Long Island, New York — The Cotton Family Estate
"He's come to New York?"
Harold Cotton swirled a glass of red wine, addressing Oswald, who sat upright behind the desk.
"He came, and made a huge scene — half of Manhattan heard his roar.
He drilled the old Morgan family retainers like training soldiers.
I have no idea what Augustus fed him over there to get such blind support!"
Oswald replied.
"Well drilled. Since Pierpont died, those Morgan retainers have all become rebellious.
Ha! We're no different.
The church out west is asking for money again."
Harold drained his wine and settled back into his favorite chair — said to have been sat in by Louis XIV himself.
Oswald frowned and said,
"Again with the money? Didn't we just give them some in January?"
"They say liberalism is spreading over there, many believers lost.
Now they want to shoot some religious films to bring the flock back.
Those guys haven't changed in hundreds of years — playing the same old 16th-century Vatican tricks."
Harold sighed and continued,
"Not only that, the Holy See called. Two words total: Money!"
"He's got his eye on that car again. Can't say no. Money's really tight now."
Oswald's tone was full of lament.
"In this world, except for that pipe-smoking man who claims to command several divisions, no one can ignore the Holy See's influence.
Especially us. The Cotton family cemented our religious power in America by supporting Pope Pius IX against the Italian royal family.
So that money has to be given."
Harold explained.
"But Dewey needs money too. He's started forming his campaign committee.
That guy's price keeps going up, riding his huge poll lead over Truman."
Oswald rubbed his thinning hair.
"Give it to him. Politicians are like that — once he's president, we'll recoup all our investments."
Harold said.
"This and that, the account is running dry.
Damn hillbilly bastard! If not for him, our two investments would have paid off already. How did we get to this broke state?"
Oswald slammed the table, teeth grinding in hatred thinking of Leo.
Harold lit a cigar, took a puff, and seemed to have made up his mind.
"Contact the Heilemann family. They've always wanted to use some secret routes we hold in Latin America. Give it to them — but their business must give us 30 percent. That's pure profit."
"Father, that's drug trafficking! It's dirty business. If we get caught, we're done for!"
Oswald stood shocked.
Bang! An exquisite French Limoges porcelain ashtray smashed against Oswald and shattered on the floor.
Harold exploded,
"Did you think I didn't know it's dirty?
If you pulled your weight and killed Valentino! Lamb Company's interests flow nonstop to us across the East Coast, Far East, and Southeast Asia — why would I touch that business?
Do you know, Oswald, because of you, the Cotton family has fallen behind.
I wasn't called to the Freemasons' inner meeting!
Nor the secret meeting of the Knights of Columbus!
Nor the Masons' Cross meeting!
Know why?
Because the Illuminati meeting to divide Far East interests — which should have been ours — has yet to happen!
While others rush to claim territory, we're stuck!
Listen, Oswald, if you fail again, the predators won't wait — they'll go from devouring the Far East to eating our own backyard: Latin America!"
After venting his fury, Harold calmed and said,
"Better we grab some benefits ourselves rather than let others take everything.
Besides, Latin America feels off lately.
I agree with the Holy See: only those living in hell long for heaven.
If we want Latin America to keep feeding our family, we must turn it into our domain."
After a long silence, Oswald nodded heavily:
"I understand, Father.
Should we still help James lobby Eisenhower to run for president again?"
"Help? Why not? Don't put all eggs in one basket.
Oswald, the fast money from South America must pay these expenses, but mainly you must build strength to block new attacks.
Are they all here?"
"All present."
"Let's go. The tiger has lost its teeth; the jackals will come to feast. Everyone is watching.
We've been backed to the cliff by a nobody. Whether for money or to cleanse our family's stain, we must continue this war."
Afternoon Tea Room, Cotton Estate.
The walls were adorned with exquisite oil paintings, including works by Rembrandt and Caravaggio.
Underneath each window, cabinets displayed precious artifacts from around the world.
But the men sitting inside had no mind for art.
Each furrowed their brow; the atmosphere was heavy.
Harry broke the silence:
"You can strategically retreat, but I can't escape.
Our sword, the Anti-Corruption Commission, has been broken.
Drunk O'Brien from the Thomas faction made his move — that fence-sitting opportunist!
Public opinion in the state is now against me.
Leo's a madman — he's arrested reporters, burned newspapers, scared the media stiff.
Now all the fire is on me.
Polls keep dropping.
Still, he dares threaten Jesse's life twice with car bombs and once with an ambush.
Luckily Jesse's military background means good security.
We suspected a leak before. I suspected him, but now probably not.
This frame-up is just too perfect. That ambush bullet pierced his shoulder — almost the heart.
We can't let him recklessly test our limits anymore.
Florida's politics being broken is one thing. If we don't stop him, we'll have to watch our backs stepping outside."
Everyone's brows tightened further — they all had pride; there was no way Leo could have taken them all out, so who could stop him?
Calling Augustus, Truman, or Marshall was too costly, and with teams quickly forming, it was unsuitable.
Oswald was in the worst spot — he'd called this meeting to relieve everyone's worries after the last failure, so they could unite under the Cotton family banner and continue the war.
