Bang!
Bang bang!
The sound of bodies hitting the ground hard in the dark night was so vivid and clear.
"Well done," Leo said calmly. "How's the accidental death technique coming along?"
"No problem. We've simulated it several times. It's guaranteed to look just like a real accident," Joseph replied confidently.
"Let's go, time to get some rest," Leo said to Noodles.
"Hehe, boss, let me off here. Finally escaped that godforsaken training base. I promised the brothers we'd go see some excitement at the Pharaoh's."
"You... Fine. You're coming too. I'll pay," Leo said gruffly. "Noodles, drop us off and then go pick up Yelena."
The next morning, while Leo was still in dreamland, William—after standing his final night shift—led thirty cars back to the tallest building from the previous night.
The reporters, who had been locked in overnight, were finally freed. Yet none dared approach the police standing nearby.
They recognized the three corpses lying on the ground.
Two of them had been the ringleaders from yesterday!
Three newspapers, three deaths, all in a single day.
They weren't fools. Staying alive was better than seeking justice.
Some were angry and indignant—until William's next move shut them up.
"Since our Lynchburg crew arrived in Richmond, you all know better than anyone how much safer the streets have become. Crime is down, drugs are gone.
Even if you're here to speak for the people, you have to be reasonable.
Here—take this. Consider it compensation for yesterday's scare. One for each of you. Think about your families."
As he handed out the money, William kept smiling.
When it comes to training the media, Lucas had the most say.
Later, as Leo rubbed his eyes and entered his office, Lucas immediately reported:
"Boss, the editors-in-chief of the three burned-down newspapers are requesting a meeting."
When Leo entered the meeting room, the three chief editors stood up instantly.
Yesterday, they'd all called their powerful backers, only to receive similar answers:
"When gods fight, mortals should kneel. You made a mistake—go apologize."
Seamus Murphy, the influential editor-in-chief of the Virginia Journal, had protested:
"Why should we bow to a mere mob boss?"
And was promptly cursed out:
"Have you ever seen a mob boss with a $40 million net worth all from legitimate business? A mob boss who pays gangsters out of his own pocket?
The gang is just his dog!
Next time you take money to run stories—ask me first, idiot!"
"Respected Mr. Valentino, we sincerely ask for your forgiveness," the three said respectfully.
"Oh please," Leo sneered. "Bowing to a gangster like me? You guys sure know how to keep your journalistic integrity intact."
These editors, used to speaking from authority, were suddenly caught off guard by Leo's mockery.
Among them, Seamus, the biggest name of the three, immediately looked sour. But he still took a deep breath and said:
"Mr. Valentino, we promise there will be no more unfavorable coverage about you in the future. Regarding your company, we'll inform you in advance."
His tone was lofty—as if bestowing a favor. In his mind, he was treating Leo as a second-tier political power figure.
Leo should be thankful. Grateful even. After all, they were the press—the uncrowned kings!
Leo gave Lucas a glance.
Lucas, visibly impressed, seemed surprised at Seamus's "generous" offer. Clearly, he'd been in media too long.
He was acting just like Leo had before Augustus straightened him out.
Sigh. For Lucas's sake, Leo decided: time for a reality check.
Leo walked straight to the conference room phone and dialed the man behind the Virginia Journal—Thomas's heir apparent in the party, Drank O'Brien, the Lieutenant Governor of Virginia.
"O'Brien? Your newspaper's been smearing me for two months and you did nothing. And now you think sending an editor to apologize makes things square?
Don't think I don't know who spread the rumor that Evelyn dumped me. You were in on it.
Thomas isn't dead—he'll be back. I want to be an entrepreneur, not a politician.
But don't force my hand."
Leo's tone was cold and deliberate.
The names he mentioned stunned the three political editors.
Could it be that Leo was part of the inner circle around the former governor and current senator?
"Did Seamus say something wrong?" O'Brien asked calmly. "No need to threaten me, Leo. I've never seen you as 'just a young man.'
And yes, I made up that rumor. But it wouldn't have spread unless you let it.
Let's not dance around—what do you want to settle this?"
"I want shares in the Virginia Journal," Leo said.
"Impossible!" shouted Seamus—not O'Brien.
Leo shot Seamus a cold look and said into the phone:
"Look at your little dog. Barks at the very hand that feeds it."
O'Brien was silent for a moment before asking:
"You're sure you'll stay out of politics?"
"Not only that, if you treat me as a friend, I might even consider donating to your foundation," Leo replied.
"15%—that's the most I can allow," O'Brien said.
