"It's been a long time. We're all busy men, so just get to the point."
Inside a hotel suite, James fixed his eyes on Walter. Their anti-Leo alliance was beginning to fracture.
The reason was simple—no wall could keep out the wind forever. It had leaked that Walter's backers at Citibank were supporting Dewey. A divergence of political routes meant that, at least until the election, they could no longer work in tandem.
"Even if we have our differences, we're still the same kind of people. That troublemaker who keeps ruining our plans—that's our true enemy," Walter said.
"Sounds like you came back from the South empty-handed," James sneered.
Walter's trip south was no secret in certain circles, nor was his purpose. That he had now returned to seek James's help said plenty.
"It's true. The Altria Group's influence there is overwhelming. Even when I reached out to the Southern Railways—the ones Leo blocked from being acquired—I still couldn't build an alliance willing to resist him.
Those southern plantation barons are too cautious. They all said they'd only fight back after Leo loses once.
But we can't wait that long. Since the Cotton family was driven out, it's been less than half a year—and that man's assets have already grown tenfold.
I don't even dare imagine what things will look like after this election. Even if Truman loses, will we still even be qualified to oppose him?" Walter said heavily.
But James wasn't easily moved. With a mocking smile, he replied:
"Come now, we're old friends. Spare me the theatrics. Citibank has been around for centuries—you think this is the first time you've met a business prodigy like Leo?
This is really about your bet on Dewey. He's looking shaky against Truman's Select Committee under Leo's command, and you're uneasy. Don't dress it up as the end of the world."
James could say this with ease because he knew the truth—ever since Leo's assets broke the billion mark, Leo was out of his league. But Leo couldn't touch him either. The Roosevelt name was enough to keep James untouchable.
Exposed, Walter's face remained calm. Thick skin was the most basic survival trait of men like him.
"You're right, their tricks have rattled us. But I'm not wrong either. No general wins every battle. The moment Leo stumbles—even once—we won't even need to act. Everyone who resents him will step in, and that will be enough to ruin him completely."
"Then tell me your plan. How do you make him stumble? We've tried before—business competition, other means—nothing worked. I say perhaps patience is the wiser path."
Walter actually agreed with James, but his backers did not. They had poured fortunes into Dewey and would not tolerate risks that might jeopardize their investment.
"I have a friend in Pennsylvania. He's the real boss among the Jewish mob, far more powerful and connected than Hyman Roth flaunting himself down in Miami.
Most importantly, he's low-key. And he controls several unions with shocking influence—he's solved many headaches for us.
He knows I'm moving against Leo. He said he could help me settle the matter."
James chuckled.
"What we couldn't solve, a gangster boss thinks he can? Walter, have you forgotten? Leo is the biggest underwriter of the Italian mafia now."
"I told him that too—until he showed me a photograph."
James picked it up, studied it, then his expression shifted. A flicker of realization and then delight crossed his face.
"This guy—he looks a lot like Leo's driver. The one they call 'Noodles,' right?"
"His name's Frank. Like Leo, he's a WWII veteran. He works as a 'house painter' under my friend."
("Painting houses" being mob slang for contract killing.)
"My friend says they can substitute him for Noodles—then find an opening to take Leo out."
James thought it over, then shook his head.
"Unrealistic. Leo would see through it instantly. Don't forget—the last time we tried in D.C., the assassin didn't just fail, he was dead within three minutes, killed by Leo himself.
That Frank wouldn't last three seconds against him."
"If the imitation's good enough, it might still work."
Walter's words were cut off by James.
"Noodles is a mystery. We don't even know his real name. How do you expect anyone to imitate him?"
Walter smiled strangely.
"As it happens, another of my friend's men knows Noodles very well. He says he can train Frank for the role."
"Too much of a coincidence. What if it's Leo's trap?" James asked coldly.
"I thought the same. So I went to meet him myself. And let's just say—it reminded me how complicated human nature is. But it's no trap of Leo's. He couldn't have set this up before he was even born."
Walter's tone was firm.
"Then why involve me?" James asked.