But the first problem already stumped him.
Harold, the seasoned strategist, came up with a solution:
"Let Thomas find his son.
After all these years locked up by us, he's done for — can't inherit Thomas anymore.
If he returns, Leo should stop."
Everyone nodded — Harold was clearly on the same level as their backers and had many cards up his sleeve.
With him leading the new war, confidence returned.
After Harry's problem was addressed, Walter Reston of Citibank spoke:
"Mr. Will and Mr. Samuel expressed dissatisfaction."
Hearing these names, everyone straightened involuntarily.
Though now just old men studying the Old Testament at a Manhattan synagogue, wearing yarmulkes and smiling at all, no one dared ignore them.
One family founded the predecessor of Citibank, the New York City Bank; the other was a partner with Benjamin Franklin, founder of Wall Street itself — yes, the man on the dollar bill.
"I think you can guess without me saying —
Citibank got involved to support you in acquiring the Virginia bank.
This acquisition has been Citibank's top priority for two years.
But your failure has spooked the snakes.
Wall Street knows, and the acquisition now faces steep resistance.
Morgan's entire faction is blocking us in both commercial and investment banking.
Losses are huge."
What Walter didn't say — and what enraged the two men most — was that the Virginia bank acquisition was just the first battlefield in the Jewish consolidation of American banking.
Other Jewish banks were acquiring commercial banks in various states.
The target? The monster built by Pierpont Morgan — the Federal Reserve, which controls the world's money as America leads the free world to anti-fascist victory.
But now, failure!
The Morgans, though diminished, still fight fiercely.
Their full retaliation has made Walter's Jewish faction struggle.
Don't talk about Jews being one big family — the only true family with squid is money.
Harold squinted. If Walter was truly angry and wanted to stop playing games, he wouldn't be here.
Most likely, they were here to ask for compensation.
"So, what's Mr. Will and Mr. Samuel's opinion?" Harold asked.
"Victory. More victories. The losses for Citibank can wait."
Hearing no immediate request for money, Oswald relaxed a little.
But Harold knew the truth — Jews without money are like dead men. Loss here must be compensated there.
Harold knew what they really meant:
"My money, my money, cover my losses, then talk about victory."
That phrase must be read backwards.
"Give me a figure."
Harold said calmly.
Almost immediately, Walter answered without hesitation:
"One billion, plus the Brazilian iron mine company under the Cotton Group."
Hearing Brazil, Oswald instantly recalled his father's warning: if you can no longer deliver benefits, they will consume you.
"Money paid over three years.
You never touch industry — looks like Morgan's pressure is tough.
We plan a gift for U.S. Steel to calm their anger."
Harold added.
"Caught in one look, Mr. Cotton.
Though Augustus still bears a grudge, Augustus is Morgan — but Morgan is not Augustus!"
Walter said.
"Fine, I agree."
The money-making steel company was just handed over — Oswald's heart broke, his hatred for Leo deepened.
Watching the Cotton family give huge sums to the Jews, Gavin Stanley of the Chicago Consortium couldn't help but envy.
But as a new consortium leader, Gavin lacked the foundation to bargain with the Cottons.
Moreover, he was one of the organizers.
The Chicago Consortium was almost wholly supported by the Morgan faction.
Tired of being a lackey, Gavin dreamed of being a boss.
Learning vaguely of Citibank's plan, Gavin lacked the opportunity to approach the rising Jewish capital bloc.
Chicago was America's largest industrial city. If he could open the Far East market, gain great prestige, he could fully turn Chicago Consortium into a family-run empire.
After the Cotton family's Virginia failure, Gavin contacted Oswald.
Since Virginia's real estate was part of Tishman's East Coast strategy, it masked itself from Morgan detection.
Success would put him at the new power table as a shareholder, not a lackey.
Dreams were bright, but reality cruel — Gavin fell hard.
He kneeled to a nobody he never imagined bowing to.
Still, blinded by money, Gavin wanted to test if Harold would really shower cash today.
"Mr. Harold, I…"
Before Gavin finished, Harold's sharp gaze cut him off coldly:
"Out of that billion, you pay three hundred million."
Gavin wanted to slap himself — why say more?
And it wasn't over.
Harold continued:
"What's Tishman's next move against Valentino Realty?"
Gavin gripped his lion-headed cane tightly, almost losing control.
"Sir, Morgan Bank stopped all Tishman loans and sent auditors for a full review. The company can't expand now."
Trying to be a double agent but failing, Gavin's former bosses had found out — harsh punishment was imminent.
Getting kicked out of the Chicago Consortium was just a matter of time.
That was why he was here — everyone present was his last straw.
"So you're useless?" Harold's tone was icy with impatience, as if ready to kick him out.
"No, sir, I'm useful!"
Gavin said nervously.
"Then prove it. Give us a new expansion plan ASAP.
Deliver it directly to Oswald. You'll coordinate with him from now on.
Now go prepare it."
Harold's casual words kicked Gavin out of the meeting.
Not only that, Gavin had shed his Morgan dog status and became Cotton's new dog.
Gavin looked pleadingly at his collaborators.
Harry toyed with the armrest.
