"Mr. Hoover, you flatter me. My achievements are nothing compared to those of Mr. Valentino."
The future president was still young and strikingly handsome, exuding a unique charm.
Leo could never forget the man before him—John F. Kennedy—the American president who, after his assassination, would remain in the headlines for decades in Leo's past life.
But whether in the past or now, John Kennedy was never one to conceal his emotions.
Though his words were humble, his expression said it all:
he didn't think Hoover was wrong. He, John Kennedy, was no less than Leo.
Dealing so often with hardened veterans of politics and business, Leo rarely saw such unguarded emotion. Smiling, he teased:
"Mr. Kennedy, you're joking. News reports of your wartime heroism were one of the things that inspired me to fight on."
Leo had only meant it as banter. But John took it seriously—his eyes lit up. He hadn't expected that this self-made billionaire before him had once been inspired by his battlefield deeds. For John, this was something to boast about proudly to his fellow sons of privilege.
"Really? When did you see those reports?" he asked eagerly.
John may have been naive, but his father, Joseph Kennedy, would not allow his son to be toyed with. He cut in immediately:
"Mr. Valentino, it's an honor to hear you've read about my son."
John wasn't a fool—he caught the protective tone in his father's words. His pride stung, he felt displeased at being the butt of Leo's jest.
Youth had its flaws—it was too easy to bruise.
Leo turned toward Joseph Kennedy, who had ruined his little joke, and said with a smile:
"Mr. Kennedy, I was quite serious. I did read about John. And not only about him—your own cautious investment strategies have always been a model for me. Especially your contrarian moves during the Depression—that was the perfect fusion of prudence and boldness."
Leo was referring to Joseph Kennedy's famous fortune-making story.
In Leo's past life, as John F. Kennedy ascended to the presidency, the family stepped into the spotlight. The tale was widely told: on the eve of the Great Depression, when the stock market was at its peak, Joseph had been on Wall Street getting his shoes shined. When the shoeshine boy began recommending stocks, Joseph realized the market was about to collapse. He sold off, bet against the tide, and doubled his fortune almost overnight.
In one old interview Leo recalled, Joseph had even admitted: "My kind of family barely felt the Depression."
But at this time, such anecdotes were not yet world-famous. So when Leo spoke with such detail, both Joseph and John's regard for him rose sharply.
The atmosphere grew more congenial. The group chatted and played golf. Not until the third hole did Joseph finally reveal the true reason he had brought his son.
"Mr. Valentino, as you know, John is now a congressman. Though he spends much time in Washington, he must still bring tangible benefits to his district. Boston is an old, crowded city—especially the Eleventh District, which John represents. When he campaigned, he promised the people a thorough renewal. I was wondering if American Realty could take on the project."
Leo answered with a smile:
"As far as I know, the Kennedy family is wealthy enough not to need American Realty."
Money was not Leo's concern—his reputation was. Joseph wanted to use Leo and his company to bolster John's image. But the profits of one old district's renovation weren't nearly enough.
Joseph, seasoned in business, caught his meaning instantly and replied:
"We are wealthy, yes. But John is already criticized for relying too much on me. If you were to be invited by John himself, it would prove his ability.
"Moreover, I have many friends in Massachusetts politics. They all complain that the state's infrastructure needs comprehensive renewal. If a company like American Realty were to invest in Massachusetts, they would be most welcome."
It was a new offer—much larger.
Though busy with election matters, Leo still attended American Realty's weekly board meetings. The company had just captured the Missouri market and was closing in on Iron Gate in Pennsylvania. With Pennsylvania nearly in hand, the next step was to expand across the eastern seaboard.
Now, an invitation to Massachusetts was a stroke of luck.
"Well then, I truly must thank you, Mr. Kennedy. But American Realty is tight on funds. We can come—but as for the costs of the Eleventh District renovation…" Leo let his voice trail off.
Joseph responded instantly:
"I'll cover them."
John Kennedy bristled, ready to object, but his father silenced him with a look.
With a swing, Leo sent the ball flying, then reached out to shake Joseph's hand.
"Deal!"
