The political battle in Washington didn't escalate into a full-blown confrontation as expected.
In fact, it ended before it truly began.
Support for the regulatory bill surged overwhelmingly.
Voices of opposition didn't even stir a ripple.
That very morning, Congress formally passed the "Proposal for the Real Estate Pre-Sale Act."
The act was given a two-year preparation period.
Simultaneously, the formation of a Temporary Supervisory Committee for Pre-Sale Housing was also approved.
The committee's mission would end upon the enactment of the law.
It was authorized to work with the Federal Housing and Urban Development Authority (HUD) to certify banks and real estate firms for pre-sale qualifications.
The temporary committee would serve as the overseeing body during this transition.
At the Jefferson Hotel in Washington D.C., the Cotton family held a celebration banquet.
Family members appeared in their finest, welcoming waves of VIP guests—mostly government officials and congressional elites—showcasing the family's powerful political network and intimidating the hyenas who had recently begun to circle due to the family's previous setbacks.
"The president hasn't even signed the bill yet. Isn't this celebration a bit premature?"
In a corner of the banquet hall, Bertrand Jefferson remarked to Edwin Hutchinson, glancing at the hotel bearing his own ancestor's name.
"Both houses passed it. The president can't go against the voice of the people. That hillbilly brat won two lucky rounds and thinks he's on our level. How naive. Look at how Mr. Harold Cotton handled it—Leo couldn't even let out a whimper before being crushed."
Edwin said with venom.
Bertrand gave Edwin a curious look. After all, Edwin had recently become a laughingstock in East Coast aristocratic circles for being publicly humiliated by Leo and Evelyn.
As a friend, Bertrand didn't rub salt in the wound. Instead, he mused:
"The Cotton family can afford to lose many times. But our billionaire boy? He can't even afford to lose once. This loss... who knows where it'll leave him."
"Where else? I've already made a deal with Mr. Oswald. When they take him down, I want a front-row seat!"
Edwin sneered.
Most guests speculated about Leo's fate. To those who had spent generations building influence, Leo at age 23 was an intolerable thorn.
Not fatal—but deeply irritating.
They all believed Leo wouldn't live past the year.
A few naive ones thought the president might protect him. But when Whip James overheard that, he scoffed:
"Harry can't even protect himself."
Outside the hotel, Harold Cotton, seated calmly, asked Oswald:
"Still no sign of Thomas? He played a pivotal role in all this."
Indeed, nearly half the Senate had voted in favor thanks to Thomas' vast network, which he had mobilized for this very moment—even leveraging dormant Republican connections like the Taft family.
"Should we let Thomas handle the distribution of benefits?"
Oswald asked quietly.
Harold glanced at him and said coldly:
"The marriage alliance was just bait to string him along. You're the one who sent Winston to Africa—do you really trust Thomas now? He's just a pawn."
Then Harry interrupted them:
"Jesse's here."
In the distance, Jesse, supported by his secretary, slowly approached, wearing a worried expression.
"Hey, friend. It's our victory day—cheer up."
Harry greeted him warmly.
Even Harold stepped forward, offering praise:
"You originally proposed this initiative, Jesse. Well done. Some suggest Harry should relocate to D.C. I agree—but not because he's talented. It's because Virginia has talents like you."
Jesse, tempted by the praise, remembered Leo's warning and kept up the act.
"Respectfully, sir, I don't think it's that simple. The closer we are to victory, the more cautious we must be. Leo is not an ordinary opponent."
His words prompted laughter from Austin:
"Come on, Jesse, did his assassination attempt give you PTSD? This was a textbook victory of power and precision. Leo and Augustus tried everything—networking, backchannels—but in the end, their greed doomed them. Stop worrying and start planning how we'll send that little rat to hell."
"Killing him before we divide his assets would be a waste."
While the others kept chatting, Harold absorbed Jesse's warning with increasing dread.
Despite his paranoia, he couldn't pinpoint a flaw. Thomas may have chaired the committee, but James was monitoring him in the Senate. And after their win, it would be easy to appoint Austin as director of HUD.