Walter gazed out the window.
Even James, who had invested campaign funds, sipped tea quietly.
Oswald looked at his new pet with a gentle gaze.
Gavin left dazed, forgetting his precious golden lion cane.
James Roosevelt placed his teacup down and said:
"Your tea is still good."
Was he praising the tea, Harold's dog-training skills, or both?
James was a partner in this matter. The Roosevelt and Cotton families were friends. The Cottons had strongly supported Roosevelt's campaign.
His main goal was to punish Truman, who betrayed his father's path, and uphold the Roosevelt family's status as America's top political dynasty.
Besides, he was at odds with Leo.
The bubble house incident had cost him greatly. He barely protected the last Roosevelt-era old guard in the new government — Vice President Henry Wallace was completely marginalized.
"Evan Maas is taken down. My whip position is shaky. Many proposals favorable to us are shelved.
Truman's campaign fund recently received large donations, though his polls remain low.
But I won't give him a single chance!
This failure made my lobbying for Eisenhower powerless.
Without Gavin, some things can be said openly. If we want the military-industrial complex to keep the money flowing, we must all work hard!"
James felt the crisis. The military-industrial complex was a huge interest group. Both parties had factions intertwined.
Who represents a faction depends on the presidential election every four years — whoever wins gets the crucial power: the right to start wars.
Controlling the president means controlling the power to declare wars within each faction's domain.
Cannons roar, and gold flows — that's money!
James aimed to win Eisenhower's support to expand the Democrats' influence within the military-industrial complex.
To curb old enemies while seeking new growth — his plan was clear.
No one objected — politics and business have always cooperated.
Whether James knew they were playing both sides or not, that's American freedom.
"Why isn't Maxim here?" Harold asked James.
Maxim MacArthur's absence meant trouble in dividing the Far East pie.
James's expression twisted as he replied,
"He said he's busy."
Everyone's faces changed. The arrogant MacArthur family — no excuse, no call.
Everyone here was smart — they seemed to hear the pipe-smoking leather-jacketed man's arrogant final ultimatum:
"If you don't succeed, the Far East won't be yours."
Leo knew nothing of what happened at the Cotton estate.
To end his days as a mere worker, Leo hadn't rested, bringing Morgan's old executives to relive their youthful struggles.
Time flew.
Richmond, Virginia — a dilapidated house.
A kitchen explosion: "Bang!"
The woman of the house yelled sharply:
"Chris Visen, you useless fool!
I can't stand this rotten house another day!
My sisters all married vets and already live in new homes!"
Chris, helpless, said,
"I want to buy one, but Valentino Realty shifted orders away.
Other builders' orders in Richmond are all booked. We're in a queue."
"Queue? You told me last time the queue lasts till '49!
I don't care! I want a new house or you can live in this old dump yourself!"
Slams door.
Chris leaned against the wall — the very wall that grew with him — now crumbled under his weight.
Dust-covered, he stood and stared at a flyer handed to him after work.
He recalled the person's pitch:
"Valentino Realty's new project, Richmond East District prime location, premium community for premium you!"
Chris thought it a scam — since Valentino stopped new custom builds, many small companies used their name to scam.
Moreover, the East District had no new builds.
Then he saw the flyer's bold words:
"New presale model — lock in your new home at the best location, move in with bags packed in 4 months!"
Lock in early, four months, move in with bags packed.
Chris picked up the phone, inexplicably dialing the number.
A soothing female voice calmed Chris's frustration from his wife's yelling.
Unconsciously, he gave his home address.
"Okay, Mr. Visen, a car will pick you up at 9. Listen for the knock.
Have a pleasant day."
Her voice was so nice — wait! He gave them his address!
Could this be some new kind of home invasion scheme?
Checking the clock — 8:30.
Bad timing — no chance to move valuables.
His new TV, refrigerator all stuck.
As a veteran, Chris grabbed his trusty old M1897 — American style — ready to defend his sacred private property.
Time passed. At exactly nine, the clock chimed.
Knock knock knock!
The robbers were punctual. Chris smirked and raised his shotgun.
"If you kick the door down, I'll turn you to pulp!"
"Don't shoot, Mr. Visen. I'm Aldo Nomié, here to show you the house.
I'm waiting by the car. If you're wary, look first, then come out!"
The knocking stopped.
A house showing? Really? And they drove to pick me up?
What the hell?
Chris held his shotgun and cautiously looked outside.
A Lincoln Continental was parked nearby.
A handsome, flashy man — obviously French — waved and smiled at him.
Wow! A luxury car. No ordinary robber could afford that.
"Trust me, Chris, you made the wisest choice of your life."
Aldo invited Chris into the car and closed the door.
"Sir, allow me to formally introduce myself: Aldo Nomié, Sales Director of the Anna Lake Project, Valentino Realty.
Here's my business card."
Chris took the embossed card and felt a surge of satisfaction.
Looking at the luxury car, the suit, and this lavish card, Chris felt respected.
Just as he pocketed the card, Aldo handed him an exquisite brochure and smiled:
"We understand your eagerness for a new home, so no time should be wasted.
Take a look at our brochure and find the floor plan you desire."