On the rooftop of the Waldorf Hotel, under the howling wind, a group of madmen danced wildly with champagne bottles in hand.
The tidal wave of wealth and the triumph of success turned these usually dignified gentlemen into howling revelers.
"Haha! Leo, did you see Henry's pig-liver face?"
Augustus swung his arms gleefully. After today, no one in his family would dare question his ability to reap fortune again.
Did Roland's personal net worth, apart from the family fortune, even reach a hundred million?
But Augustus, right now, was already worth $750 million.
Phoenix was just as exhilarated. This time, the investment had been entirely his own decision.
Many in his family mocked him for buying into the American Realty Group, sneering that it was like a spoiled heir boarding the Titanic—doomed to sink.
Yet just moments ago, his secretary delivered a telegram from his father.
That man, who could go months without speaking a word to him, had filled the message with praise.
Phoenix had turned a $300 million gamble into nearly seven times the return.
Only the Merlin Group looked somewhat forlorn. They regretted not being bolder at the start.
Sure, their $80 million stake had turned into almost $400 million, but it still felt like a missed fortune.
Leo, though he had drunk much, was far from as wild as the others.
He noticed Sidney standing quietly at the edge of the rooftop, wearing a pensive look.
Leo walked over and asked:
"Sidney, you look preoccupied. Don't tell me you think today's profits weren't enough?"
Sidney immediately shook his head.
"Of course not. It's just that the Ford family has thrown me a challenge.
They demand not only that we price above American Realty's IPO, but that they retain controlling shares.
The worst part is—they want a perfect post-IPO tax shelter.
The first two demands, I might still find a way around.
But the last one… it's extremely complicated.
Goldman Sachs has been around nearly a century, but we've always been rooted here in America.
Our ties in Europe are shallow.
When it comes to tax havens, especially in Switzerland, our influence is limited.
Small-scale avoidance, sure.
But Ford's needs, with their massive post-IPO income… our clearance there just isn't enough."
Leo smiled faintly, pulled a card from his pocket, and handed it to Sidney.
"Go talk to Edward. Perhaps he has exactly what you're looking for."
"Tax shelter? And you never thought to share such a gem with your old friends?"
Phoenix stepped up behind Leo, complaining loudly.
Behind him, the other shareholders nodded, casting reproachful glances at Leo.
"You're all established houses. Altria hardly lacks tax tricks. And the Morgan family? Say no more."
Leo paused, then added lightly,
"Normally it's 5%. With my name, it's 3%."
"How much?" Merlin blurted.
"Three percent."
"Good Lord! Even the lowest fees I've seen were never under 8%. Edward, sir, you must give me a card as well!"
By the time Leo left the Waldorf Hotel, the ten Edward cards in his pocket had dwindled to only two.
A few days later, Washington, D.C. — The White House.
John Steelman slammed a newspaper down onto President Truman's desk, his voice seething with anger.
"Mr. President, this boy clung to your influence just to save his struggling business.
Now his empire has struck gold—yet he's donated less than five million to your campaign fund.
He could have done much more. This is naked contempt for you.
We don't need such disloyal men."
Steelman's eyes flicked meaningfully toward the other aides.
Clark Clifford quickly stepped in to echo:
"Mr. President, John may be a bit absolute, but without your backing, Leo's business would never have sailed so smoothly.
At the very least, he wouldn't have been named a European Recovery Program agent in Italy and the Netherlands.
Perhaps we should act. Send him a warning.
After all, he remains your biggest donor to date. He's worth holding onto—but on our terms."
This "moderate" voice cut the deepest.
Truman frowned, looking down at the paper on his desk.
The Washington Post headline blazed across the front page, above a massive photo: Leo's hand pressed atop Augustus' and Phoenix's as the IPO bell rang.
The caption thundered: "The Birth of a Billionaire."
Truman knew well that his aides' indignation stemmed from the horse-track meeting—when Leo had refused their proposed wealth-sharing scheme.
Jealousy fueled their fury.
If Leo had agreed, they too would be feasting at this banquet of fortune.
Truman understood their hearts… because he felt the same.
Watching his once-humble protégé suddenly soar into a man who could dictate his fate with money—who wouldn't feel envy?
He stubbed out his cigarette and asked quietly:
"Well then, what do you suggest?"
The aides' eyes lit up. They knew he was moved.
Louis Johnson, head of campaign fundraising, spoke eagerly:
"He's been pressing us to endorse his so-called Real Estate Advisory and Planning Committee—meant to give him total control of the Housing Administration.
Administrator Gerard is a fool, nothing more than Leo's yes-man.
Right now, the only thing missing is your signature, Mr. President.
We can stall it. Make him see who the real boss is."
After the White House meeting, Steelman returned to his Chief of Staff's office.
He picked up the phone and called Congressman James.
"The divide-and-conquer plan is in motion."
"Well done, John. We, not Truman and Valentino, are the true stewards of this nation's power."
