In the northwest of Washington, D.C., a new hot spring–themed private club had recently opened.
This members-only club had, since its very first night, become the new playground of the capital's elite.
Almost every evening it was alive with banquets, music, and laughter.
The dazzling lights lit up even the small hills behind it.
For many old politicians—men who had come of age during the so-called "Gilded Age" at the turn of the 20th century—this place revived their wild youth: drinking, gambling, and indulgence.
Of course, the real reason for the club's sudden popularity was not the wine nor the women.
It was its owner.
America's youngest billionaire, measured in the hundreds of millions—Leo Valentino.
At this moment, in the underground shooting range of the club, Leo was with his core real estate advisory and planning committee.
They had just enjoyed the hot springs together; Leo suggested they "relax" and have a small meeting.
Everyone knew what that meant—"relaxation" was secondary. The meeting was what really mattered.
Leo had only returned yesterday from his honeymoon out west.
A month had passed since his wedding.
This time he came back alone—Evelyn, now pregnant, remained in their western hometown.
Bang, bang, bang…
Leo lowered his M1 carbine.
Frank Underwood, the newly appointed head of the Federal Housing Administration, eager to impress, jumped up and grabbed the binoculars.
What he saw made him freeze: every bullet hit dead center.
Frank had graduated from the South Carolina Military Academy—he knew just how unnatural full 10-rings accuracy was.
He was about to speak when the others—senators, corporate giants—rushed to Leo's side, showering him with flattery.
"Your aim is as flawless as ever, Mr. Valentino."
"No need to even check. It must be another perfect score."
Frank blinked.
First—Leo's skill truly was that legendary.
Second—even U.S. Senators and Fortune 500 chairmen could grovel like this.
Maybe, Frank thought, I need to harden my own skin further.
He remembered the words of Gerard, once just another Southern Democrat but now a powerful Senate committee chairman:
"Frank, I've never been a genius—everyone knows that.
But I rose because I followed the right man.
Especially at the critical moment, I stood with Mr. Valentino.
From here on, I can't help you much.
To climb higher than me, you'll need two things: a vast network and vast money.
Mr. Valentino has both.
Follow him, Frank, and you'll fulfill your ambitions."
Frank dug his nails into his thigh to etch the moment into memory.
He would not let another chance slip.
What he didn't know was that Leo's sidelong glance had caught his every movement.
Leo was quietly astonished. This man—Frank Underwood—looked exactly like Kevin Spacey's character from House of Cards, one of Leo's favorite shows in his previous life.
By all logic, Frank shouldn't even exist yet.
But Leo had long since grown accustomed to this world's peculiarities.
From his observations, Leo was certain: this was indeed the same ruthless schemer.
The name, the birthplace, the ambition—everything matched.
To Leo, Frank was the quintessential petty man.
But in American politics, only such men rose to power.
And that suited Leo just fine.
Frank was no threat—rather, a tool to be cultivated.
Leo's ultimate goal was to groom his own President.
The meeting shifted upstairs to a dining hall.
After champagne and light fare were served, Frank was left sitting at the far end of the table.
For a man with sharp pride, it stung.
He pinched his leg again—harder this time.
One day, he swore, he would sit beside Valentino.
Just as the thought formed, Leo's voice cut through the chatter:
"Frank, sit here. By my side."
Frank froze. It felt like divine light shining down on him.
He took the seat with uncharacteristic nervousness.
"Gentlemen," Leo announced, raising a glass,
"let us toast to the real executor of our committee's vision—the new director of the FHA, Frank Underwood. Welcome to the family."
Cheers erupted.
The same senators who had snubbed him minutes ago now fawned with smiles.
Frank's chest swelled with gratitude. For a moment, he even thought—if Mr. Valentino demanded my life, selfish as I am, I could not give it. But I would give everything else.
After three rounds of champagne, Leo moved to the heart of the evening:
"Our exclusive pre-sale controls have expired.
Many believe our monopoly has ended.
I say it has only ended for now.
