Leo had been staying in New York recently. At Lucas's invitation, he went to his uncle's house for a small family gathering.
Although there had been some past conflicts, Leo didn't mind offering some emotional value to ensure Lucas would continue working for him with absolute loyalty.
It was a cautiously polite dinner. The younger siblings were all grown up now and understood that their older brother had become an influential figure. Everyone was on their best behavior.
After all, their comfortable life now depended entirely on Lucas following Leo.
After the meal, Leo and Lucas went outside for a smoke.
Leo said,
"The World Journal should eventually become an influential political newspaper, so it's destined not to be highly profitable.
But the information and media market is vast, and there's definitely a way to make a fortune—it just requires a different approach.
I need you to buy a small newspaper in Brooklyn. Something like the failing one we picked up in Virginia will do."
"That's not a problem. What do I do after that?" Lucas asked.
"I'll work on it with you," Leo replied.
Lucas moved quickly—that was always one of his strengths.
A small community newspaper called the Brooklyn Resident News was acquired for $50,000.
Leo renamed it the New Times.
The New Times held its first meeting on the second floor of a bakery—the same place the paper used to operate from.
Compared to the suited-up journalists at the World Journal, the staff at the New Times looked more like street thugs than reporters.
When Leo walked in, everyone's eyes lit up.
Leo had become a household name on the East Coast—a country boy who turned into a billionaire in just two years. He was the living embodiment of the American Dream.
Countless low-level young men dreamed of becoming him.
Leo's first words felt like a dream colliding with reality:
"Friends, want to get rich?"
Leo quickly laid down the ground rules for the New Times:
The paper would cater only to the youth. Whatever young people liked, the New Times would report.
Then, Leo personally trained these ambition-driven, scruple-free "journalists" on how to find news by breaking moral boundaries—
how to sensationalize ordinary stories, exaggerate facts, twist narratives, provoke division, and set up scapegoats.
And, importantly, to inject violence—young readers loved it.
Lastly, Leo pulled out an old trick from Rupert Murdoch himself: the clickbait headline.
Yes, the shock-title department of UC came from Murdoch's legacy.
Leo also called over three reporters who obviously had gang ties and handed them the latest Kodak color cameras.
He told them to photograph alluring, seductive women in provocative poses to be featured on Page Three—another Murdoch invention.
At the same time, Leo instructed the New Times to partner with Turner's detective agency, which had grown significantly—employing over a dozen retired cops and intelligence officers, and hundreds of informants.
This had led to an overflow of spicy intel, 70% of which young people would love.
Three days later, the first edition of the New Times rolled off the press.
The front and second pages featured three articles:
"Wife Beats Husband in Furious Rage"
"Just Now! A Thief Strips a Woman Naked"
"Teacher Does Unthinkable to Female Student"
Leo nodded with satisfaction. The headlines were eye-catching.
In reality, the content was simple—like the last article, which was just about a schoolgirl's crush on her teacher.
But when Leo flipped to Page Three, his brows furrowed.
One of the reporters in charge cautiously asked,
"Boss… was the photo too explicit?"
Leo shook his head and said,
"No, it's not that it's too explicit—it's not sexy enough."
Then came Leo's legendary on-site crash course, drawing on his past-life memory, 2TB of reference material, and cross-cultural "instruction" from Asia, Europe, and America.
Even the models being photographed looked at Leo differently afterward.
He was just that good.
"Is this how billionaires play? No wonder they're always so happy…"
Soon, new photos were ready—teasing, suggestive, leaving just enough to the imagination. The male staff blushed with excitement and gave Leo a standing ovation.
Leo, thick-skinned as ever, waved his hand boldly:
"Print it—start with 10,000 copies."
The former editor of the paper voiced concern:
"Boss, isn't that too much? We've never sold more than 1,000 copies before."
Leo dismissed the worry:
"It's not a big investment. I can afford to lose.
Also, hand out some envelopes to newsstand owners—make sure our papers get the best display spots."
The next morning, Brooklyn was buzzing again.
Jack, a young auto mechanic, stopped by his usual hotdog stand to get breakfast.
He always used the waiting time to browse newspapers at the nearby stand.
Wanting to get rich one day, Jack had a habit of buying papers.
But with limited education, he skipped over the expensive political ones.
Seeing the World Journal still running UFO stories, Jack rolled his eyes—not interested anymore.
Other community papers were boring too.
"Try this one," said the vendor, pointing to the New Times.
Jack recognized immediately that it was a new paper. He lost interest—it probably had nothing exciting.
But just as he was about to look away, the headline caught his eye:
"Wife Beats Husband in Furious Rage."
As a working-class white male with a strong sense of masculinity, Jack was outraged.
Morality was falling apart—how dare a woman act so brazenly!
He reached for the paper but was stopped by the vendor:
"Fifteen cents."
Startled—this was as pricey as the most reputable papers. Fifteen cents was nearly a whole lunch.
But curiosity and outrage won out. Jack paid.
On the subway, munching on his hotdog, he read the article—and found out it was just a couple rehearsing a Christmas play.
"Angel vs. Devil" from the Bible.
Jack felt tricked. But technically, the headline wasn't wrong.
Just as he swore never to buy this trash again, he glanced at Page Two:
"Just Now! A Thief Strips a Woman Naked"
"Teacher Does Unthinkable to Female Student"
His curiosity overpowered his skepticism. He read on.
