"The boss says we can move in!"
At Joseph's command, the fully armed elite squad melted into the night.
They already had the enemy's position mapped out.
Joseph cleanly took out the enemy's sentries.
Inside, he sneered to himself:
"These guys trained off a manual written by their boss.
Disciples coming to fight the master? That's nothing but looking for death."
Meanwhile, at the Lynchburg Hotel, Leo was meeting Anton — the Belarusian bodyguard who had loyally served James for twenty years.
From Anton's mouth, Leo pried out some interesting information.
For example, James had three secret accounts in Swiss banks — his personal stash, hidden from the rest of the Roosevelt family.
He also had two mistresses, one in Washington and one in New York.
In this era, American politics wasn't yet the future cesspool where scandal meant little.
Almost every politician was desperate to prove to the public that they upheld traditional values.
James especially so.
If his supporters learned he had two mistresses, the blow would be enormous.
Anton also revealed that James had once personally killed two men.
But that was in his youth, long ago — too far back to be useful against him.
Still, Leo thought Turner could "investigate" and reconstruct one-third of the event's details, then fabricate a little story for the New Journal.
Not much, but every hit chipped away at James.
As Leo pondered, Walter approached, breaking his train of thought:
"Joseph just called. The crisis back home is resolved."
Leo glanced up at Walter. Walter read the unspoken question and added:
"They captured a prisoner. It was MacArthur who sent them."
Leo set down his fork.
"I hear MacArthur plans to run for president."
"He's always believed he couldn't lose the Pacific War," Walter said mockingly.
"He thinks his status among the American people is untouchable.
They say after less than fifteen days back in Washington, he's already proclaimed at multiple events that he's sure to win."
"Make some donations to Mr. Dewey and Mr. Taft," Leo said calmly.
"Tell them I dislike MacArthur as much as they do.
That pompous clown, hated by everyone, belongs in Japan, not America."
"Uh, boss, won't our donations provoke the President's displeasure?" Walter asked.
"Have some faith in the President's tolerance."
Leo smiled outwardly but had his own calculations.
The money wasn't just to block MacArthur — it was also a probe at Truman.
If Truman reacted strongly, Leo could rest easy.
Only friends with grievances speak honestly.
But if Truman said nothing, that too was a signal of discontent — and still something Leo could mend.
The worst case would be if Truman not only voiced no displeasure, but actually called to praise Leo and justify his actions.
That would be bad news indeed — it would mean Truman was swallowing humiliation, biding his time.
The more submissive now, the uglier the face he might show once he succeeded.
Yet just as Truman couldn't abandon Leo, Leo, bound tightly to Truman, couldn't abandon him either.
Though it looked like he was crushing James in a one-on-one duel, if Truman still lost the election despite Leo's support, then all those enemies Leo had made over the years would seize the moment to strike back together.
And as fate (or Murphy's Law) would have it — the very thing Leo dreaded came true.
Truman called, lavishly praising Leo for donating to his rivals.
He even volunteered an excuse: that it was a clever ploy to confuse the enemy.
After hanging up, Leo sighed and called Joseph, who had just finished his battle.
"Since our old base is exposed, let's move.
Didn't Mike move his family to Lake Tahoe in Nevada?
That place looks nice. Let's be neighbors."
Leo was always cautious, always thinking ten steps ahead.
The higher one climbed, the simpler the struggles became — like commanding a hundred-man squad, each with a role, able to maneuver flexibly.
But command a hundred thousand, and tactics became blunt and predictable.
Leo had to guard constantly against strikes to his rear.
But that was for the future. For now, with James's only armed force destroyed, Leo could turn his focus elsewhere.
He left the Lynchburg Hotel and headed for New York to meet a key figure.
On a farm outside the city, Leo extended his hand:
"Welcome, Mr. Orland Roosevelt."
In the sunlight, Leo looked like a marble statue from ancient Rome — his young face only deepening the impression.
Despite being over forty and mentally prepared, Orland still felt dazed.
To think someone this young had driven the Roosevelt family to such desperation was difficult to grasp.
His smile was awkward as he shook Leo's hand.
Leo led him into the luxuriously decorated reception room.
His gentle tone and warm smile gradually put Orland at ease.
He was about to explain his purpose, but Leo spoke first:
"Mr. Orland, as an Italian American, I must express my concern over the Roosevelt family ordering the police to arrest Italians en masse in our own neighborhoods.
As far as I know, those arrested committed no crimes.
If you don't act, I'll hire the best lawyers in America to defend my people's justice."
The sudden chill after the warmth left Orland reeling — and Leo had touched on his most pressing headache.
He thought rounding up Italian gangsters would improve neighborhood safety.
Instead, the next day the New Journal splashed the headline: "Manhattan Police Hunt Italians — Streets 41 to 65 Raided!"
The result? Even more Italians flooded the district.
