Clap clap clap!
Sitting to Truman's right, General Marshall began to applaud. He smiled at Vice President Henry Wallace and said:
"Henry, Mr. Valentino is right.
We can't let these kids who bled for the country have to share a single-room shack with their whole family and no privacy."
"But if they keep building like this," Wallace shot back bluntly, ignoring the stares in the room, "there will inevitably be oversupply, bubbles, collapse!"
Wallace's stubbornness made Truman frown. He turned to Leo.
"What do you think of the Vice President's warning?"
Leo nodded.
"The Vice President is correct."
His apparent flip-flop made the room's mood shift uneasily.
"But," Leo continued calmly, "who knows when that day will actually come?
Ignoring the needs of today's people because of some vague fear of the future…
That's like a boxer who refuses to throw a punch because he's afraid of getting hit.
If you never punch, you never win.
Sure, a bubble will come—but years from now.
And with the lesson of the Great Depression behind us, I believe our successors will know how to handle it."
His words drew applause—not because they were particularly eloquent, but because they hit home.
Everyone there understood unregulated growth would eventually lead to problems.
But if the crash wouldn't happen on their watch—then it wasn't their problem!
Why kill the profit now over something that wouldn't hurt them personally?
Wallace's expression darkened.
Leo's speech had been another threat—not of violence this time, but of votes.
If the government didn't meet people's needs, why would those people vote for them?
Death didn't scare Wallace, but losing elections? That terrified him.
He memorized Leo's face.
This little bastard had already cost him money once with the Bubble House scandal.
Now, twice in public, he'd threatened and embarrassed him.
When he became President, Wallace swore, he'd make this kid pay.
Or maybe he wouldn't even have to wait that long.
Word was this punk had also managed to piss off MacArthur.
That thought sent a gleam into Wallace's eye.
The meeting wrapped up.
Officials filed out, leaving only Truman, Marshall, and Leo.
"Well done, Leo," Truman said, visibly pleased. "I knew you were the right man.
Austin's so slippery. He knows all this, but he's too scared of Henry to actually say it."
Marshall chuckled.
"Austin's not like Leo. He's been at Tishman for years, but he's aiming for the top job at the Federal Housing Administration.
Big ambitions.
He'd never dare cross the man most likely to be our next President."
Hearing this, Leo got his first real taste of America's revolving door.
He'd had people dig into Austin after meeting him in New York.
Austin's backstory sounded a lot like Leo's own—classic small-town meritocrat.
But his résumé was insane:
Harvard grad
Wall Street banker, worked at Merrill, Morgan Stanley, even the then-obscure Goldman Sachs
Became a real estate mogul across several states
Wrote books
Even a visiting professor at Harvard's architecture school.
And now?
He was trying to parlay all those business connections into political power.
Leo suddenly understood why Austin was so focused on building the National Real Estate Association.
It was Austin's real endgame.
Chair that association, then jump to FHA administrator—become the ultimate government lobbyist for the entire industry.
Every real estate firm in America would have to fund his political rise.
They'd make each other rich.
"Which party is he in?" Leo asked.
Truman shot him a sidelong glance and didn't answer.
Instead, Marshall said:
"He hasn't joined any party yet."
Leo felt a chill down his spine.
To someone naive, Austin probably looked like he was "keeping his options open."
But Leo, who was finally grasping how high the ceiling really was in the East, recognized something else:
Even with all his power, all his connections—even getting Hoover and Truman to support his association launch—Austin still wasn't in the real circle.
He was just clawing for a spot on the shortlist of maybe-insiders.
Leo felt lucky he'd focused so much on the West.
In the East, the final admission ticket had been locked away around 1900.
Forty years of gilded-age wealth had built walls within walls.
Truman snapped him back:
"Enough about him. Leo, I kept you behind because I want your honest opinion.
I might only have a year left as President.
Should we really go all-in on supporting real estate?"
Leo shook his head.
"First, sir—I reject your premise.
I don't believe you only have a year left.
Your record speaks for itself.
The American people see that, even if the pollsters only call the upper classes.
As for real estate, I'll give you just one fact:
Every discharged soldier is a potential homebuyer.
Your demobilization will add millions of new consumers.
That alone will sustain a boom for at least three years.
And don't forget—we just defeated fascism.
We're about to reap the accumulated wealth of Europe.
That wealth will trickle down to ordinary Americans, turning renters into buyers.
Most importantly, wartime industry has yet to convert to civilian demand.
Factories are overflowing with goods they can't sell.
Stores have empty shelves but sky-high prices.
People line up just to buy one or two things.
Real estate has none of those bottlenecks.
Developers connect directly to factories, turning raw output into homes.
Mr. President, let me be bold:
No other sector can so effectively absorb our excess production and spread government wealth to the people.
Nothing else will restart our entire economy as fast as housing."
