Inside the room, Leo sat on the sofa, staring at Mike.
The weight of Leo's gaze pressed heavily upon him.
"I'm sorry, Leo," Mike said, voice low, "I passed you an unreliable message without investigating it. Because of me, you walked straight into danger."
Leo lit a cigar, his tone deep and steady.
"In your definition, I'm a clean man. All my dealings are with those so-called 'respectable figures' in Kay's eyes. But as you've seen—when they're cornered, even the cleanest people turn to the Mafia's most familiar method: murder.
So tell me, Mike—what's your real reason for trying to wash yourself clean?"
"Leo, I promised Kay…"
"And you promised me," Leo cut in. His eyes hardened. "Don't use a woman as an excuse. I know you, Mike. Kay has never been able to control your will."
Leo leaned forward.
"My friends in Las Vegas told me how careful you've been there—too careful. Not a trace of Mafia behavior."
Mike lowered his gaze. "Vegas is the foundation of my business. I can't afford to leave evidence that drags me into trouble."
"Then when," Leo asked with a mocking look, "are you planning to hold the National Mafia Conference this year?"
Mike froze. He knew there was no hiding from Leo.
"I just want the Corleone family to be clean," he said, almost pleading.
"When people hear your name, Valentino, they think of a genius entrepreneur. But when they hear Corleone, all they think of is the Mafia.
Leo… I have a son now."
Leo's eyes softened for only a moment, then hardened again. He spoke with the clarity of someone who had already made his decision.
"Listen to me, Mike. There's only one way to wash clean in this world—you become so powerful that no one dares call you dirty. If you still remember your oath, then call the National Mafia Conference immediately."
Mike was stunned. He had never imagined there could be such a path to legitimacy. But Leo's words made sense. Following Leo was safer than trying to act alone. At least in Nevada, thanks to Leo's influence, many government officials already looked after him.
"Forgive me, Leo. I was wrong. I trust you. Tell me what I must do."
"First," Leo said, raising a finger, "you must remind every restless gangster that the Corleone family remains the most powerful Mafia, and you, Mike, are still their Godfather.
Second, Truman's campaign needs your help. Not thugs on the street threatening voters—information. Gather intelligence on anyone plotting to disrupt his rallies.
Third, the Bufalino family's influence will soon vanish from the unions. Before the Jews realize what's happening, we must seize control. At the very least, take the teachers' union, the railroad union, and the truck drivers' union. They are critical.
As for the profits from these unions—thirty to seventy."
Leo pointed at himself, then at Mike.
"Seventy for me, thirty for you. Any objections?"
Mike frowned. "Some bosses will complain about that split."
Leo's eyes flashed. "That's exactly the point. Let the malcontents show themselves, so we can deal with them one by one. It's an election year—no one has the time to worry about Mafia feuds. The Italian syndicates are too fragmented. That doesn't serve us."
Mike hesitated. "But Leo… America's gentlemen can barely tolerate me. How could they accept an even stronger Mafia?"
Leo smiled thinly. "Good question. Of course the gentlemen won't allow it. But they only see appearances. If you put on the right play—if enough bosses stand on stage with you, say, the entire Twelve Families—they'll see only division.
In truth, our goals are met, while the Corleones retreat into the shadows. That's how you wash clean. The world will think you are weak, and those who know better will be too afraid to speak."
Mike nodded slowly, though his face remained troubled. A war required money.
Leo caught his expression. "Don't worry about the money. I'll handle it."
Mike's stomach tightened. Only someone with Leo's wealth dared dream of uniting the Italian Mafia. Still, he couldn't deny—Leo's path made sense.
"War preparations, troop movements—these things can't be hidden from everyone. We'll be discovered," Mike murmured.
"Discovery is inevitable. What matters is whether we eliminate the discoverer first—and distract everyone else. Take me, for example. 'Mr. Valentino,' recently survived an assassination attempt. Now I'll be traveling west with the President, demanding unprecedented security. State police, the FBI—everyone will be focused on me."
Mike left with that thought burning in his mind.
Evelyn, who had been silent until now, asked softly, "Do you really think the Corleones can unite the Mafia?"
Leo shook his head. "Of course not. But compared to his father, Mike will centralize more power in a Mafia council. That's enough for me. It's easier to buy twelve men than a hundred."
His eyes drifted over Evelyn's curves. He slapped her playfully and asked, "Will you come west with me?"
Her eyes sparkled. "I heard you've got a certain Marilyn Monroe in Hollywood. If there's a new friend joining us, I'll be even more excited."
Leo chuckled, shaking his head. Evelyn was always proper in public. But alone with him, she revealed her strange, fiery side.
This trip west would not be his alone. Truman was traveling with him, scheduled for five speeches in California and one in Nevada. As Leo and Mike had predicted, the President's security was overwhelming. After Leo's recent brush with death, California politicians doubled police deployments.
That gave Mike the breathing room to maneuver.
When Leo and Truman returned from Nevada to Los Angeles, preparing to meet the legendary banker Giannini, convoys of grim-faced men were already rolling out of Las Vegas—ready to spread across states, to strike if Mike's negotiations faltered.
At Giannini's luxurious estate, the frail Italian financier still listened carefully to Truman's speech on immigration policy.