"Because their price concerns you. Both are Democrats. Especially the one who knows Noodles well—he wants into politics. He wants to go to Washington."
"At least tell me their names."
"Russell Bufalino, owner of a curtain shop in Pennsylvania. And Max Bailey, regional head of the Teamsters in the Northeast."
"And how do you plan to switch them? Noodles never leaves Leo's side."
"Then we let Leo set the time. From what I hear, he's on his way to Pennsylvania right now. He's going to persuade unions there to support President Truman. His go-between? None other than his good friend, Mafia boss Michael Corleone.
As it happens, Bufalino has ties to the Corleone family." Walter smiled.
James leaned back, a glint of unease in his eyes.
"A meticulous setup. So whether I agree or not, you're going after him."
"No. If you agree, Leo may die. If you don't, the unions may side with him," Walter said coolly.
"You Jews… Fine. Tell them I agree. I'll await good news."
On a highway in Pennsylvania, a line of Lincolns sped toward Philadelphia.
Inside one of them, Leo watched the city draw nearer, his mind turning over union matters.
The American Realty Group was forming its own union, drawing scrutiny from other industries' unions. Representatives came constantly to inquire.
Lately, Leo had often overheard Austin raging against them—calling them mob-linked, corrupt, double-dealing scoundrels.
Aside from the business department, the legal department was now the busiest in American Realty. They coordinated with law firms in various states, fighting lawsuits against unions.
Leo had chosen a strategy of no negotiation—only delay. Compared to the massive welfare funds unions demanded, legal fees were nothing.
Tensions rose steadily. Leo even considered bringing Michael in—after all, most unions had mob shadows behind them.
Then, during his talk with Bishop Harrison of the Adventists, Michael contacted him. Someone, he said, could solve Leo's union problem—and rally major unions behind Truman.
That was why Leo had come.
In his hand lay the file of the man he was meeting: Russell Bufalino.
It was the second time his name had crossed Leo's desk.
Beneath it lay the file of Max Bailey, key to Russell's hold over the Teamsters—and once Noodles's closest friend, the very one whose betrayal had driven him into exile.
Though in Noodles's memory, his name had been Max Woods.
Philadelphia, in a small curtain shop.
When Leo stepped out, Russell Bufalino was already waiting. He rushed forward, bowing slightly to shake Leo's hand.
"Welcome, Mr. Valentino."
Beside Leo, Noodles frowned. Something about Russell seemed familiar. When he met Noodles's probing gaze, Russell only smiled faintly.
In the storeroom, Russell spoke sincerely. He offered to bring the railway, trucking, and teachers' unions to Truman's side.
Leo laid out his own terms: he'd help Russell secure a gambling license in Las Vegas, build him a 10,000-square-meter hotel free of charge, and arrange a post in government once Truman was president.
The meeting ended amicably.
"Tomorrow night, at the Rittenhouse Hotel, I'll gather the union leaders. You're welcome to attend," Russell said.
"Very well."
But once in the car, Leo's face darkened.
"It all seemed to go well. Why don't you look pleased?" Noodles asked.
"Too well. Tell me, Noodles—if I offered you a sesame seed in exchange for a watermelon, would you take it?"
"Of course not."
"Exactly. When something looks too good, there's a trick. Call Joseph. Get our men to Philadelphia tonight.
And call Michael—ask him who the Mafia boss of Pennsylvania is. I want to meet him."
"Is all this really necessary?" Noodles asked, surprised.
"I've come this far not from luck or talent alone, but from caution. Better safe than sorry."
Then he remembered Bufalino was Noodles's enemy's boss.
"Noodles—be careful here in Pennsylvania. Go nowhere alone. If you need… services, call them to the hotel. I'll reimburse you."
"Now that's generous. I'll make sure to find the best girl in Philly.
Oh, and—since we're here, don't you want to see Miss Kelly? You haven't met since last time."
Leo shook his head.
"Not this time. Too dangerous. It's better for her if I don't."
That night, he checked into the Rittenhouse Hotel. After meeting Pennsylvania's Mafia boss, Masaccio, he turned in early, exhausted from constant travel.
