"Leo, believe me, when I become president, I will settle accounts with James."
Truman looked at Leo with gratitude.
They were at the airport, and Leo was seeing him off.
What made Truman so emotional was that Leo still stood firmly behind him.
Leo had introduced him to the Italian legislator from New York, Guardiola, and arranged for Guardiola to take Truman west to meet the legendary Italian-American banker, Giannini.
In Truman's mind, the pieces were falling into place—Leo had already secured support from the clergy, the unions, and the workers.
Now, one by one, they were conquering the various ethnic groups.
According to Leo's plan, after meeting Giannini in the West, Truman would head straight to South Carolina to meet the Evangelicals.
Then, continuing southward to New Mexico, he would work to win the support of the Mexican immigrants there.
Truman boarded the plane.
Watching him depart, Thomas, standing beside Leo, asked with a trace of mockery:
"Do you actually believe he'll avenge you?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"Today he can refuse me for one reason, tomorrow James can offer him the same price. Relying on others for vengeance is foolish. Sending him west was just to get him out of the way.
It's time to move, Thomas."
Thomas frowned.
"You've thought this through? Once you strike at the head of such a special institution, if you don't kill him in one blow, it'll be trouble."
Leo's gaze hardened.
"If I decide to kill him, then I will."
In a West Virginia village, Joseph and his elite squad stood amidst the ruins of a burned house.
Beside them, a local neighbor explained:
"Last night, I was just about to sleep when the Klein house suddenly caught fire. But strangely, when we put it out, we found no bodies."
Joseph slipped the old man some money in thanks for the information, though his heart sank.
First, because his comrade Anthony Klein's parents had been abducted.
Second, because once again, the boss had been right—the safehouse in Monroe Park out west might have been compromised.
"Back to Monroe Park. We need to protect our families."
Meanwhile, in Washington, James was in high spirits.
The elite squad MacArthur had dispatched—led by CIA agents—after missing several targets, had finally captured an elderly couple.
They didn't even have to interrogate them harshly; the simple, inexperienced pair gave up the information easily.
James glanced at the map on the wall. By now, that squad should be moving into the Midwest.
He'd always heard rumors that Leo had assets in the West, but now it was confirmed—his very stronghold lay there.
"What a sly bastard. But this time you won't escape. With your lair exposed, your men will come after me in revenge. When they leave your side… that's when your death will come."
Just then, his secretary rushed in, voice panicked:
"Sir, Director Roscoe is on the line. He must speak with you."
James, annoyed at having his good mood interrupted, snapped:
"What's the rush? What does Roscoe want?"
"The Anti-Corruption Committee has served him a formal notice. He's required to attend a hearing in two days regarding suspected procurement corruption within the CIA."
James's face stiffened. As an old player in Washington, he knew: unless the committee had solid evidence—or a key witness—they would never call such a hearing.
But when had this happened? He was the number three figure in the Democratic Party, and he'd heard nothing!
Before he could answer Roscoe's call, his private office line rang—the inner family line, known only to Roosevelt clan members.
Picking it up, he heard his cousin, Orland Roosevelt, on the other end.
"James, bad news. Bo Reed called. He's been accused by the South Carolina legislature of inciting and participating in illegal activities. They've already held a hearing."
James frowned.
"Then why are you calling me? Talk to Lesto, the governor of South Carolina."
Orland's voice grew more desperate.
"I did. It didn't work. And now Lesto won't take my calls."
James's gut sank. Something was very wrong.
"That sly brat! Dishonorable bastard!"
He knew instantly this was Leo's handiwork. Yet as he muttered curses, he conveniently forgot he was the one who had broken his word first.
At this point, James pushed Roscoe's problem aside—even though Roscoe was, on paper, more important than Bo Reed.
But James understood well: Bo Reed was the Roosevelt family's showpiece, their poster boy. His very existence was proof to the world that following the Roosevelts led to a bright future.
James had assumed Leo would simply assassinate Reed—an efficient solution. Reed, an incompetent liability, would be removed, and blame could neatly be pinned on Leo, sparing the Roosevelt name.
But instead, Leo was maneuvering to bring Reed down through political means. That was a public slap in the family's face—something James could not allow.
As he reached to hang up and call Governor Lesto himself, Orland interrupted again:
"Wait, James—there's more. The family's business in New York has run into trouble."
James felt his chest tighten, loosening his tie to breathe easier.
When it came to the family's money, there was no brushing it aside.
Everyone had chosen him as patriarch not because he was a president's son—there had been more than one Roosevelt president—but because he could deliver wealth.
James understood this clearly. He asked quickly:
"What kind of trouble? Real estate rentals are steady. What could go wrong?"
The Roosevelt family had long since passed the stage of buying land and building houses. They had seized two massive property booms early and now sat atop New York's finest real estate, living off colossal rental income.
Those cash flows were James's weapon—channeled into the stock market, into select shares guaranteed to rise, or into defense and Jewish-backed investment funds.