It is time to show the true influence of this committee.
We still hold the right to set the standards.
We will decide which companies qualify.
The American Real Estate Association will support us.
And as members of the James River Association, you all understand what this means."
The room fell silent as his words sank in.
It was Frank who spoke first:
"Mr. Valentino, every policy must land somewhere.
Who will be our first pilot target?"
Leo's eyes glimmered. No wonder this man would one day reach the Presidency. He hears what is not spoken.
Leo gave a faint smile:
"You've all heard the news. Our former party whip has died in an asylum.
And Mr. Gavin, head of the Chicago syndicate, perished in a fuel depot explosion.
James was Gavin's closest ally. Their passing is tragic—but it leaves behind a great inheritance.
Let us toast to their eternal rest."
Frank picked up instantly:
"In that case, our first test must be in a highly representative state, with a company of significant influence. That guarantees our interests."
The others finally caught on.
Leo had mentioned Gavin.
Frank added "representative state."
The target was clear: Tishman Realty, now leaderless and vulnerable.
One by one, the old foxes voiced agreement.
Congressman Luca Vicente of Pennsylvania spoke first:
"Mr. Valentino, I believe Tishman Realty is the perfect choice for our pilot."
Others echoed quickly, regretting their slow wits.
Leo's smile broadened.
"You all know I run several hotels, each with its own flavor.
Except for Frank, none of you are strangers to the pleasures of our anti-fascist allies.
Tonight, I've prepared a new gift upstairs. A surprise."
Frank blinked in confusion—until he saw the lewd grins of the others. Then he understood.
Luca Vicente leaned in, grinning:
"Mr. Valentino, can you give us a hint?"
Leo sipped his champagne and gave them a knowing look:
"Tonight's special program is called The Great Unity of the Free World."
At his signal, Walter placed small blue pills on the table before each man.
"Gentlemen, tonight you will truly feel the charm of the Free World.
It will also be exhausting.
So I've prepared something to help—Viagra.
To save the people of the Free World."
The banquet turned into an orgy.
Hours later, exhausted politicians stumbled out, clutching their backs, faces flushed with debauchery.
Frank, the youngest of them all, felt both drained and exhilarated.
As he prepared to leave, Walter handed him a small bag, patting his hand:
"Frank, you did well tonight. Mr. Valentino thanks you.
But remember: once you've chosen his side, never betray him.
Our boss terrified the Japanese in the Pacific.
Now, in two years, he's become one of America's most powerful men.
Whatever others offer you—don't be a traitor."
Frank clutched the bag, chewing on the words.
In his car, he opened it eagerly. Inside was a James River Association membership card—his initiation.
And a lottery ticket.
Leo's methods had evolved.
No longer did he need complex offshore schemes.
Through his tax havens and Sicily's mafia-run gambling network, cash could flow cleanly into politicians' hands.
The lottery ticket in Frank's hand was redeemable for half a million dollars in South Carolina.
Within a week, everything was in motion.
The FHA led the process.
The Advisory Committee set the standards.
The Real Estate Association codified them.
With Democrats controlling both houses, the proposal flew through Congress.
Truman signed it almost instantly.
The name of the bill:
The American Real Estate Regulation Act.
Leo wasted no time.
He rushed to Philadelphia.
Strike while they're weak—finish them off.
Gavin's death had thrown the Chicago syndicate into chaos. They couldn't shield Tishman Realty.
Leo, partnered with Goldman's Sidney and Bank of America's Cassius Elias, launched a takeover bid.
Though Tishman's board tried to rally, the new Act left them naked on the chopping block.
In his Philadelphia estate, Leo listened as Sidney laid out a ruthless plan:
First, make a noisy, public cash bid—draw all eyes.
Meanwhile, quietly, Goldman would sweep up Tishman's public shares on the open market.
Once they crossed 23%, by law, the American Real Estate Group could trigger a hostile takeover.
Leo nodded, approving.
"Unlimited authority in the secondary market is yours, Sidney."