Joseph grinned broadly. He was already planning the next edition of his newspaper—to trumpet the story that Congressman John Kennedy's friend and ally, Leo Valentino, was investing in Boston. It would boost John's profile enormously.
But Joseph still had another matter. At the fourth hole, he said:
"Mr. Valentino, if—if President Truman is nominated, and John wishes to establish a committee in the House, would the White House support him?"
Leo chuckled. "Joseph, you're asking the wrong man. You should ask Harry."
"Mr. Valentino, don't be so modest. Everyone knows you are the key man behind President Truman," Joseph replied smoothly.
Leo set down his club, smiling faintly.
"You're a financial man, Joseph. You know that to maximize profit, you buy at the bottom. Now is the bottom. Why wait until the rise?"
The meaning was clear: he wanted Joseph to commit to Truman's camp now, not later.
Joseph shook his head.
"No, Mr. Valentino. That was my strategy when I had little capital. I had to gamble. But now, I prefer steady investments—even if they cost more and return less."
It was a refusal. But Joseph's words carried a promise: if the White House helped John establish a committee, he would yield benefits in return.
Leo nodded. For the rest of the game, they focused on golf. When it ended, Leo left with Hoover.
But in the car, John Kennedy's pent-up frustration erupted.
"Father, why compromise with Leo? He'll profit from renovating the Eleventh, yet we must pay for it! He's greedy, arrogant—he doesn't even respect the Kennedy family! And worst of all, he dared mock me as a so-called hero! Who does he think he is?"
Joseph's eyes turned sharp as a knife.
"Yesterday again you wasted time on some woman's belly, didn't you? You didn't even read the dossier I gave you on Leo. That 'heroic act' of yours after your defeat—what is that compared to him?"
He tossed a thick folder into John's lap.
John flipped through it, his defiance slowly fading to shock. At last he set it down, muttering:
"This… impossible. Such a decorated man, yet I never heard of him."
Joseph's voice was cold:
"Of course not. That is the fate of commoners. Men like Leo, with far more merit than you, are everywhere in the army. But why are you still the Pacific's greatest 'hero' in the press? Because your name is Kennedy. Because you are my son. I spend over two hundred thousand dollars a year on your publicity alone.
"You think Leo mocked you for fun? He was testing you. Testing if you knew his record. In any negotiation, if your opponent knows you haven't studied him, then he controls the table. He can lie to your face and you won't even know."
Joseph's disappointment cut deep.
"Since your brother died, you've been my heir. Rarely do I scold you. But today—you've shown me nothing but ignorance.
"He's five years younger than you, yes. No different in age from Robert. But unlike you, who still wastes my money on women and grades, he's a small-town boy crushed by America's elite—and in two years he's amassed a fortune larger than mine.
"If you had even a tenth of his ability, John, you would be my life's greatest pride.
"Worse, he has already bought into Boeing. He has a ticket into the military-industrial complex—the pinnacle of American power. I haven't even fully broken into Wall Street's financial core.
"And listen to me: you may only belittle a man when you are stronger than him. If you ever become president, you may speak freely—people will believe half. But now, every bad word you say about Leo, people will dismiss as jealousy.
"Until the day you are president, John, you will treat Leo with respect. He is the man you must respect most."
For Leo, meeting the Kennedys stirred only mild curiosity. At this point, the family was still weaker in both wealth and power. And since they refused to back Truman during his hardest days—preferring to wait until the tide turned—Leo quickly put them out of mind.
Returning to his hotel, Walt slipped in quietly with news:
"Boss, the word's gone out. Everyone swears they'll stick to the plan."
Leo nodded, satisfied. Walt had carried his message: in the latest polls, all their allies must continue not supporting Truman, keeping him trailing badly.
The reason was simple: one, to lull the enemy. Two, Leo had noticed Truman growing restless, even rebellious. Feeling victory near, he had begun testing his wings. But as long as the polls stayed grim, Leo could always remind him: "Your wings are weak—you still need Papa."
The next morning, Leo was back on the golf course. Just after the first swing, Walt came up to whisper:
"The President says there's an urgent matter in Europe. He's gone back to the White House, leaving things here in your hands."
