The atmosphere in the banquet hall plummeted to freezing point.
Not only Augustus, but everyone's gaze fell on Rainier.
Augustus had already begun unbuttoning his coat, clearly preparing to leave.
For Vitelli Hohenberg, one of the key organizers of this deal, this was a disaster. Rainier might have his own territory in Monaco and could afford to wait a couple of years to develop it. But these Austrian nobles were like old ladies on New Year's Eve—each year worse than the last. If this business deal collapsed, Vitelli would gladly rip out Rainier's heart himself.
He hurried forward and said,
"Mr. Augustus, Rainier is just a fool. Please don't take him seriously."
Turning, he snapped at Rainier:
"You lightweight, our champagne is too strong for you. You must've been drunk and confused. How could some American student girl possibly be connected to our financial backer, Mr. Leo Valentino?"
At that, Rainier suddenly realized why the name "Leo Valentino" sounded so familiar.
Back in London, during negotiations, Augustus himself had mentioned that the most likely source of seed capital would be his friend—the American real estate tycoon Leo Valentino.
Rainier cursed his drinking habits; he had been too drunk that day, his memory fuzzy.
He quickly recalled the young man he had met earlier today and felt relieved. There was no way such a young man could be a billionaire. And more handsome than himself? Impossible. Rainier was already bending the rules of nature—surely no one could bend them further.
It must have been a coincidence of names, or perhaps he had misheard. Still, he silently marked down another grudge against that damned fellow.
But as he looked around at the faces of his companions, their eyes seething with fury, he knew he had to smooth this over. If he didn't salvage the situation now, he'd be driven out of the European aristocratic circle altogether.
He stood, bowed slightly toward Augustus, and said,
"Mr. Augustus, I think there must be some misunderstanding. The person I spoke of is younger than me—how could he possibly be America's real estate tycoon? I must have made a mistake."
But Augustus brushed aside Vitelli's restraining hand and stood, his face cold.
"I don't think there's any misunderstanding. My friend happens to have a childhood companion studying music in Austria. And yes, Leo is very young—only twenty-three! But that doesn't stop him from building his fortune from scratch and becoming a billionaire.
"Rainier, and all you princes and lords here, understand me—I'm not trying to make things difficult. But if my friend isn't appeased, this deal of ours may have to wait a while."
With that, Augustus turned and strode toward the exit.
Vitelli panicked. He grabbed Augustus's shoulder and begged:
"Sir, at least give us some guidance. How can we win Mr. Valentino's forgiveness?"
Augustus glanced back meaningfully.
"In America, his style is well-known. Ask around and you'll hear it. But I'll tell you anyway: Valentino never forgets a slight."
The nobles gasped. Rainier had hit the bull's-eye—he had managed to offend not only their investor but also a man infamous for holding grudges.
"Give us some advice, Lord Augustus," they pleaded. "After all, this is your business too."
"Profit."
Augustus spat out the single word and left without looking back.
Had Leo been present, he surely would have given Augustus a thumbs-up. The man knew people too well.
Once Augustus was gone, Vitelli turned on Rainier with an icy glare.
"You heard him. Fix your fishing line properly—show him we mean business. As for the compensation our backer demands, you're footing the bill."
Rainier's face soured. Damn it, all this just for a fishing expedition gone wrong!
But he wasn't about to swallow it all. There were too many partners in this venture. A billionaire's appetite would be huge—if Rainier alone bore the cost, how would he profit?
"I'll admit fault," he said bitterly. "But remember—this business is happening on Monaco's soil. Without enough benefit for me, I won't be able to convince my own people. Then the deal dies anyway."
His veiled threat made everyone's faces darken.
In the end, though, the down-at-heel nobles yielded. They needed money desperately—to repair castles, to revive dormant estates. They agreed to share half of Leo's demands with Rainier.
With the hardest term settled, they turned to practical matters. They needed to explain two things to Leo:
The injury of Rachel Stone, Emily's bodyguard.
The attempted entrapment of Emily herself.
The police chief had been Vitelli's hire; the opera director was Rainier's.
The director's issue was easy. Rainier made one phone call: Emily must have the lead role. He sternly warned the man never to mention his "fishing expedition" again. From now on, Emily must be protected at all costs—if she suffered even the slightest humiliation in the troupe, the director's career in Europe would be over.
That problem solved, Rainier breathed easier. But when he looked at Vitelli, still on the phone, his heart sank. Vitelli's face was grim, the news clearly bad.
Sure enough, Vitelli soon announced:
"American soldiers have entered the city, claiming to protect their citizens. They engaged the Eastern European gang—and in five minutes, all our dogs were dead!"
The nobles' faces turned green. This colonial arrogance—it was like having their European pride trampled into the mud.
"How did they even know it was the Eastern European gang?" Rainier asked, knowing full well the truth.
"They stormed the Burgenland District police station, forced the chief's address from him, and dragged him away."