James hung up, his eyes falling on the newspaper on his desk.
It too bore the image of Leo's triumphant IPO moment.
The Wall Street Journal, with its sharper financial lens, pegged Leo's fortune even higher: $1.5 billion.
James sighed deeply.
The boy he once thought of as a mere ant, easily crushed, was now a financial titan.
No one knew better than James the raw power of money in America.
Defeating Leo outright was no longer realistic.
Even if Truman lost re-election, Leo wouldn't be chased out of the country.
The only path was gradual. The key was severing Leo's link to Truman—Truman must not be seen with a $1.5 billion backer.
As James brooded, the phone rang again.
The voice on the other end brought news that made him sit up with delight.
"Leo knows nothing of the White House and Congress scheming against him.
Right now, he's in the Empire State Building negotiating a critical acquisition for American Realty."
The target: the Empire State Building itself.
The seller: rival Tishman Realty.
Across the table sat Evan, leader of the Chicago consortium—a man Leo had crossed swords with many times.
Why sell now? Because under Austin's relentless assault, Tishman's grip over the Eastern states was crumbling.
Banks once friendly to them had begun cutting ties, wary of their faltering business and denied presale permits.
Even Citibank, now under new ownership, only tossed them token scraps.
For Evan, it was either "die slowly" or "die instantly."
Selling the Empire State Building at least bought time.
When the deal was done, Evan spurned Leo's polite dinner invitation.
He couldn't stand another second under Leo's victorious smile.
After Evan stormed out, Leo turned to his shareholders and executives.
"Gentlemen, the very symbol of America now belongs to us."
The next day, American Realty's stock surged another $3, adding $300 million in market value.
They had acquired the iconic skyscraper for just $400 million.
Within a single week since going public, Leo Valentino's name had graced the front page of major papers almost daily.
A new epithet followed him now: "The Son of Fortune."
Exhausted from two straight months of IPO chaos, Leo planned a round of golf at Shinnecock Hills.
But bad news came first—from Field at the Federal Housing Administration.
The President had once again refused to sign off on the Real Estate Advisory and Planning Committee.
Leo had hoped to secure its creation before the IPO. Truman delayed.
Now, even after the IPO, Truman had rejected it outright.
The message was clear: Truman was displeased.
Leo frowned, anger rising.
Five million was no small donation—it equaled nearly $100 million in future campaign dollars.
Before Leo's $5 million, Truman's entire fundraising committee had only raised $3 million—one of which had come from Leo himself.
Leo called Marshall.
As Truman's strongest ally, Marshall cautiously hinted: Truman's aides were behind this.
For the greater cause, he urged, sometimes one must yield.
If Truman won re-election, today's concession could return tenfold tomorrow.
Did that logic hold water? Certainly.
But Leo knew better—this was the wisdom of old-world power brokers.
Yield once, and they'd only want more.
Next time, they'd demand 60%. Then 80%.
Until he was nothing but their tool, discarded like a stray dog.
Leo remembered the creed of one of his idols:
"Seek unity through struggle, and unity endures.
Seek unity through concession, and unity dies."
In Harlem, Manhattan's northern quarter, in a modest Irish-style diner that doubled as a detective's office, Leo met Turner in disguise.
"Before the IPO you told me you'd uncovered something important about me. What is it?"
"Boss, I had a dockworker on my payroll—he's Secret Service.
He used to guard Vice President Wallace.
After Wallace left office, the man became his private bodyguard.
I paid him $100,000 for a secret.
Wallace may leave the Democrats and form his own party.
And the man behind it is James Roosevelt.
Their plan? To fracture Truman's base.
Word is, Wallace has already gathered a circle of allies.
They intend to stage their breakaway right before the Democratic National Convention."
Turner leaned closer, eyes sharp.
"It could deal Truman a fatal blow."
Leo's smile widened. He immediately signed a $500,000 check and handed it over.
Turner was startled, trying to refuse. But Leo pressed it firmly into his hand.
"Listen, Turner. You've earned this."
Leaving the detective's office, Leo went straight to the newsroom of The World.
Storming into James' office, he laid out everything Turner had uncovered about Wallace.
James frowned.
"Didn't you tell us not to meddle too deeply in politics?"
"That's right. I run this paper for my interests. If you meddle on your own, I'll be cleaning up the mess.
But when I need it—The World must be my voice.
Tomorrow morning, I want front-page news: Henry Wallace is splitting off."
Leo's calculation was simple.
If the rebellion erupted right before the convention, Truman would be helpless—and Leo's prior investments would sink with him.
Better to expose it early.
It would serve as both a warning and a lifeline.
Let Truman know: aside from Leo, he had no greater ally.
The next morning, a bombshell exploded across American politics.
The newly popular World newspaper ran with a thunderous headline:
"Shocking Betrayal! Roosevelt's Heir Henry Wallace Quits the Democrats."