Still, a thought kept gnawing at him:
What if the feud between Thomas and Leo was staged?
If this entire situation had been orchestrated by Leo?
The thought made Harold sweat. He tried to dismiss it, reminding himself:
Jesse's team had proposed the plan initially.
Even if it was a trap, they'd already roped in Thomas with clear terms.
Winston, the fool, was still in their custody, enamored with Harold's daughter.
To be sure, Harold sent Oswald to check on Winston.
But before Oswald could act, Haley, Harold's daughter, came running:
"Dad, have you seen Winston? I went to the restroom, and he vanished."
No one took it seriously, except Harold. He shuddered and forced a calm tone:
"Maybe he's getting you a surprise."
But his instincts screamed: something was very wrong.
He rushed into a hidden room and barked at Haley:
"Get out!"
Alone, he loosened his tie and tried to breathe. He phoned his butler:
"Prepare a car. I need to go to the Rockefeller Estate."
Then another call:
"Roscoe, I need someone eliminated."
"Harold, we have no domestic authority."
"Don't forget who got you your position."
After a pause, the voice said:
"Who?"
"Leo Valentino."
Almost as soon as the call ended, Oswald burst in, panicked:
"Father, it's bad! The guests are leaving—en masse!"
Harold, furious, slapped him—twice.
Meanwhile, in a car across town, Winston's blindfold was removed.
He was stunned to find himself sitting next to Leo, with Evelyn in the front seat, glaring at him.
Winston tried to yell, but Leo simply said:
"Before yelling at me, maybe take a look outside."
Winston turned to the window and saw that all the political elites who had just toasted him were now leaving the Jefferson Hotel, causing traffic congestion.
"So what? Maybe the Cottons called it off. You're not behind this!"
Leo smirked and asked:
"Do you know where they're headed?"
"Home, obviously."
"Want to bet? I say they're going to the Willard Hotel."
Sure enough, when the 18th-century-style hotel appeared, Winston's defiance turned to confusion. He spotted his father among the arriving guests.
The crowd formed lines outside, eagerly awaiting someone.
"Who do you think they're waiting for?" Leo asked.
"Not you, that's for sure."
Leo smiled:
"You sure?"
He stepped out. As Leo approached the hotel, those same officials who had mocked him earlier now swarmed him with smiles.
"Why? Why is this happening?"
Evelyn answered coldly:
"Because just 30 minutes ago, the president signed the two proposals into law. At the same time, HUD's director, Gerald, announced the creation of a pre-sale task force. The team leader: Desmond, CEO of Valentino Corp. The deputy leader: you.
Oh, and Desmond? He's Leo's battle buddy.
Also, Thomas pledged to incorporate Valentino Corp's experience into the new legislation."
Winston was speechless.
Evelyn continued:
"Treasure this lesson, Winston. If you're not completely stupid, you'll realize that following Leo is your only option. If you try to compete, you won't live to see tomorrow. Also, Leo might forgive you because of me—but I won't."
She got out, walking toward the applauding crowd around Leo, her violet evening dress flowing.
Evelyn's eyes sparkled—her lion had expanded his domain again.
Leo sensed her gaze, turned, and smiled.
Today, their relationship grew from love to partnership.
But then, a subtle flash stung Leo's eye.
Years of combat instinct kicked in.
Bang!
A bullet missed Leo and struck a nearby senator in the arm.
Leo ducked, scanning the rooftop for the sniper.
The shooter tried to flee via a hidden manhole into the sewers—but Leo was already in pursuit.
Armed with an M1911, Leo cut across the street, outpaced the fleeing agent, and shot him in both hands and a leg before the man could disappear.
The agent died instantly—cyanide on his tongue.
A pro.
CIA, Leo guessed.
With the threat neutralized, he returned and told the shaken senators:
"The shooter is dead. Mr. Russell was wounded, but the rest of you are safe. Shall we go enjoy that dinner—and discuss the future of American real estate?"
For the first time, they were in awe.
The legend of Pacific's fiercest soldier was no exaggeration.