Faces grew darker still. Finally Rainier broke the silence:
"Forget it. At least he handled it himself, saved us the trouble."
"Who says it saves us?" Vitelli snapped.
"The mayor of Vienna just told me the Americans sent him a notice: the police chief was killed in the line of duty, heroically resisting the Eastern European gang. The mayor is furious. Now I've got a mountain of problems to clean up—all thanks to you! Out of all the girls in Europe, you just had to go fishing for an American farm girl!"
Rainier bristled. "Hey, Vitelli, you weren't saying that earlier. You said you'd back me up—and when I got bored, you wanted a taste of the American milk cow yourself!"
As the two nearly came to blows, the others rushed to separate them.
"But wait," one noble interjected, frowning. "Didn't you say the battle lasted only five minutes, completely one-sided? Then how did the police chief die?"
"That's just it," Vitelli said gloomily. "He was the only casualty."
The nobles shuddered. Augustus's words echoed in their minds: Valentino never forgets a slight.
The Next Day – Vienna Hospital
When Leo entered Rachel's ward with Emily on his arm, they found the room filled with nobles in fine clothes.
Even the haughty Rainier hurried forward, bowing low.
"Mr. Valentino, please forgive my offense."
"You shouldn't be apologizing to me," Leo said coldly. "The person who was hurt is lying in that bed."
Rainier's legs trembled. This young man was ruthless—he killed without hesitation.
He had already apologized once to Rachel, but he approached again, bowing deeply.
"Miss Stone, forgive me. My foolish scheme caused your grievous injury. I will pay all your medical bills, and whatever you need afterward, just say the word—I will provide it."
Rachel was dumbfounded. She glanced at Leo as if to say: What spell did you cast on them?
But Leo wasn't about to let Rainier off so easily. Europe was his hunting ground too, and his prey needed to learn his style.
"I don't lack money," Leo said icily. "What I want to know is—does Austria have laws? Perhaps I should ask President Karl Renner if nobles here can commit crimes and settle with just an apology and some cash."
The nobles blanched. Renner was notoriously hostile to the aristocracy. If this landed in his hands, they were doomed.
At once, they crowded around Leo, pleading for forgiveness.
But with Rachel still wounded, Leo refused to relent. She had fought through fire and blood beside him—she deserved justice.
Their performances were so convincing that even kind-hearted Rachel pleaded softly:
"Boss, let it go. You know me—this kind of injury is nothing."
The nobles' eyes lit with hope—surely now he'd relent.
But Leo only gave them an icy glare.
Seeing he would not budge, Vitelli broke down:
"Mr. Valentino, as long as you don't take this to the president, we'll do whatever you say."
Leo scanned the group. Aside from Rainier, the rest nodded furiously.
Leo's voice was deep and sharp:
"Either Prince Rainier goes to prison—or he spends some time in bed with Rachel."
Prison was out of the question. A Monaco prince behind bars would make headlines worldwide and inevitably reach the president's desk.
But beaten to a pulp? That might be acceptable. After all, this was Rainier's mess.
The nobles' eyes turned to him. Rainier understood instantly.
A prince who had never been touched in his life, expected now to take a beating? Unbearable. His pride screamed against it. Fine—so the deal could wait. He was a prince; Leo couldn't dare kill him. He would swallow this slight and one day make the American hick regret it!
Rainier straightened, his eyes defiant, ready to speak—
But Leo's calm voice cut through:
"If Prince Rainier refuses, then perhaps I'll discuss with President de Gaulle how to handle Monaco's land issue.
"As it happens, I recently helped President Truman win re-election. Secretary of State Marshall is also my close friend. I imagine I'd have some say in Monaco's arbitration request."
With a thud, Rainier dropped to his knees.
"Mr. Valentino, I'll take the second option. I'll stay with Miss Stone. Do your worst!"
Leo smiled faintly.
"Then it wouldn't be assaulting a noble, would it? That would tarnish America's image.
"No, Prince Rainier—you look strong. Surely you know how to fight. I challenge you to a duel. Of course—just to first blood."
Rainier's eyes lit up. Finally, some dignity! He was known as one of the best fighters among Europe's royals. He might have to fake injury to appease Leo, but at least he could slip in a few hard punches.
Rachel, lying on the bed, gave him a pitying look.
The Duel
The nobles quickly arranged a venue—a private underground fighting ring in a noble-owned hotel.
On the platform, Rainier wore full gear, while Leo stood calmly in his suit.
"Mr. Valentino, don't you want to change?" Rainier asked.
Leo shook his head.
Rainier smirked. Fine—he'd land a few quick shots to wipe that smug look off.
"Since we're here," Rainier continued, "we've decided to offer you 5% of the new business as compensation. But according to tradition, a duel should carry stakes. How about a wager?"
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
Vitelli cursed silently. This fool was at it again. He knew Rainier had never lost in this ring.
