After the governor of South Carolina left, James didn't sleep a wink that night.
He racked his brains, made countless phone calls, but none of it made a difference.
By dawn, he suddenly realized something: confronting Leo wasn't just his own problem. His resources were only enough to save one man—but perhaps MacArthur's resources could save the other.
With this thought, James, exhausted, slumped into his car.
Sitting beside him was Anton, a Belarusian bodyguard who had loyally protected him for twenty years. Anton looked wary, more cautious than ever.
And then, they waited. They waited for a long time.
James grew restless. Sitting up, unease laced his voice:
"Why aren't they coming out yet?"
Anton, equally on edge, replied, "I'll go check upstairs."
"No!"
James grabbed Anton's arm.
"Just drive. Get us out of this damned place."
Anton hesitated, his loyalty tugging at him. "But what if they can still be saved?"
"Anton, I'm your boss. I order you—drive, now. Forget about those two fools!" James barked, shoving Anton toward the driver's seat.
Throughout the drive, James kept glancing nervously at the cars behind them. His body trembled; every car looked like it could carry assassins.
Anton drove silently, his thoughts heavy. A melancholy lingered in his eyes. Years of protecting James—yet in the end, he was nothing more than a shield, a body meant to take a bullet.
At the airport, James ordered Anton not to leave his side. Even when Anton needed the restroom, James followed him closely, refusing to let him out of sight.
Finally, boarding time came. James strode quickly toward the gate—when suddenly, several men rose at the same time, walking in sync with him.
Something was wrong.
James's eyes narrowed—he noticed their hands tucked inside their pockets or coats.
He bolted into a run. Even as he sprinted, he shouted over his shoulder:
"Anton! Block them!"
Anton had been about to run with him. Hearing the order, he froze in place. The sorrow in his eyes deepened.
James ran for his life. Anton, left behind, found himself facing three men—and before he could act, he felt the cold barrel of a gun press into his back.
A low voice whispered in his ear:
"You're just a bodyguard, brother. No need to die for him."
Like a bird spooked by an arrow, James didn't return to Washington. He fled back to New York—the birthplace of the Roosevelt family.
Only after reaching his townhouse in the family district, seeing the patrols of police and private guards outside, did he finally exhale in relief.
For the first time, fear truly sank in. He realized just how reckless the assassination attempt on Leo had been. The threat to his life made him shiver uncontrollably.
Cowardice gnawed at him. His hands shook as he dialed Thomas's number.
"Thomas, tell Leo—I'll fully support Truman's campaign. If we keep fighting, the Republicans will only benefit. We need to unite."
But Thomas was, at that very moment, sitting in the Lynchburg Hotel, sipping coffee with Leo. Listening to James's trembling voice, Thomas knew instantly—James was trying to sue for peace, scrambling for dignity behind flimsy excuses.
Thomas looked to Leo for direction. Leo only shook his head, a sneer on his lips.
Understanding, Thomas's reply came cold and emotionless:
"Sorry, James. You can decide when to start, but Leo decides when it ends."
The line went dead.
James's face twisted with fury, but beneath the rage was regret. He immediately called Truman.
Truman, meanwhile, was riding high. He had just won the favor of Italian leader Giannini, and he could feel Leo's vast influence in the West. He even regretted scolding Leo two days ago.
"Help me, Truman," James pleaded. "For the sake of our past work together."
Truman was stunned. It was the first time he'd ever heard the arrogant James Roosevelt speak in such a submissive tone.
For a moment, Truman felt a twinge of satisfaction—but it was quickly replaced by dread. Two years ago, this young man had been eager to please him. Now, Leo had forced him to his knees. If Leo were given two more years, would every presidential decision have to pass through his hands?
The thought chilled him. He even considered allying with James. But Truman, ever the politician, buried the idea deep. He knew full well—if he became president, it would be because of Leo. At this stage, Leo could live without him; but he could not live without Leo.
Still, curiosity itched at him. Why had James fallen so low? The Roosevelt family's standing shouldn't have collapsed so easily.
So he asked outright:
"James, where are your friends?"
There was a long silence. Truman was about to hang up when James's weary voice finally came:
"They said I need to pay for my mistakes. Help me, Harry! For the sake of my father making you vice president."
"Our friendship ended when you and the Cotton family went against me. I'm sorry, I can't help you," Truman replied flatly.
He was about to hang up when James's voice cracked, shrill and desperate:
"You'll regret this, Harry! One day you'll regret not keeping me as your backup against Leo!"
"Maybe," Truman muttered under his breath. "But if I help you now, I won't even have a future to regret."
James never heard it—the words were Truman's private whisper.
Back in New York, James's last hope of reconciliation was crushed. After overwhelming fear came unhinged madness. If peace was impossible, then he would fight to the death.
He vowed to ally with MacArthur—even if it meant raising a storm to destroy Leo.
But when he tried to contact MacArthur, he was dumbstruck. MacArthur had left Japan and returned to the U.S.—and James, supposedly his partner, hadn't been told a thing. He didn't even have a way to reach him.
Infuriated, he called MacArthur's brother, Maxim.
"Max, you have to help me! Leo is our common enemy!"
"I'm sorry, James," Maxim replied coolly. "We don't have the strength to protect your two men. All of our resources are tied up, because my brother, Douglas MacArthur, is running for president of the United States."
