At the White House, Louis carried a towering stack of documents and dumped them onto Truman's desk, grumbling:
"Harry, when is that damned Chief of Staff of yours going to be in place? I'm about to be buried alive."
Truman removed his round glasses, rubbed his sore eyes, and muttered wearily:
"I'd like to know that too. Where the hell is John Stillman, the man I was planning to appoint as my Chief of Staff?"
He paused, then continued thoughtfully:
"Tell me, is Leo really that terrifying? Terrifying enough that the controlling family of Citibank is hiding like frightened rats? Even when the President himself promised to protect him, he still doesn't dare show his face."
Truman's words left Louis at a loss. His face twisted into an awkward grimace, as if constipated, thinking: Isn't it obvious? You really don't know how you became President?
Fortunately, Truman wasn't expecting an answer. Seeing Louis's awkward look, he chuckled bitterly:
"Go on, Louis. I understand. After all, not even the President can demand the head of the Roosevelt family."
Feeling a bit guilty for not responding, Louis offered a soft consolation:
"Sir, it was James and John Stillman who first broke political convention. Mr. Valentino is the victim."
But the words brought no comfort.
"Yes, yes, he's the victim," Truman said with reddened eyes. "He's always the victim! Every time, he's the victim! Yet all those who harmed him are dead now! Dead! And this so-called victim is still alive—living better and better!"
Louis sighed, watching Truman slip into hysteria. So it's true, as Mr. Valentino said—no matter how good a partner seems, faced with immense power, they will be twisted.
Louis made a note in his heart: he needed to warn Valentino about Truman's state of mind.
As he left the President's office, Louis was still turning over Truman's words in his mind. There was one thing the President hadn't said correctly—there was still one man who had harmed Valentino and lived: John Stillman.
John, where are you? Hurry up and die. Without you, I'll be the Chief of Staff of the White House.
But John Stillman was alive, though he lived in fear. At that moment, he was hiding in a nondescript synagogue on Wall Street.
On his knees in prayer before the altar, he pleaded with the heavens, more devout than he had ever been in his life.
He was afraid. Everyone else might believe James had died in a mental hospital, but he knew the truth—James and Gavin had perished in that gas station explosion.
At that moment, he realized there was a traitor among them. And not just among the shareholders of American Realty—because none of them had been present during the secret discussions about rescuing James.
Who betrayed them? John no longer trusted anyone.
He couldn't rest at home, fearing that Leo's killers might strike in his sleep. Only here, in the little chapel where Wall Street bankers came to atone, did he feel some sense of safety.
At that moment, an old man appeared—thin, frail-looking, leaning on a cane, a small white skullcap perched on his head.
John turned at the sound and was overjoyed. Salvation had come.
"Mr. Samuel, please save me!"
This was Osgood Samuel. Outwardly, a retired banker devoted to studying the Old Testament. In reality, he was the nexus binding together Jewish bankers on Wall Street.
He wasn't the representative of all Jewish financiers, but when needed, his voice could speak for them.
Among younger Jewish bankers like John, Samuel was almost legendary. They said: If you think there's a great man Samuel doesn't know, that only means he knows him even better.
"John," Samuel said, smiling faintly, "you're a rare guest here. Let me think… from childhood till now, have you come here even five times?"
John could not refute that—it was his third visit.
His chance to live was before him. He didn't rise. Instead, he crawled on hands and knees to Samuel's feet and kissed his shoes. Not his shoes, really—but his own life, as he understood it.
The old man stroked John's forehead gently. "How should I help you, John?"
John's face lit with desperate joy.
"Sir, Leo is a fat pig, ripe for slaughter. If we kill him, many of us will feast. And he has placed the knife right into our hands. American Realty's scale now amounts to a monopoly. We can use the Antitrust Law against him!"
Samuel's eyes narrowed. "John, don't you think a man as shrewd as Leo would see that coming? I've studied his rise carefully. He always feigns weakness, exposing his so-called vulnerabilities to lure enemies in. But more often than not, those weaknesses are traps. That's how he devoured foe after stronger foe until now. He always wins."
John had thought of this too, kneeling before the altar the past two days. He slumped weakly to the floor.
"Then must I spend my whole life hiding in this little chapel?"
"Do not despair, John," Samuel said kindly. "I have seen many winners in my lifetime. And I have learned this—no man can win forever. God is fair. We need only patience. Perhaps the time will come soon. The world is vast—there are places Leo cannot touch. For instance, the Cotton family in Brazil. They were your father's friends, weren't they? For his sake, go to Brazil."
John's eyes lit at the mention of a way out, but dimmed quickly again.
"Sir, I dare not leave here!" he confessed.
"Don't be afraid. In America, no one touches those whom I, Samuel, choose to protect."
The sheer confidence in Samuel's tone steadied John's heart. Finally, he stepped out of the chapel, blinking into the blinding sunlight, and climbed into the car waiting for him.
As John's car disappeared down the street, Samuel's son appeared behind him.
"Father, will you really pass John's whereabouts to Valentino? Wouldn't that betray the Stillman family?"
Samuel shook his head. "No. If there is enough profit, old Stillman wouldn't mind selling another son."