"Don't confine it to Italians," Giannini said firmly. "If you want to win, you must appeal to other ethnic groups. The war in Europe is over. Immigrants arriving in America share only one identity: immigrants. If you divide them by ethnicity, you'll only breed more opposition."
The words struck Truman like lightning. He rushed to his aide Louis, demanding immediate changes to the new immigration bill.
When Truman departed, Giannini turned to Leo.
"He seems weaker than Dewey in every way. The elites—east and west—expect him to fail. Yet from his speech, I see you've given him a new path. It reminds me of my Bank of America. While others chased big clients, we served small businesses and farmers. Big clients bring large sums, but ordinary people are a bank's true foundation.
The same applies to elections. The hard part is convincing people to believe in Truman. My advice helps him with immigrants, but he'll still struggle. Are you sure you want to stake everything on him?"
Leo nodded.
Giannini sighed. "Very well. You are the leader of Italian America now. It's your choice."
On the flight back to Washington, Truman brimmed with excitement. For the first time, he felt genuine hope. The West Coast had embraced him in a way the East never had. Leo's speeches cut deep—slogans that seemed bland to Truman electrified the crowds.
Another reason for his joy sat across the aisle: a New York City councilman. The party was pushing him for a Senate seat. More importantly, he was the public face of Italian America—Antonio Giuseppe. Sharing a plane with him was a clear signal of support.
Giannini's words echoed. The path was real. For the first time, Truman believed he could win. And he knew who had made it possible: Leo.
Back in Washington, more surprises awaited. Unions once hostile to Truman now invited him to speak. For ten days he toured eastern cities, his speeches amplified by the newly merged newspaper chain. His simple words reached every household. Polls showed his support slowly rising. The gap with Dewey remained, but progress was undeniable.
Meanwhile, Leo didn't forget to squeeze his enemies. Thomas kept filing proposals Republicans had once promised in their midterms. It was petty, but effective. With the New Journal and World News mocking them issue after issue, Republican support eroded.
Failure always demanded a scapegoat. The death of a small-time Jewish gangster wasn't enough. Those who had bet heavily on Bufalino's success were furious.
James Roosevelt, upon learning of the disaster, nervously phoned his contacts in Philadelphia's Beckett family. They hung up the moment they recognized his voice. Rage boiled in him—Walter's idiotic plan had cost him an ally.
Losing Beckett was survivable. But as he read the New Journal's announcement of Truman's next tour, James hurled his breakfast table across the room and called Walter in fury.
"You idiot! Look what you've done! The unions were ours. Now you've handed Leo the perfect excuse to meddle!"
But the voice on the line was not Walter's.
"James," said John Stillman coolly, "Walter's been dismissed. He has already paid for his mistakes."
James sneered. "Ha. So the Stillmans have reclaimed Citibank. Convenient for you."
He had once supported Walter, even helped push the Stillmans out of power. But now Walter was gone. James and John spoke briefly of countermeasures, but both knew—they had none.
Finally James snapped, "Forget it. Our goals aren't the same. Handle your side. I'll handle mine."
He hung up, realizing with dread that John wasn't half as desperate as he was. Dewey still led Truman by nearly double. Six months wasn't enough for Leo to overturn the race.
But for James, it was different. If Leo kept gaining ground, Douglas would never beat Truman in the primaries.
He picked up the phone again, calling CIA Director Roscoe.
"Watch Leo. Report his every move to me."
"We have no domestic authority," Roscoe warned. "Hoover already found our fingerprints on the assassin you killed. He nearly crucified us. I barely smoothed it over."
James cut him off. "If I fall, your slush funds won't stay hidden. Think about that."
A long silence. Then Roscoe muttered, "He's heading south. To meet the Evangelical Archbishop." And hung up.
James froze. If Leo won the Evangelicals, he'd win the South. He couldn't allow it. He ordered his aides to book tickets to South Carolina. There, on Leo's unclaimed turf, he'd give him a surprise.
At that very moment, Leo prepared to board his own plane. Joseph whispered at his side:
"The bait is set."
Leo nodded. "Then let the fish enjoy their meal."
Hours earlier, Walter had lived through the most humiliating morning of his life. At a Citibank board meeting, John Stillman listed his failures. The directors voted him out. His bonuses were clawed back. His pension remained—but he was forced to sign a non-compete agreement.
Carrying a cardboard box of his belongings, Walter stumbled outside. For years he had been chauffeured. Now there was no car, no driver. He hardly even knew where "home" was anymore.
Then a car pulled up. At the wheel was a familiar face.
"Mr. Vance," said his former driver kindly, "I heard you were dismissed. I thought you might be lost. Let me take you home."
Walter's chest warmed. He slid into the seat, too broken to question it.
But as the ride stretched on, unease stirred. This wasn't the route. Through the windshield he saw not Manhattan's skyline but a busy harbor.
"Where are we? Who are you?"
The driver smiled faintly. "Mr. Valentino sends his regards."
Before Walter could scream, a chloroform-soaked cloth smothered his face.
Night fell. His unconscious body was stuffed into an oil drum, filled with cement, and dumped into the Atlantic Ocean.