This time, many people came in together—a clear sign that Leo didn't value them nearly as much as he did Thomas's confidants.
Thomas's men were at least bound by loyalty to him; in the language of the East, they could be called the "imperial in-laws," a relatively reliable power base.
But fellow countrymen? Those who had fought alongside him in conquest could be called nobles. Those who hadn't? Sorry, they were merely "compatriots."
The same was true for the people before him. They had declared countless times that they represented the Italian-American community, but in reality, they were simply basking in Leo's light. The handful of times they had offered help were no more than icing on the cake.
Leo understood clearly: if an Italian-American president were ever to rise, his own leadership position would vanish overnight.
At the head of this group were Leo's old acquaintance, former New York mayor Fiorello Henry LaGuardia, and New York state senator Antonio Giuseppe.
Behind them stood a striking woman and a Catholic bishop.
The woman was Correa, the designated heir of the prominent Italian-American figure Giannini, his eldest daughter.
The bishop, however, was someone Leo had never met before.
Noticing Leo's probing gaze, and seeing that he remained seated without making any gesture of welcome, Antonio Giuseppe awkwardly stepped forward and introduced:
"Mr. Valentino, this is Cardinal Lorenzo Poggio of the Vatican, the leader of the American Catholic Church."
Leo gave a brief nod but still made no move to rise. This made LaGuardia and Antonio frown.
Unexpectedly, it was the supposed "guest of honor," Cardinal Lorenzo Poggio himself, who stepped forward, bowed, and said:
"Mr. Valentino, it's a pleasure. I had long been expecting you in Tennessee, but perhaps you were too busy—so I came to you instead."
Leo's once expressionless face suddenly broke into a smile. He realized that, just like Father Cade, this Cardinal Poggio was a man who understood human nature very well.
Listen to his words—humble, giving context, and providing a graceful excuse for Leo to step down without losing face.
Why hadn't Leo gone to Tennessee? Was he really busy? Nonsense. It was because he had already seen through LaGuardia's so-called "praise."
They had tried to crown him as the "new representative of Italian-Americans," luring him with a hollow, flashy title. He hadn't needed to investigate further; he could already guess it was some ritualistic charade, like Truman's joining of the KKK—essentially demanding Leo bow and "integrate" into their traditional circle before being accepted.
In other words, a PUA move: pay upfront, maybe get rewarded later.
But Leo, who had been toyed with by countless exploitative corporations in his past life, would never fall for that again.
His principle was simple: I don't go to the mountain; the mountain comes to me.
He wanted these people to understand clearly—if you eat from my hand, then you'd better behave like my dog.
By then, Leo was already a billionaire. It wasn't that he didn't need circles; it was that the Italian-American circle was no longer worthy of him.
Now, even more so—he didn't need to join anyone's circle. He was the circle.
Clearly, this Cardinal understood far better than the two politicians.
"Please, everyone, sit. Bishop Poggio, you may sit nearby," Leo said.
For those who knew their place, Leo always offered a little more courtesy.
The group sat, though LaGuardia and Antonio were visibly displeased. On the way over, they had exaggerated their sway with Leo. Now, this reception was a slap in the face.
But Bishop Poggio, who was supposedly the one disrespected, didn't mind in the slightest. As he and Leo both knew, if Leo had cared for the other two, he would have gone to Tennessee long ago—there would have been no need for today's meeting.
Poggio understood: LaGuardia and Antonio valued him only because he could sway voters through faith.
Traditionally, businessmen profited through politicians, while politicians funded churches to court their followers, forming a cycle of mutual exploitation.
But now, LaGuardia and Antonio had come personally to beg Leo for posts. For Leo not to demand money from them was already generous—expecting him to pay the Church was a joke.
Moreover, as a Vatican cardinal, Poggio was well aware that the Pope's gradually recovering prestige had recently taken another hit. The reason? Leo had cut off the $400 million promised by evangelicals to Rome.
Thus, Poggio had two missions here: one, to secure some "funds" for the American Catholic branch; two, to plead on behalf of his colleagues in Rome—asking this "God of Wealth" to spare the Catholic Church while he feuded with the evangelicals.
Having risen through the Jesuit ranks across five continents, Poggio knew well that if you sought a favor, you had to approach with humility.
And he was right: when LaGuardia and Antonio presented their requests, Leo simply leaned back into the sofa and said:
"Unfortunately, I cannot grant your requests."
Hearing this, LaGuardia could no longer contain his anger. He shot to his feet and barked:
"You cannot treat us this way, Leo! We contributed to Truman's victory. And besides, as an Italian, you are our representative—you must fight for the interests of Italians!"
Leo pointed at Correa.
"LaGuardia, you're old, and perhaps a bit confused. From what I know, most Italian-Americans in New York didn't heed your call—they supported their governor instead. And in other eastern states, your record wasn't impressive either.
As a seasoned politician, you should understand our system: it isn't 'one person, one vote.' It's winner-takes-all, state by state.
If we must name where Italian-Americans played a decisive role, then it was through Miss Correa's father—the esteemed Mr. Giannini.
So, spare me your claims of credit. And stop waving 'the interests of Italians' like a banner. You are Italians, yes—but Italians are not necessarily you.