"I don't understand," the son frowned. "That man Leo—he has wealth, yes. But among our people, only Mike Kay speaks for him. We don't need to bow to him."
"You misunderstand," Samuel replied calmly. "This isn't about bowing. It's about shattering his illusion of invincible victimhood. He expects John to betray him, so he can strike back, justified. But I will foil that plan. I'll deliver John to him myself. If he takes the bait, his image as the perpetual underdog will vanish. Once he's seen as a strongman, sympathy ends, and suspicion begins."
"And if he doesn't act?"
"Impossible. By now, several others have already tipped him off about John's location. To maintain his other persona—Valentino, the man who never forgives—he must act."
The son considered. "I see. And if he stumbles, others will rally to us, eager to topple a man they now see as dangerous."
Samuel smiled faintly. "No, that's what I told John. In truth, I have seen men who always win."
He leaned closer, his voice low. "Japan just phoned me. MacArthur is playing a great game. A scheme Leo cannot escape. MacArthur has grown wise—he no longer plays win-or-lose with Leo. Instead, he puts himself beside Leo before America, forcing the nation to choose: who is more important—MacArthur or Leo?"
His son stared blankly, confused by the riddles.
"Father, have you truly seen such a man—one who always wins?"
Samuel's gaze burned with unshakable confidence. "Yes. Me."
Meanwhile, at the Valentino Hot Springs Resort near Washington, Leo slammed the phone down with a dark expression.
Lighting a cigar, he stepped to the window, exhaling smoke that veiled his face. Beyond the glass, the clear sky stretched endlessly, but Leo felt a chill—his table now had a rival who was his equal.
The ploy to release John had been a naked stratagem, and it gnawed at him. What unsettled him more was that his bait had gone untouched. He had been outplayed.
"Boss, if we know his location, should I send men to finish him?" Walter asked.
Daniel was there as well. Now a Congressman, his hair was gone completely, but his instinct for intrigue had sharpened. He shot Walter a glance, stopping him, and turned to Leo.
"Boss, no news for days, and now suddenly an explosion of information—it feels wrong. I don't think we should move."
Leo gave him a look of appreciation. Daniel was growing quickly—yet still not quickly enough.
"No," Leo shook his head. "This is a trap laid in the open. If we don't kill, we lose. Walter—go."
Walter left at once.
Daniel wanted to protest further, but Leo waved him off.
"It's like chess, Daniel. No matter how well you play, you'll lose a few pieces. At times like this, you can't lose your nerve. Whatever the enemy plots, we stick to our plan. That's why I called you here—this bill needs your push."
He handed Daniel a thick proposal. On the cover: The National Housing Act.
Leo explained as Daniel flipped through:
"During Roosevelt's administration, we had the National Housing Act—thus the FHA under Frank. In 1937, the Public Housing Act recognized the shortage of homes after the Depression. But you and I both know—what the government has provided isn't nearly enough. Those earlier laws favored the middle class and above. But now Truman is preaching 'fair governance.' It's time for the common people to share in America's welfare."
Daniel skimmed the extensive urban expansion plans and slum redevelopment projects, wide-eyed. This was no small affair—it spanned every American city, a national undertaking.
"Boss… can this really work?"
"Why not? Now may be the best chance to pass such a bill. You'll need to work closely with Frank."
"You seem to admire this Frank from South Carolina," Daniel remarked.
"You've all had it too easy following me. You lack his ruthless persistence."
Daniel pondered his words, recalling the desperate scrambles he'd seen in the House—so different from the Senate's patricians. The House was full of small-town strongmen and minor elites, willing to claw and scheme to keep their seats. Compared to them, Frank truly was a king among the shameless.
Daniel resolved to learn from him. Yet another worry tugged at him:
"Boss, a bill of this scale will cost astronomical sums. One lobbying firm won't be enough."
Leo nodded. "I've thought of that. Come with me. You helped with the resumes last time. Now you'll join me in interviewing new candidates."
In a medium-sized banquet hall at the Hot Springs Resort, thirty-some men in suits milled about, drinking and chatting loudly. But a closer look revealed the truth—their suits were cheap, their shoes polished but frayed at the edges.
They laughed and drank, but their anxious glances toward the door betrayed them.
Roger Boris was among them. Three days earlier, he'd received Leo's invitation. Unemployed and desperate, Roger had come without hesitation, even though he knew his chances were slim. The others' wary looks told him why—he had once been an enemy, a veteran civil servant in James Roosevelt's team.
For twenty years, from the age of twenty-three, Roger had served the Roosevelt family loyally. He had mocked others for investing in people instead of dynasties. And when James was locked in an asylum, Roger believed his service would protect him.
But he had been wrong. Cast aside like a dog, he had been jobless for five months now.
"Mr. Valentino is here!" someone whispered.
The hall fell silent, then all eyes turned as Leo entered.
Daniel watched in silence as men surged forward to greet his boss, half eager, half fearful.
Leo leaned toward him and murmured:
"See, Daniel? These diligent worker bees of Washington. They may not hold the greatest power, but they know where it lies first—and that is exactly what our new lobbying company needs."
Daniel nodded thoughtfully. In their desperation, he saw a reflection of himself—not of senators born to power, nor of small-town barons, but of ordinary men, scrambling for survival.
The kind of men who could build an empire.