Noodles, restless, called for a girl to his room. After their time, she prepared to leave, but then pulled a card from her pocket.
"This was stuck in your door. Looks like it's for you."
When she left, Noodles stared at the familiar handwriting, heart pounding.
Old friend Noodles—can we meet? I'm downstairs.
The crude scrawl was unmistakable. It was from Max Woods—his childhood brother, long believed dead in that fiery night.
Memories flooded in—New York's freezing immigrant streets, scraping by on theft and begging until Max appeared. Bootlegging, Max's clever smuggling tricks, their fortunes rising.
Then the betrayals, the doomed heist, the fire. His three brothers gone, leaving only ashes—and Noodles hunted, forced into exile.
He had long dreamed they had faked their deaths, that they lived somewhere with the stolen million.
Now one was alive, standing in Philadelphia.
Noodles splashed water on his face. Reality had come. He had to face it.
But first, he thought of Leo's warning. So he sought Joseph, left instructions, then went to Leo.
Leo, half-asleep, cut him off, clapped his shoulder.
"Go, Noodles. Don't worry—I'll keep you safe. And find out what they're planning."
That night, rain poured over Philadelphia.
Noodles slid into a waiting Lincoln. Inside sat a man with eyes full of contradictions.
"Long time, Noodles."
"We've never met, sir."
But the face—too familiar. It was Max.
Noodles's chest clenched. Decades of doubt collapsed into one cruel truth—Max had betrayed them. His brothers hadn't died nobly—they had been betrayed.
Max spoke coldly.
"I'm Max. They call me Mr. Bailey now. You shouldn't have stayed Leo's driver. Your existence creates a crack in my cover.
But you still have value. Stay quietly where we tell you, and you'll live out your days in peace."
Noodles asked calmly, "And if I refused to come?"
"This is Pennsylvania. Our turf. We have plenty of ways. But I knew you'd come—you're weak, sentimental. You always need answers."
Moments later, they arrived at a safehouse. Inside waited Frank—the man who looked eerily like Noodles, but with a crueler expression.
"Good. Frank, you've met Noodles. Now adjust yourself. Tomorrow you play his part."
Two armed guards tied Noodles to a chair, gagging him.
Max leaned down, rain dripping from his hair.
"You were a mistake. I've sacrificed too much. Tomorrow you disappear forever. Call it my… compensation to you."
He left Noodles bound in the living room.
But when night fell, the guards heard a faint noise. One went to check—then crumpled with a knife in his neck.
Joseph appeared, cutting Noodles free.
"How did you find me?"
"Tricks. We know these streets well."
Noodles gasped: "There's a man who looks just like me. They plan to use him to kill Leo!"
Joseph's eyes widened. "How alike?"
"Like a twin brother."
They hurried back to Leo, who stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Good. Joseph, you were right not to kill them. Noodles—you'll go back tomorrow. Stay one more day. Let's see what they're really planning."
The next evening, Russell hosted the union leaders.
Leo, cool and unreadable, played his part.
In the darkened corridor below the hotel, Frank—dressed as Noodles—closed in, knife ready.
But when he struck, his blade found only air. In an instant, Leo twisted, broke his neck.
At the same moment, Russell drew his gun—only to fall with a dagger in his throat.
Two lives ended in seconds.
The union leaders froze, terrified.
Leo's cold voice cut through the silence:
"So—you were all in on this?"
They collapsed to their knees, begging. Only Jimmy Hoffa's eyes gleamed. Russell's death freed him from the leash.
"Mr. Valentino, we had no part in this. Let us prove it—our unions will back Truman immediately!"
Leo smirked. "I'll need proof. New vice presidents. New local leaders. My men."
None dared refuse.
By the time the police arrived, the case was sewn up. Russell Bufalino, with his record, was declared the sole culprit.
The mafia would inherit his empire. And through the unions, Leo's reach would only grow.
Later, Leo visited the safehouse. There, bound to a chair, was Max.
Noodles looked at Leo gravely.
"He was part of it. His fate is yours to decide."
Max's face turned ashen. He begged the moment the gag was pulled from his mouth:
"Spare me, Mr. Valentino—"