"$1 million, 25%. I trust you'll find a way. I heard the mayor of Hampton owns 10%. What does a regional family like his need that for?
You can convince him, right?"
"$1.3 million! I'll convince him!" O'Brien practically growled.
"Deal. But let me handle this dog. Also, I want to reclaim credit for a certain book," Leo added.
"You're ready to publicly challenge MacArthur?" O'Brien asked darkly.
"Yesterday, a war sweeping across America already began."
"Fine. Just know you'll bear the consequences. Seamus is influential. Do what you must—short of killing him."
Call ended. Seamus's face was already pale with fury.
Leo had called him a dog, over and over—an unforgivable insult!
He was Seamus Murphy—UPenn graduate, member of the Mason Society, multiple interviews with President Roosevelt.
The youngest editor-in-chief of a major newspaper in the U.S.!
Leo pulled out a cigarette, about to light it.
"Mr. Leo, I'm allergic to nicotine. Please don't smoke," Seamus said coldly.
Leo frowned, put the cigarette down, and turned to Lucas with a look of disdain.
"You know what, my brother? The biggest flaw of people like this, aside from hypocrisy, is their inability to read the room.
Leadership is about steering the company in the right direction.
You're in media, but don't get led astray by these guys."
As he spoke, Leo removed his expensive suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and exposed his solid chest muscles.
"Leo, calm down," Lucas urged.
The three editors were confused. Seamus even felt smug for stopping the cigarette.
Then—crack!
A glass ashtray suddenly slammed into Seamus's face!
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
With each blow and scream, Leo turned to Lucas and continued his lesson:
"These people are cowards.
They puff up in front of the weak but bow to bullies.
They always justify their cowardice. Classic useless trash."
His words hit so hard that the other two editors lowered their heads—one even froze up completely, leaning back in his chair, sighing as if deeply wounded.
"Mr. Valentino, if you keep hitting him, he might die," said Qian Doyle, editor of the James River Journal, softly.
"He won't. I know what I'm doing," Leo replied, landing two more hits before tossing Seamus aside.
"Lucas, call the hospital. Tell Aldo to keep a close eye on him. He's not allowed to leave until he's healed."
Leo wiped his brow and turned to the two remaining editors.
"Now, we real cultural men can sit down and talk.
Why are you here today?"
Everything seemed to return to square one—
but the mindset had completely changed.
The elder editor, Qian Doyle of the James River Journal, stood up and said respectfully:
"Mr. Valentino, we are here today to express our sincere apologies for the recent personal defamation you suffered in our papers.
I am not the chairman of the newspaper, so I cannot decide whether you can buy shares in our company.
But if there is anything you need from me personally, I will do everything I can to help."
The editor from the Richmond Times quickly followed suit, mimicking Qian's tone and posture.
Only then did Leo nod in satisfaction, buttoned up his shirt, and returned to a more civilized appearance.
"Actually, I'm a war correspondent. According to my original life plan,
I should've been a fairly successful writer and social critic by now.
No need to look at me like that!
Have you heard of Hacksaw Ridge?
Published by the New York Herald Tribune.
I'm good friends with their editor-in-chief, James.
Of course, for reasons we all know too well, my work couldn't be published under my real name.
I used to be fine with that.
But now… I want to take back what's mine.
Can you help me with that?"
The two editors' faces turned solemn.
They had both read that book. They'd also received the internal blacklist notice.
They knew the title and general content—
but they had never bothered to remember the author. Editors were always swamped, and writers got blacklisted all the time for offending the wrong people.
Later, when the book was reissued anonymously, they understood what had happened.
But what shocked them now was that the "nameless" author was the successful businessman standing right in front of them.
Back then, the ban hadn't even come from a sponsor.
It had started quietly at The New York Times, then spread to The Washington Post.
The media industry always helped one another uphold the rules.
Break them, and it became a war of words.
One side praises the book, the other trashes it.
Push and pull, all for interests.
Survival… was also an interest.
The two editors exchanged a glance.
Clearly, this war of words was now unavoidable.
"We only just learned today that the author of that remarkable book… was you," Qian said gravely.
"As a responsible newspaper, we must speak out for justice."
"HAHAHA, good! I like people who understand the situation," Leo laughed heartily.
"I heard both your newspapers were severely damaged in the fires.
What a coincidence—I happen to be a real estate developer with many suitable properties.
Here are two old buildings along the James River—perfect for newspaper offices.
You can rent them. The price will be very low."
With that, Leo stood up and walked out.