Seven days later, at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York,
the Second National Real Estate Association Conference was held.
Many of the smaller associations that had supported the pre-sale legislation also attended.
A hall designed for 500 people was now packed with over 1,000.
On the stage, Austin, flushed with emotion, delivered a furious speech:
"Scoundrel! We've been deceived by a shameless thief! Our victory was stolen! We must have revenge!
My friends, I believe this man's triumph has ignited our fury!
Wall Street shares our outrage!
I've spoken with the bankers—they've promised unconditional support to help us survive the next two years.
And in two years, when his term ends, it'll be our counterattack!"
Just as Austin paused for breath, the main doors opened.
Leo walked in, sneering:
"Amazing. After the Great Depression, there are still people who believe in Wall Street bankers.
If you actually listen to them, the only question isn't whether they'll seek revenge—but whether they'll still be capable of it."
Leo walked up to the podium.
"Mr. Austin is working hard to paint me as your enemy.
But don't forget—I am an honorary chairman of this very association.
I've never wronged any of you.
When I developed the pre-sale model, I never proposed restrictions.
You all know—there is no barrier to imitating pre-sales.
Who created the barriers? Not Valentino—it was Iron Gate!
Our so-called chairman here turned 'commercial restriction' into his idea of fairness.
When he lost control, he turned around and called me a thief.
That, my friends, is a double standard."
Austin's face turned crimson. He shouted:
"Leo! Don't pretend to be righteous! You're a disgrace—a thief!"
Leo remained calm:
"Gentlemen, you've all seen it.
Mr. Austin is out of arguments and now resorts to personal attacks.
The press calls me 'Mr. Bullet-Dodger'. If I were to hit back, Mr. Austin might not survive a single punch—but I'm a gentleman.
So, I ask you—would you rather do business with a gentleman or a petty man?
And as honorary chairman, I formally request a vote for a new president—right here, right now."
Austin froze.
He'd founded this association to secure a future seat as the director of the Federal Housing Bureau, then leapfrog higher.
He believed he controlled the audience—his friends, partners, or people he had ushered into the association.
With a smirk, he scoffed:
"You're humiliating yourself. Fine—let's vote."
The secretary-general, a Texan real estate developer named Kant, and a friend of Austin's, took the stage.
"Those supporting Mr. Austin—please raise your hands."
Austin threw Leo a smug glance, then scanned the room—only to find that barely anyone raised their hand.
His face twisted. He signaled Kant with his eyes, then collapsed on stage, pretending to be ill.
It was a stall tactic—he hoped to derail the vote.
But no one helped him up.
Kant hesitated, then turned to the crowd:
"Those supporting Mr. Valentino—please raise your hands."
Whoosh!
99% of the room raised their hands.
"Very well. Let's welcome our new chairman, Mr. Valentino, to speak."
Kant announced.
Austin, still lying on the floor, muttered:
"Traitors… All traitors…"
Leo bent down and whispered:
"You're wrong, Austin. They weren't loyal to you—they were loyal to money.
Now they're loyal to me… because I represent Franklin."
(Referring to Benjamin Franklin on the hundred-dollar bill)
Leo, ever cautious, never fought battles he wasn't sure he could win.
All of these members had already been promised by their supporting congressmen or senators that, as long as they remained in the association, they would receive pre-sale loans from Morgan Bank.
Currently, only Morgan Bank in the U.S. has a license for pre-sale lending.
Iron Gate HQ, Empire State Building, New York.
Austin's office, once overlooking the city, now bore a new nameplate.
"It's a shame, Austin.
I have a small company in the UK—if you're interested…"
Said Gavin, from the Chicago consortium, handing over a business card.
Austin stared at the card blankly.
Just a year ago, he was one of the men slicing up Lamb Company.
Now, he was leaving his company of 20 years with less than $500,000 in severance.
That amount wouldn't even cover a banquet he hosted last month.
He thought back to the opponent he once dismissed as weak.
Now, Leo had amassed a fortune of over $100 million.
Austin gave a bitter smile.
In the end, it turned out—he was the ant underfoot.