The Mafia organized crowds to protest outside the police station — unarmed, waving banners.
The streets overflowed with people, traffic paralyzed, business impossible.
Long-term tenants, bound to the Roosevelts by contracts, fled in frustration.
A month later, Orland's accounting showed May revenues had plummeted.
It wasn't ruinous, but it shook the family's sense of security.
Worse, Leo's New Journal had begun dredging up the Roosevelts' past scandals — the shady origins of their fortune, old election dirt, even James's mistresses and hidden accounts.
The family's reputation was unraveling.
Executives at various companies — all Roosevelts — now felt the eyes of subordinates on them.
Addresses of family members had leaked, reviving fears of the kidnapping epidemic a decade earlier.
Many refused to even leave their homes.
So the elders sent Orland — the family's number two — to negotiate.
"Mr. Valentino," Orland said carefully, "James doesn't represent all Roosevelts.
Isn't your attack too broad? We've never wronged you."
"No, Orland, you have," Leo said firmly, leaning forward with a predatory gaze.
"James is your patriarch. Every one of your connections translates into his power.
Don't trivialize this as a mere feud.
This is war. And it wasn't I who started it — it was James!"
"But as I understand, James offered surrender, and you refused. Wars can have living losers. Can't we raise a white flag?"
"No," Leo said coldly. "Ours is a war to the death.
Just as the Allies would never have spared Hitler."
Orland froze — and understood.
Leo's meaning was clear: James must die for the war to end.
"That's not for me to decide," Orland hedged.
He rose to leave, but Leo's soft voice stopped him:
"You are descended from President Theodore Roosevelt.
James descends from President Franklin Roosevelt.
For twenty years, Franklin's line has held power over Theodore's.
Perhaps it is time to change that."
Leo had struck home. It was what Orland had long secretly wanted.
Feigning modesty, Orland replied:
"Becoming patriarch takes more than the misfortune of the current leader."
Leo smiled knowingly.
"Yesterday, General Vandenberg offered me a choice — Boeing or McDonnell.
I chose Boeing.
But McDonnell still needs capital. I can arrange for you to buy in."
Orland's eyes lit up, then dimmed.
"I don't have that kind of money."
"James has eighty million dollars in Swiss accounts. With British friends, I've confirmed it. Enough for a first-phase investment.
I'll help raise the rest.
You'll hold the shares as nominee, exercising shareholder power, but the real investors will expect annual dividends."
Orland still hesitated.
"If only you invest, our connection will be too obvious. The family's old guard won't accept it."
"Relax," Leo said smoothly. "Finding funding sources — that's my specialty."
The pieces slid neatly into place.
Orland sat back down.
"James can be discarded, but there must be a reason."
"If I solve your problems and you still can't find a reason," Leo said with sharpness in his eyes, "then you're not fit to lead."
Back in the Roosevelt family council, Orland relayed Leo's ultimatum.
Chaos erupted.
Some hotheaded young Roosevelts demanded all-out war against Leo, but few supported them.
The louder the quarrel, Orland realized, the less anyone truly cared for James.
Many probably wished for his death, just to restore peace and keep their easy money flowing.
Finally, Orland's uncle, Maddock Roosevelt, spoke:
"James erred first. He broke the rules.
Now no wealthy man feels safe — none will help us.
But our reputation is our greatest wealth.
Abandoning our own under enemy pressure is unworthy."
The Franklin-line youths preened, certain he was siding with them.
But Maddock continued:
"James can die, but not now.
His mental instability is well-known.
A sanitarium might be the proper excuse."
The young men were aghast.
They knew too well what "sanitarium" meant — worse than prison, harder to ever leave.
But their opinions carried no weight.
The proposal passed unanimously.
Soon the New Journal reported:
"Democratic Whip James Roosevelt resigns due to ill health, to enter a sanitarium for treatment."
The wording was normal — too normal for the New Journal.
Readers quickly spotted the absurdity: who ever "recuperated" in a madhouse?
And even if he came out — what party would trust a supposed lunatic as whip again?
A few days later, Thomas was sworn in as the new Democratic Whip.
James's Senate seat passed to his brother, Orland Roosevelt.
Soon after, The World Times ran a bombshell:
"Old and New Unite — Into Aviation!"
The article detailed Leo's entry into Boeing and the Roosevelts' into McDonnell.
To celebrate, Leo hosted a lavish banquet with members of New York's military-industrial complex, also inviting the Veterans Affairs Committee's core members.
He believed these veterans would find their first real opportunities here.
Orland approached him quietly at the banquet, whispering:
"James has been committed."
Leo clinked champagne with him and smiled:
"Pleasure doing business."
On the drive back to his estate, Leo told Walter:
"Send men to watch the sanitarium in shifts.
After the election, James's mind won't withstand the blow.
He'll die of illness."