring their usual dance partner; instead, they would bring their wife or even their whole family.

Monica knew her place; she was an actress, one of Ernst's many partners, or to put it bluntly, his mistress.

In such a setting, her presence could easily become a topic of ridicule for Ernst, causing him to lose face.

However, Ernst didn't care at all. He chuckled and said frankly, "Anyway, my image across America has always been that of a playboy who frequents brothels."

Monica turned her head and stared at him blankly.

Her bright eyes flickered with complex emotions—love, heartache, and a hint of confusion—why would anyone so readily use such derogatory terms to describe themselves?

"Even if you really are a playboy, I'm still willing to be the most beautiful flower in your garden." Monica's voice was gentle yet firm, carrying a hint of resolute determination. "So... sob."

Before she could finish speaking, Ernst leaned down and sealed her lips with his.

The burning kiss, imbued with intense possessiveness, instantly overwhelmed all her senses.

He swept her up in his arms, turned around, and pressed her down onto the soft sofa. The firelight from the fireplace illuminated the two of them, and an ambiguous atmosphere filled the air.

"We...haven't eaten yet."

Ernst lowered his head and gently kissed her forehead, saying passionately, "I think the best meal of the night is already before me."

This Christmas Eve, in this mansion in Queens, Ernst felt like he was celebrating Chinese New Year's Eve.

When dinner was served, it was already past 11 p.m., and it really felt like New Year's Eve dinner.

Inside the restaurant, a rectangular solid wood dining table is covered with a white linen tablecloth, and set with silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses. The flickering candlelight illuminates the delicious food on the table.

Ernst picked up his knife and fork, cut off a piece of pan-fried salmon, and tasted a subtle lemon aroma and the richness of butter.

He chewed a couple of times, looked at Monica sitting beside him expectantly, and praised her generously, "I didn't expect your cooking skills to be so good."

Upon hearing this, Monica's face immediately lit up with a childlike smile, as if she had received a reward for her favorite candy. "I spent a lot of money to hire a Michelin-starred chef as my private tutor to learn this," she said softly, a hint of pride in her eyes.

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

There is no such saying in the West, but there are famous sayings about catering to a man's preferences.

Ernst loved good food, so Monica diligently studied how to prepare it.

He forked a large scallop, chewed it a couple of times, a satisfied smile spreading across his face, and shook his head in bewilderment, saying, "Why do Americans only know about turkey?"

Whether it's Christmas or Christmas Eve, turkey is the main dish on most American tables.

Furthermore, many Americans don't eat food with bones, so they don't eat chicken legs or wings; they only eat dry chicken breast.

Compared to these, Ernst found the Italian Christmas to be quite nice.

Instead of turkey, there was a seafood feast.

"In Italy, Christmas Eve, also known as Lent, is traditionally a day for seafood and vegetables." Monica continued, placing a piece of baked lobster with cheese on Ernst's plate. "On Christmas Day, the main dishes are lamb, beef, sausage, and pasta."

"Sounds good." Ernst quite likes this food culture.

Enjoying her meal, Monica Bellucci glanced at the presepes in the living room and asked curiously, "Why did you put these things here?" Monica Bellucci paused for a moment, then replied, "I'm Italian."

Seeing that Ernst didn't seem to understand, she laughed, "So there are things you don't understand too."

Seeing the other person's mocking expression, Ernst pulled him directly into his arms.

"Haha, I was wrong, it's too itchy."

When Ernst stopped, Monica playfully slapped him and said coquettishly, "You just like to bully me."

After saying that, she pointed to the presepes and explained, "This is originally an Italian tradition."

"The Christmas tree is a Nordic tradition, and it only became popular in Italy this century. For Italians, the Christmas tradition is presepe, not Christmas tree."

Presepes are those decorative figurines you often see in TV dramas, depicting biblical stories, scenes of Jesus' birth, children in cowsheds, or campfires in caves.

Ernst had always thought this was part of a Christmas tree, a Christmas decoration sold specifically to wealthy people. It turns out it's an Italian tradition.

Turning around, he found the woman in his arms still suppressing a smile.

He threw the fork on the table and pinned the other person down on it.

The advantages of a luxury home are now fully apparent; at least the desktop area is large enough.