"What? He's insane! Why now of all times?" James shouted in disbelief.
"He's disappointed in you," Maxim said sharply. "He gave you two years. In that time, you let an ant grow into an elephant. His exact words: 'Relying on those idiots, Leo won't die even if I'm buried in the ground. And they certainly can't govern America.'"
"Douglas is insane—but you're not!" James protested. "You know this election run has no chance. And what right does he have to smear us? Wasn't he the one who initiated the first systematic assassination attempt on Leo?"
"I know. But you know my brother's nature. Once he decides, no one in the family can oppose him. That elite squad we sent—that was our last help for you."
"Ahhh!" James's anguished scream echoed from his study.
The alliance he thought was secure crumbled into dust—destroyed by MacArthur's arrogance.
James knew the truth: alone, he was no match for Leo. Desperate, he reached out to his backers in the military-industrial complex.
Their response was cold, unified, merciless:
"This time, you must face him on your own."
For the first time, James longed for his father. Life without him was unbearably hard.
Yet he had no choice. After much brooding, James decided to swallow his pride.
The next day, red-eyed and haggard, he showed up at the Lynchburg Hotel. He dared to come only because he was sure Leo wouldn't kill him here.
And he was right. Leo welcomed him, even took him hunting. That evening, he arranged an "anti-fascist program" for James's entertainment.
Leo patiently accompanied him all day. But whenever James tried to steer the conversation toward truce, Leo deflected, always avoiding a straight answer.
As the day ended, James said quietly:
"Leo, I really don't have a chance anymore."
"When you came this morning, you did," Leo replied evenly. "But now—just enjoy this night. Our mutual friend, Governor Harry, loved it."
The next morning, James left in dejection. Even after his car disappeared from sight, Leo never once heard him confess about the elite squad lying in ambush in the western town.
How did Leo know? Because the squad wasn't so elite after all. Leo had been laying traps there for a long time. The moment those unfamiliar faces showed up, Joseph had spotted them.
They were still alive only because Joseph was waiting for Leo's order. And Leo was waiting for James to bow his head, to admit everything—that would mark the true beginning of his taming.
But clearly, James still clung to false hopes. He refused to be anyone's dog. So the war would continue.
As one man fell, another arrived. That noon, Lynchburg Hotel welcomed a heavyweight visitor—General Hoyt Sanford Vandenberg, Chief of Staff of the U.S. Air Force.
This was not a man who came without reason.
Since becoming a client of James River Asset Management during the airplane deal, it was the first time he had come to Lynchburg. And Leo already had an inkling of why.
Vandenberg was every inch the soldier—stern, commanding, radiating pressure the moment he opened his mouth.
"Don't think beating James means anything. The only reason you did is because we stopped supporting him."
But Leo had faced this routine before. He wasn't rattled. Calmly, he ate another bite of shrimp, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said evenly:
"I never thought it did, General. Besides, I haven't beaten him yet."
That made Vandenberg pause, knife and fork still in hand. His face hardened.
"No matter what James has done, he is still a Roosevelt. You can't kill him. Marshall won't allow it either."
"General, James is James. The Roosevelt family is the Roosevelt family. They are not the same. Besides, what if I'm not the one who moves against him?" Leo countered.
"Who else but you, you reckless bastard?" Vandenberg snapped. But as he saw Leo's knowing smile, realization dawned. His eyes narrowed.
"The Roosevelts themselves could kill James. That's why you invited me here."
"Exactly. Without James, you'll need someone with enough influence over the new president to safeguard the military-industrial complex's interests."
"And why do you think you're that man? Sure, you have Truman's ear—but Dewey is far ahead in the polls."
"In the East, there's a saying: don't put all your eggs in one basket. Dewey may look like the sure winner, but you already have people with him. With Truman, there's only me. When the results come, no one can guarantee their man wins. So why not buy insurance? Besides—I understand you better."
Vandenberg scowled. "Then tell me, how do you understand us?"
Leo said nothing at first. He dipped his finger in water, traced the outline of a country on the table.
In Vandenberg's eyes, that rough map became a red tide of steel.
Leo's voice came low and steady:
"To Europeans, the roar of these engines is the voice of death. But to us, it's the whisper of profit. America needs an enemy. The military-industrial complex needs an enemy. And if Truman becomes president—he'll need one even more than Dewey."
Vandenberg studied Leo deeply. "You do understand us. No wonder Marshall values you. Last time you favored Boeing. Now I can give you a choice: Boeing or McDonnell Douglas. You can pick one."
At long last, Leo had his ticket into the military-industrial complex.
He couldn't have both—but he chose Boeing, paying $200 million, with an $80 million premium, for less than 23% of the company.
To him, it was worth every penny. That ticket meant he had finally stepped through the gates of America's ruling elite. He might still be in the outer courtyards, but once inside, it was only a matter of time before he sat in the main hall.
Of course, it was just a verbal deal—but at their level, such private agreements were binding. The lawyers would handle the rest.
As Vandenberg left, he asked one last time:
"You really won't spare James?"
"Sorry, General," Leo replied coldly.
For Leo, joining the military-industrial complex and becoming its spokesman within Truman's circle was itself the ultimate strike against James. There was no turning back. James had to die.
Moments after Vandenberg departed, Leo returned to his room and received a message from Columbia, South Carolina:
James's personal bodyguard had dirt on him—and insisted on telling Leo in person.