Truman and Marshall sat up straight.
Their policy teams had written long, conflicting memos on this question.
Sure, some memos said the same things as Leo—but always couched in "recommend" and "suggest."
Austin, when asked yesterday, had hedged and equivocated.
Only this young man spoke with such blunt confidence.
But Truman was a cautious politician. He needed to see if this was wisdom or just youthful arrogance.
"What about the bubble Henry mentioned?" Truman asked.
"When do you think it'll hit?"
Leo didn't hesitate.
"Between 1960 and 1965.
But I think it'll be a short-lived dip.
Mr. President, have you looked at the latest birth rates?
We're seeing an explosion of newborns.
When the 1966–67 bubble peaks, that baby boom will be coming of age.
What they call a 'bubble' will actually become wise government planning in hindsight."
Truman's eyes lit up.
He called a staffer in and demanded the latest birth data.
He and Marshall pored over the 1945–46 numbers, then looked back at Leo with newfound respect.
Especially Truman.
Even if he served another term, he'd be out by 1952 or so.
But a multi-year housing boom? He could absolutely green-light that.
Truman rose and offered his hand.
"Leo Valentino.
In the Pacific, you turned battles with your quick thinking and saved countless lives.
And now you're showing us the path for America's housing future.
God blessed you in ways that make me jealous.
Leo, I'm asking you to join my staff—as Special Advisor on Housing."
Leo immediately shook his hand.
After so long playing mouthpiece and lightning rod, this was the reward.
"It would be my honor, Mr. President."
Marshall clapped once.
"Earlier, you mentioned overproduction.
That term interests me.
Can real estate really fix our country's overproduction problem?"
Leo was grateful he'd studied history in his last life.
This question is like an open-book exam, he thought gleefully.
He composed himself:
"No, sir.
It's like a gridlocked intersection stuffed with cars.
Real estate widens the road, but it doesn't solve the core problem.
To really fix it, you have to build new roads—create new markets."
Marshall grinned.
"Where? Don't be shy. Say it."
Leo walked to the big world map on the wall and pointed.
"Europe.
It's in ruins but desperate to rebuild."
Truman immediately turned to Marshall.
Marshall let out a booming laugh.
"Don't look at me, Harry—I've never met him before today.
But after today, I'd like us to be friends.
Leo, the European Recovery Plan will need people from the real estate world too.
I'm officially inviting you to help us design it."
Truman shrugged.
"Young people should be busy."
Leo couldn't argue.
He shook Marshall's hand next.
"My honor, sir."
When they parted, they exchanged warm embraces.
During theirs, Truman murmured in Leo's ear:
"Remember—today's meeting, tomorrow's staff announcement, the Marshall Plan—all of it will be fire on your back.
You look successful now.
But that's exactly when you're in the most danger.
Watch the people who smile at you most warmly."
Leo met Truman's eyes, deeply grateful.
This President, from humble beginnings himself, had just handed him the best advice of his life.
After Leo left, Marshall turned to Truman.
"When did Leo join the Democrats?
I want to meet whoever recruited that kid."
Truman snorted.
"He hasn't."
Marshall blinked.
"What, are you all blind?
Or did he make the same mistake as Austin and piss off the wrong people?"
Truman's face hardened.
"You guessed it.
He slugged MacArthur.
If he hadn't, with his war record and Nimitz's backing, he wouldn't be meeting you like this."
Marshall sat back, stunned.
"He's the kid who punched Douglas?"
Truman's voice tightened.
"You're about to be Secretary of State. Stop letting personal likes and dislikes color your view of MacArthur."
Marshall snorted.
"Sure, Harry. But who actually likes that arrogant bastard?
Most people just use him as an excuse.
They say Leo needs 'seasoning.'
Same thing you went through."
Meanwhile, Leo knew none of this.
He was all smiles as he left the White House arm-in-arm with Grace.
Tonight had changed everything.
Life had entered a whole new phase.
He was practically bursting with energy he had nowhere to put.
He glanced at Grace.
She was excited too.
A girl from that kind of family couldn't help but be dazzled by power.
She'd just met every top power broker in America.
Not even her boastful father could claim that.
She was already imagining going home to all the neighbors' fawning praise.
Yesterday's shame had been washed away.
This man beside her had taken her to heights she'd never even dreamed of.
Power was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Grace's eyes gleamed with desire.
Feeling her small, eager hand in his, Leo looked at his driver.
"Aldo. Pull over."
"What for, boss?"
Leo shot him a look.
Aldo glanced back, then sighed and hit the brakes.
"Here—wear my coat. It's cold outside."
Leo tossed the coat at him and added mercilessly:
"Out."
Standing in the freezing night, Aldo watched the car begin to rock.
He clenched his fists and swore to himself:
One day, I'll live that life too. And I'll make the driver stand outside and watch.