Rainier grinned. "If you land a punch in the first three moves, we'll give you 10%—added to your previous 12%, you'll be the largest individual shareholder.
"If you need six moves, then only 2%. What do you say? Of course, we can extend it to nine if you like. Or we can skip it—since technically, you're not nobility."
His tone dripped mockery, baiting Leo.
"No need," Leo said evenly. "We'll do it your way."
The nobles exhaled in relief. If Leo agreed, perhaps they could save money.
The referee called the start.
Rainier strode confidently forward. He already planned: if he won, the 2% would come entirely from Vitelli's share.
"Didn't your instructor teach you never to lose focus in a fight?"
The voice growled in his ear.
Rainier's heart lurched—impossible! Leo had been across the ring a second ago.
Instinctively, he ducked—too late. A massive fist smashed into his face.
He didn't even have time to cry out before darkness took him.
From the stands, the nobles blinked in shock. The referee himself was stunned. He had never seen a duel end so quickly.
Leo didn't stop. He hauled Rainier up by the collar, landing another punch for Rachel, one for Emily, and one for himself.
Rainier's face turned into a bloody mess.
"Enough, Mr. Valentino!" the nobles cried. "Any more and he'll die!"
Leo dropped him coldly. Doctors rushed up, declaring Rainier needed a hospital immediately.
The nobles scrambled to carry him away.
From the corridor, Leo's voice echoed back:
"Tomorrow, I want to see the shares."
Across the Ocean – America
As Leo became the largest shareholder in Monaco's casino venture, events unfolded as he predicted.
Those who had undermined him during the election—whether by choice or under pressure—now gathered together.
The most vocal was Gavin, leader of the Chicago Syndicate. He waved his cane dramatically:
"We need not fear Leo and his American Real Estate Group. His pre-sale regulation period is about to expire! Once lifted, every real estate company and every bank wanting in will explode into the market. Soon, they'll all turn on American Real Estate—just as they once destroyed the Lamp Company."
He spoke passionately—but received little response.
John Steelman, freshly released after the election, sneered:
"You? Rally the industry? Don't make me laugh. You were beaten senseless by Leo in real estate. You have no credibility. And remember—some here are already shareholders in American Real Estate."
He jerked his chin toward representatives of Altria, Merlin Properties, Gulf Real Estate, and Chadwickfield.
Gavin flushed but held his tongue. He owed his position to Citibank's backing and couldn't afford to push back hard.
"So what's your plan, then?" he muttered.
John stroked his chin.
"Neither you nor I have the influence. We need someone who does. Someone who hates Leo to the bone and will never reconcile."
"General MacArthur fits," Gavin suggested. "But he failed to win the Republican nomination and went back to Japan. Before he left, he swore he'd do something big—something so big no one could ignore him. He's not playing with us 'losers' anymore."
"I don't mean him," John said. "I mean James. James Roosevelt. Get him out!"
The room lit up. Gavin slapped his thigh.
"Then we'd better hurry—Leo will be after him already."
London – The Morgan Estate
Augustus, triumphant, admired the contract in his hands. His plan to revive the Morgan empire had taken its first step.
He raised his champagne glass.
"To a brighter tomorrow—cheers!"
All the partners rose, glasses clinking.
Rainier, head wrapped in bandages, whispered to Leo during a lull,
"Sir, what were you before this? Your fighting skills—astonishing."
Leo smiled faintly.
"Have you heard of the U.S. Marine Corps' special operations teams?"
Even in Europe, the reputation was known. The Duke of Lanchester in Britain had hired one as his bodyguard and bragged about it for a year.
"I was the founder—and the instructor of them all."
Gasps filled the room. Eyes turned to Rainier, full of sympathy: You really kicked the iron plate this time.
Just then, Walter slipped in and whispered to Leo. He excused himself and went upstairs to take a call.
At the table, Augustus entertained the nobles with tales of Leo's wartime exploits.
Upstairs, Leo answered the phone. On the line was Carson Merlin, the flexible Californian businessman. Hearing the news, he had immediately betrayed his allies and run to Leo.
"Carson," Leo said coolly, "I'm glad you've come to your senses. But you're not the first. Phoenix called me this afternoon. We'll talk when I return to America."
Indeed, the so-called anti-Leo alliance was riddled with turncoats. Leo had taken calls all day.
When he hung up, the phone rang again. This time it wasn't another defector. It was Michael.
The older man's voice was sharp, but the news sent Leo into a frenzy of joy:
"Emily is pregnant!"
Two years. Countless nights with countless women, never once careful—and finally, it had borne fruit.
His heir had finally arrived!
Leo's joy was beyond words.
Hanging up, he turned to Walter with a broad grin.
"Good news comes in pairs, Walter. It's time to return to America. Bring Emily, bring my child—time to deal with our useless enemies!
"Hahaha!"