Richmond, Fan District.
Watching Thomas step out of the car and instead walk toward the entrance on foot in full formal attire, Winston asked curiously:
"Father, aren't we going to a banquet? Why not take the car?"
Thomas shook his head and replied, "No need. It's just across the street."
Indeed, it was. Right across was the Cotton Estate. Winston had played there with Oswald when he was a child. Back then, newly moved into the Fan District, Winston had envied the Cotton family's wealth, especially their main building that resembled the French Château de Fontainebleau.
But that was twenty years ago. Now, with the relationship between the Cottons and the Mortons fading, he watched his father approach the door without even announcing his visit.
Being turned away by the doorman would disgrace the entire Morton family.
Winston hurriedly grabbed Thomas's arm. "Father, shouldn't we at least let the Cottons know we're coming?"
Thomas sneered and pointed upward. "Cotton? Look up. What does it say?"
Winston looked up and was stunned to see that the thorny cross emblem of the Cotton family was gone—replaced by a Latin inscription.
Recognizing the Latin from his education, Winston read it aloud in shock:
"Valentino."
St. John Palace—now the central building of the Valentino Estate—was grand enough to be called a palace. The main hall alone was as large as the biggest banquet hall in the Jefferson Hotel.
Yet today, that same hall, capable of holding a thousand guests, was almost overcrowded.
Leo's recent victory over MacArthur had sent shockwaves across the political landscape. When word spread of his upcoming engagement, people scrambled to get invitations, trying every trick in the book.
When Winston entered and saw the massive engagement cake surrounded by flowers at the entrance, his face turned green.
His own daughter was getting engaged, and he, the father, hadn't even known.
Furious, he surged forward to ruin the ceremony—but was quickly restrained by bodyguards Thomas had stationed in advance.
Thomas glared coldly at Winston. "If you still want to be relevant instead of wasting away, don't do anything stupid. Now follow me. If you lose control during the meeting ahead, I swear I'll have you sent back to South Africa! And by the way, not telling you about the engagement was Evelyn's decision."
With that, Thomas followed a butler upstairs, dragging Winston along.
Even though he had mentally prepared himself, Thomas was still shocked by the number of people lining the hallway, waiting to meet Leo.
He recalled a saying popular in Virginia politics these days: If you want to become a legislator here, you first need Mr. Valentino's blessing.
But as one half of the engagement, Thomas had privileges. He was led straight into the study.
Winston, following behind, glanced at Leo—legs crossed, commanding yet relaxed, chatting with a guest—and muttered under his breath:
"He really does look like a feudal king."
"Shut up, idiot," Thomas growled quietly.
Leo, with his razor-sharp hearing, caught it—but since this was his future father-in-law, he let it slide.
He gestured for Thomas and Winston to sit and turned back to the man before him.
"West, you've disrespected me."
Leo's voice was frigid.
West, perched on the edge of his seat, trembled as he stammered, "Mr. Valentino, I'm sorry—it was Exxon Jefferson who forced me! Please, Mr. Leo, I'll lose my seat if I don't back down. I'll die!"
Leo smiled faintly. "Interesting. Jefferson told you to oppose me, yet when you're in trouble, you come begging to me instead of him. Why? Do I look kinder? Easier to fool?"
"N-no, Mr. Valentino, I did go to Jefferson. They refused to help me."
"Exactly. They take your help for granted and ignore you when you're in need. You're smart to come today—an Italian never refuses a guest on his engagement day. But I need assurance, West. Your word means nothing. I need something real."
West nervously handed Leo several documents. "Mr. Valentino, this is my proof of sincerity."
Leo flipped through them. Dirt—on West himself.
He passed them to Noodles. "Your cleverness earned you one chance. If this checks out, you'll keep your Lexington seat. Now, about my construction project?"
"Already started, Mr. Valentino. To show my sincerity, I'll also help you acquire the other two plots of land you liked—as my engagement gift to you. The Valentino Company won't need to pay a dime."
Leo nodded.
After Noodles escorted West out, Leo got up to greet Thomas and Winston.
"Leo," Thomas said, "like you said, Italians don't refuse requests today. As someone about to become family, I hope you'll forgive Winston."
Before entering, Winston might've blown up. But after witnessing how Leo decided a senator's fate with ease, he felt something stir inside—his male hunger for power.
It wasn't shameful to bow to a son-in-law for his daughter, nor to bow to power for ambition.
Seeing this shift, Leo smiled. He had taken so much care because his path forward was perilous. He couldn't afford a single crack in his circle.
Leo folded his hands and looked at Thomas.
"The real estate bureau has been taken care of. Winston can't get back in. How about making him a judge in Las Vegas? My friend Mike tells me they're short of one. With our help, he'll build enough reputation to run for office. What do you think?"
Before Thomas could speak, Winston asked, confused, "Why Nevada? Why not Virginia?"