Leo narrowed his eyes. This was the first time Truman had slipped free of his watch. Walt leaned in:
"Boss, should we tighten surveillance? What if Truman tries something behind our backs?"
"Of course he will," Leo thought. But aloud, he waved it off:
"Let the rain fall, let the bride be wed. Let him go."
Ironically, Truman's absence freed Leo's game. With a perfect ace shot, the politicians applauded as Leo laughed:
"That's enough for today, gentlemen. Tomorrow the convention begins—may it go smoothly."
On July 12, Philadelphia was drowning in Democratic banners and signs reading Welcome Home. Supporters flooded the streets, venting their anger at the Republicans' provocations.
At the City Auditorium—where only weeks before Dewey had secured the Republican nomination—workers swapped out a bronze elephant for a proud bronze donkey.
The applause that greeted Leo had two meanings. First, he was the convention's largest sponsor—footing half the bill. Second, when everyone else had given up, he had supported Truman, boldly striking back.
Inside, Leo sat in the gallery—still not a party member, he had no seat on the floor. The mood was grim. "Truman lacks charisma," people muttered. Some even waved banners declaring him unfit.
Scanning the hall, Leo noticed a strange camera setup in front—bulky, wired, with men fussing over it.
"Television?" he thought. He barely remembered when it had begun—but he knew it would one day become a goldmine of influence.
Walt inquired.
"They're from NBC," he reported.
Leo sighed—no chance to buy that giant, tied as it was to RCA and General Electric. Still, he resolved: after the election, he would start his own station.
The convention dragged on. Grievances festered. Only when the question of a nominee arose did silence fall—an uneasy silence, for Dewey and his "Dream Ticket" with California's Warren seemed unbeatable.
Then, unexpectedly, a young man took the stage—Hubert Humphrey, from Pennsylvania.
"Who's that?" Leo frowned.
"Not on the agenda," muttered Thomas. "But word is—it was Truman's request."
Leo and Thomas exchanged a glance. Bad news.
Humphrey launched into a fiery plea for civil rights, igniting half the hall and enraging the southern delegates. Soon the chamber was chaos. Finally, the southern bloc rose as one and shouted into the TV cameras:
"Harry, this is your choice. Goodbye!"
And they stormed out.
Leo cursed Truman's stupidity but acted fast. Orders flew:
"Thomas, find out who's behind Humphrey. Walt, lock down the city—no one leaves. Daniel, rally every team—we must win the southerners back. Not one is to leave Philadelphia!"
Then, furious, Leo called the White House.
"Listen, Harry—you cannot be president without me. I'll still be a billionaire if I walk away. You'll be nothing but a farmer again. Whoever gave you this idiotic idea, I don't care. But you will fix this. If even one delegate leaves, Harry, I'm done playing."
He slammed down the phone.
For Truman, letting Humphrey speak was a power play—telling Leo: "This is my campaign, not yours." But Humphrey's speech, though inspiring some, had cost them their fragile alliance with the South.
Leo countered with his own threat: flip the table.
Truman was livid. He turned to his adviser John Stillman, who had engineered Humphrey's move. But now Truman glared coldly:
"If I lose the South, I lose Leo. If I lose Leo, I lose the presidency. And if I lose the presidency, I have nothing left to fear. I will spend my final months destroying the Stillman family. Don't test me."
For once, Stillman believed him. Terrified, he promised:
"No southern delegate will leave Philadelphia."
The convention dragged on into the night. At last, Truman appeared, disheveled in a loose white suit, nearly hidden behind the too-high microphone. He began awkwardly—until, suddenly, his voice thundered across the hall.
He recited his three years in office, his hard stances against unions and corporations alike, his defense of fairness, his foreign policy, his denunciation of the hypocritical Republicans.
And then, with rare fire, he roared:
"I will win this election, and I will make the Republicans bow their heads. Remember this!"
The hall exploded in cheers, his name echoing like thunder.
And up in the gallery, Leo met Truman's gaze. The president's eyes blazed with defiance, carrying a silent message:
"I am the President."