"Rent prices are falling," Orland said grimly.
"Impossible! This is New York!"
"American Real Estate Group moved in. They bought up all the surrounding properties at double price. In just a week, before I could react, all our neighbors changed hands. Now they've slashed rents—back to levels from 1900. So cheap that even after paying our penalties, tenants save money by leaving us!"
"Unfair competition! Malicious competition!" James shouted, stomping his foot.
"And that's not all. Our district is suddenly swarming with Italian gangsters."
"Then call the police! What the hell am I paying them for?" James raged.
"They're careful," Orland explained. "They just walk the streets, follow people—never break the law. The police can't touch them."
James sneered bitterly.
"Since when do American police need the law to arrest anyone?"
"There are two Italian-American state legislators strolling the streets daily," Orland said. "They're claiming there's evidence of anti-Italian police brutality in our district."
Smash! James hurled a glass to the floor in fury.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, then dialed Governor Dewey of New York.
"Maybe you should lend a hand to an old fraternity brother, Dewey. Don't tell me you know nothing."
"Of course I know, James," Dewey replied lazily. "But what's it to me? Those men haven't killed or burned anything. The NYPD practices civilized law enforcement."
James exploded.
"Bullshit, Dewey! Today you let Leo come at me—tomorrow he'll come at you! Don't forget who's been stirring up your troubles lately!"
James played his trump card, convinced Leo had orchestrated Thomas's attacks on the Republicans. Surely Dewey would see sense and join him.
But Dewey's tone never changed.
"Maybe. But compared to clowns, James, only you are a real opponent. Look at Gallup's latest poll. And let me give you a word of advice—we're nearly fifty. Stop clinging to college days and your frat president glory. We're decision-makers of a nation now. Grow up."
Click. Dewey hung up.
"He dares say I'm playing house!" James roared.
That fraternity title—his proudest achievement in youth—was now mocked as childish. He swept everything off his desk in rage before calming down.
"Get me Gallup's latest poll," he ordered his secretary.
Within minutes, the numbers were in his hands.
And what he saw left him both furious and amused.
Leo's month-long machinations had indeed dented Republican support. Dewey's numbers slipped three points.
But Truman's had only gained one point. The other two went to Taft.
"Useless fool!" James spat.
Leo's schemes were clever, yes—but Truman was such damaged goods that voters wouldn't buy in.
Even after all that work, Dewey's support still doubled Truman's.
No wonder Dewey no longer bothered with Leo. From the Republicans' perspective, the Truman–Leo alliance wasn't even worth the effort.
James, the heir of Roosevelt's legacy, was the real threat.
Republicans, on the brink of an election, would sit back and let the Democrats destroy each other.
James knew there was no way back now—between him and Leo, there could be no compromise.
With Dewey unreliable, James worked the phones again.
The Roosevelt family's roots in New York ran deep. Soon, Wall Street bankers agreed to let him liquidate family assets from foundations and funds. They would also buy up Roosevelt stock at market prices.
If Leo wanted a price war, James would give him one—and see who bled out first.
He called the police chief of the family's district, who happened to be married into the clan. James made it clear: even if he was fired, the Roosevelt family would support him.
"Deal with those Italian thugs."
With the financial crisis stabilized for the moment, James turned to South Carolina. Thankfully, Governor Lesto, their protégé, dared not refuse his call.
"Lesto, you will handle Bo's problem. I'm not asking."
"James, it's not that I don't want to—it's that I can't. Having Bo link directly with the Klan was a mistake. Valentino is hammering that point. Evangelical bishops are whispering that while they can reconcile with you, they won't forgive Bo. If Bo stays, they'll escalate. You know the Klan still matters here in the South. If you really want to save Bo, you'll have to come in person."
James wanted to refuse, knowing full well the price he'd have to pay.
But the words that came out were:
"Fine! I'll come. But I don't want a second hearing before I get there."
South Carolina temporarily secured, James still couldn't put the phone down.
He called his friend, Congressman Vicente, at the Anti-Corruption Committee.
From him, James learned the worst: Thomas was driving the push against Roscoe, and this time Thomas was adamant—unyielding. He had evidence.
"James, this is serious. I can only tell you this much—Thomas has uncovered CIA operations along the Mexican border. You know what I mean. For all our sakes, this can't be swept under the rug."
Damn it. The drug routes had been exposed.
James knew too well—Roscoe's CIA, less than a year old, relied on narcotics profits as a hidden lifeline. James himself had shielded him.
But if Thomas had both witnesses and hard evidence, then it was finished. Drugs would destroy their name.
How had this been discovered? James couldn't understand. Roscoe had handpicked every man in the agency.
Meanwhile, in Lynchburg, even Thomas was puzzled.
Across from Leo in their hotel, he finally asked:
"Hoover's hands can't reach into the CIA. How did you manage it?"