Thomas understood: Leo had been preparing the West for a long time. Anyone sent west was someone he trusted completely.
He snapped at Winston, "Just go. Ask fewer questions."
After Thomas and Winston left, Leo received a long stream of guests—business seekers, pardon beggars, political hopefuls.
Noodles collected their requests, filling several pages.
Leo said, "Handle what we can ourselves. What we can't, give to O'Brien. He got the governorship—he owes me."
The banquet truly began when Truman and Marshall arrived.
Their presence electrified the room. Evelyn, holding Leo's arm, beamed.
Flower petals rained at their feet as a symbol of blessing.
Truman turned to Thomas and said, "Now that the engagement's official, it's time Leo joined our cause."
Truman was thoroughly impressed by Leo. When he first took office, his biggest headaches were three factions: Vice President Henry Wallace, the Cotton family, and James Roosevelt.
Thanks to Leo, Wallace stepped down, the Cottons fled to Brazil, and Roosevelt was convalescing in New York.
Even Eisenhower—the biggest internal threat—had withdrawn after Leo persuaded him by promising to reduce European troops.
Truman's consolidation of power was largely due to Leo.
After the ceremony, just as Leo was about to entertain Truman and Marshall, a loud voice interrupted.
Maxim MacArthur stormed in, radiating the arrogance typical of royal bloodlines.
He sneered, "Enjoy your little moment, boy. I promise it won't last long. The MacArthur family will strike back. You'll learn this country still belongs to real elites like us!"
Before Leo could reply, Truman stepped forward, face darkening.
"Maxim, America protects the lives of all legal citizens. Retract your threat. And remember—I'm a president from humble beginnings. I speak for this country now, not you."
"Hmph! Not for long, Harry!" Maxim scoffed.
As Truman's face flushed with rage, Leo stepped in and patted his shoulder.
Then, to Maxim: "I heard you just lost your position as president of the Military-Industrial Association. I understand your frustration. But your threats mean nothing. I've never wanted peace with the MacArthurs. Ever since Douglas sent my men to die, ever since I punched that bastard's face—we've been mortal enemies."
He paused, then added coolly, "So come. Let's see what you've got."
Marshall led the applause. The room erupted with clapping.
Maxim, intending to humiliate Leo, found himself the embarrassed one—and slunk away.
Richmond, Fan District. The Morton Estate.
Half a month after the engagement.
Leo was strolling with newly sworn-in Governor O'Brien. The air was tense.
"O'Brien," Leo said bluntly, "you know how you got that seat. What I don't understand is how you've already forgotten to be grateful. You've rejected my Democratic Party application three times."
"We're not friends, Leo. Never were," O'Brien replied coldly. "This is Virginia. You know full well how the old political families—Hassenchin, Jefferson—hate you. If I endorse you, I might survive my term, but once it's over, I'll be dead. I'd be tearing down the system people like Thomas worked to build. You can do business here, but you have no place in politics."
New polling had shown that even with Leo's help, Truman's numbers remained abysmal. O'Brien had decided to switch sides early.
Still, wary of Leo's reputation, he added, "You might be welcome in the Midwest. Their Democrats would love you."
Leo stared at him for a long time. "Fine, we'll pause the party membership thing. But as a friend—you don't take my calls, ignore my requests. And many say you've grown close to Jesse. Don't pretend you don't know—I don't like Jesse. Tell me, O'Brien—are you abandoning our friendship?"
O'Brien's face twisted in anger. "I'm not your pet. We were never friends. And don't try to scare me with Clint or Harry. You kill three governors in one term, I guarantee this country's doors will slam shut in your face. America won't tolerate someone as arrogant as you!"
He stormed off.
Thomas stepped forward. "He's been traveling to New York a lot lately. I suspect someone made him promises."
Leo nodded. In truth, he knew more.
Jesse had told him: O'Brien had linked up with Citibank's Walter and James Roosevelt. But both men, still stinging from past losses, didn't trust O'Brien—who still bore Thomas's stamp too deeply.
Their plan? Pretend to support him, then take him out—and install Jesse as governor to rein in Leo's growth.
Leo had hoped tonight's talk might save O'Brien if he valued their friendship. But clearly, the man was beyond saving.
October. Virginia Governor's Holiday.
O'Brien vacationed with his family in Miami.
Middle-aged, he strolled with his wife by the beach, watching their children splash in the waves.
A bodyguard brought over two glasses of champagne.
Parched, O'Brien drank quickly—and immediately sensed something wrong.
Peanuts?
He was severely allergic.
He signaled frantically for his EpiPen. But aside from his panicking wife, only the retreating back of his bodyguard was visible.
That day, the third Virginia governor in less than a year died on a sunny beach in Miami—from a peanut-induced asthma attack that led to suffocation.