Still unimpressed. Nothing meaningful. He swore again never to buy it.
Then he flipped to Page Three.
Instantly, he shut the paper. Looked around—no one saw.
Relieved, he opened it slightly again—just a peek.
Damn!
Totally worth the 15 cents.
For the rest of the day, Jack couldn't focus.
That night, his coworkers rushed to buy the New Times after their shifts.
Jack rushed home, grabbed tissues and the paper, and locked himself in the bathroom.
A few minutes later, came his voice:
"Damn it… wasted it."
Page Three was… well-used.
Similar scenes played out in docks, casinos, and other bathrooms around town.
At 11 PM, on the bakery's second floor, everyone at the New Times was anxiously awaiting sales numbers.
Footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs.
Lucas burst in, eyes shining:
"Sold out! All 10,000 copies—gone.
Distributors want 5,000 more tomorrow!"
Cheers erupted.
When the celebration ended, Leo declared:
"Print 20,000.
Send the extra 5,000 to other cities in New York State."
Thus, the New Times, driven by violence and sex, spread like a virus.
Whatever they printed, they sold.
After recalculating costs, Leo dropped the price to 8 cents—a breakfast's worth.
It ignited the youth market.
By Day 15, the 50,000-copy statewide edition was gone within hours.
Critics emerged, of course—but they were no match for Leo's tactics.
Under pressure from both Italian lawmakers and mafia boss Clemensa, the critics were soon silenced.
Businessmen began approaching Leo. The New Times was on track.
They moved operations from the bakery to a standalone building in Brooklyn from the 1980s.
Young people flocked to join, eager for money.
Leo used his old real estate motivation tactics again.
New recruits saw veterans earning fat bonuses—and even more shocking:
The Page Three girls were now partying in real life with the top reporters.
Lucas was moved by the energy. Holding a mic, he shouted:
"Are you pumped?!"
"Yeah!"
"Do you want to be like them?!"
"Hell yeah!"
"Then get the hell out there and find valuable stories!
No matter how you get it—bring back the news that pays!"
Howling like wolves, reporters stormed out, eyes filled with greed.
Back in the office, Leo pointed at a U.S. map:
"Good. You've mastered how to build a profitable paper.
Now it's time to replicate the model—New Times across America!
Once we're the top-selling paper, we'll be the most influential one.
Those pretentious old newspapers? They'll be ours to buy out!"
"Yes, Boss."
Lucas was fired up.
After wrapping things up in New York, Leo returned to the West Coast to spend Christmas with his family.
While resting, he also received good news:
Jesse Real Estate, previously shut out of pre-sale licenses, finally agreed to let Sean and Kevin join the board.
In exchange, Leo allowed Jesse Real Estate to join the real estate association.
Whether they'd get a license still depended on performance.
Back in New York, Leo got a bombshell update from Walker Walton.
Due to union strikes disrupting supply chains and poor franchise management, Franklin's Grocery had gone bankrupt.
"Boss, this is a great chance for Valentino Retail to expand!
I need people—especially managers.
I convinced my older brother over Christmas. He's with me now. When can you meet him?"
"Tomorrow afternoon," Leo replied.
After hanging up, Leo made another call—to someone he hadn't spoken to in two years:
Harley Sutton, the man who had signed him into Franklin's Grocery.
Leo had been impressed by Sutton's decisiveness and professionalism.
Now that he planned to bring in Sam Walton, Leo wanted a backup. He trusted Walker, but human nature was unpredictable.
Harley Sutton had been in a slump since Franklin's collapse.
Once a high-ranking executive, he was now just an average guy.
He had earned a decent salary, but with his golden hair and handsome face, he had spent too much time—and money—on women.
Now he had no savings and was about to move out of his expensive rental.
Tonight, he might end up in a seedy motel.
His landlord was watching him like a hawk—one more month of unpaid rent would land him in court.
As Harley gloomily prepared to leave, the phone rang.
He dashed over and answered.
"Mr. Valentino? My God, I can't believe you remembered my number."
"I assume you need a job. Tomorrow at 9 a.m., meet me at Maserati Café, by the James River."
Harley hung up, his depression gone.
Looking smugly at the landlord, he said:
"Looks like I'll be staying after all."
The landlord nodded—it was Valentino, after all. Worth giving one more free day.
The next morning, at Maserati Café, Harley spoke passionately about why Franklin's failed.
"Don't be fooled by my franchising role.
I built Franklin's early supply chain.
My perfectionism slowed expansion, so the boss moved me to franchising.
But the real issue was never the franchise—it was chaos in the supply chain.
Retail is all about trimming costs and increasing efficiency."
Leo asked:
"If I give you a chance to rebuild a closed-loop supply chain, can you do better?"
Harley thought for a moment and answered:
"This job is my lifeline, sir. But I won't lie.
It takes more than one man.
I need a team—and that won't be cheap."
Leo read the sincerity in his expression.
"How much?"
"$300,000 a year.
Minimum $200,000."
Leo laughed:
"I'll give you $350,000.
Build the complete, efficient supply chain you talked about.
That extra $50K means nothing to me—but the right supply chain is everything."
Harley chuckled bitterly.
This man had become a billionaire in two years—how could he compare?
Just two years ago, Leo had addressed him respectfully, seeking a franchise opportunity.
Oh, how times had changed.
"Alright, Harley. Before we get started, come meet two people."
"Who?" Harley asked, confused.
Leo smiled:
"Your future teammates."