Isn't that right, Bishop Poggio, Miss Correa?"
Caught off guard, the two exchanged a glance. Both were seeking something from Leo, and both quickly understood the signal.
"Mr. Valentino is correct. You two don't represent us," they declared in unison.
The scene turned awkward. LaGuardia and Antonio were stunned. Weren't they supposed to be pressuring Leo together?
Leo sighed inwardly. No wonder history kept parading the Italian Mafia as villains, while the Irish and Jewish gangs avoided such perpetual stigma. The Irish had the Kennedys, the Jews had powerful political backers. Italians? Their "leaders" were these clowns. Small wonder they ended up as vassals to the Jews.
But Leo didn't have time to waste—he had a wedding to attend.
He rose, coldly told Antonio:
"I am neither a gangster under your protection nor a merchant who lives off your scraps. Perhaps you should show some basic respect to your benefactor."
Then, before the watching Italian politicians, he humiliatingly patted Antonio's cheek twice.
Antonio trembled with rage, while LaGuardia struck the floor with his cane.
"Come! We're leaving!" he barked, striding toward the door.
But after a few steps, he realized Antonio hadn't moved.
"Antonio! Are you just going to stand there and keep taking this humiliation?"
Antonio didn't answer. He couldn't move.
Leo smiled at LaGuardia.
"LaGuardia, you're retired. You don't need benefactors anymore. But he does."
He jabbed Antonio in the chest.
"His two biggest patrons are both right here."
LaGuardia's face turned purple.
"Fine! From today on, you're no longer my political heir!" he declared, then stormed out.
But the others? Not a soul moved. Who would give up the chance to rise with Leo, just to follow LaGuardia into obscurity?
Antonio, meanwhile, sat frozen.
Leo's voice softened:
"Sit, Antonio. Believe me, you made the right choice. You haven't lost anything. In fact, you've gained. All that LaGuardia once controlled now falls to you."
The nods around the room confirmed it. Leo's authority was now undisputed.
The rest of the negotiations went smoothly. Leo had plenty of posts to distribute, big and small, and each one felt like a golden ticket to the Italian politicians before him.
For Antonio, Leo even promised to lobby Truman to make him Deputy Attorney General—an unmistakable signal of favor.
Watching this, Poggio and Correa silently scoffed. These people weren't Antonio's men. They were Leo's.
When the talks ended, Leo turned to Poggio.
"Bishop, I am Italian-American. My parents were devout Catholics. Supporting the faith of our people—it is my duty."
Poggio froze. He hadn't expected Leo to read his intentions so cleanly. Too clever earlier, he now had no room to feign ignorance.
The message was clear: funds could be arranged—for American Italians. But don't ask him to bankroll Rome.
Smart men spoke quickly. Poggio nodded, and left with the others.
Outside, he murmured to Antonio:
"Leo helped Truman greatly. Getting you the deputy spot won't be hard. But tell me—why did he say he'd fight for you?"
Antonio blinked, pondering. Before he could answer, Poggio was already at the altar, preparing to preside over the wedding himself.
Antonio leaned toward his aide, Donatello.
"Arrange some men. Deal with that old man who's about to become our obstacle. You know who I mean."
"Yes, sir. Consider it done," Donatello replied.
Inside, Leo and Correa shared a glance.
"LaGuardia won't live long after today's scene," she whispered.
Leo shrugged.
"We're businessmen. I can't tolerate someone who not only takes advantage of me, but expects me to say thank you for it."
Correa laughed softly. No wonder her father chose her as heir—this was no ordinary woman, especially in the late '40s, when "strong women" were still scorned.
"Let's be frank, then. You know why I'm here," she said, brushing her hair back with deliberate allure.
Leo leaned away.
"Cut the act, Correa. That won't help today's talk. As long as your father lives, you have no real problem."
"My father's health is failing. He sent me to you himself. If I can secure just two or three long-term profitable loans for Bank of America, I'll build my own power base within it—just as you've been doing today."
Leo folded his hands.
"And why should I fund you? What's in it for me? Even you aren't worth that much."
She blushed, but pressed on:
"If I sign to affirm my father's stock deal with you—and if you ensure the Giannini family remains the second-largest shareholder—I will throw my full weight behind you. Together, we can guarantee you control of Bank of America."
Leo paused, then nodded. Fair enough. Banking would soon matter as much as politics.
Just then, Ricardo poked his head in.
"Leo, the ceremony is about to begin. And Thomas asked me to tell you—President Truman and Secretary Marshall have arrived. Eisenhower may be with them."
As the door shut, Leo exhaled, muttering:
"Fine. I'll agree in principle. We'll talk details after the wedding."
Correa turned back as she left.
"They say you're a playboy. I don't think so. And remember—while I'm priceless, if you keep your word, I can be that special gift."
At last, the room fell silent.
Leo rubbed his temples. Finally, he was truly the Italian-American leader.
He turned to the window—just in time to see Thomas escorting Truman, Marshall, and Eisenhower toward him.
Wait. Was that Air Force Chief of Staff Vandenberg behind them?
Another man who had once tried to bury him.
Leo drew a long breath. The last guests had arrived, just in time for his wedding.