New York in January lay buried under heavy snow.
Joe and his wife trudged into the apartment hallway, faces dark with frustration.
Life wasn't easy. Even in New York, years after the war, goods were scarce.
"Damn it!" Joe cursed. "Every day my factory produces ovens, the warehouse is stacked to the ceiling with them—yet I can't even buy one of the ovens I help build!"
His wife muttered bitterly, "There isn't enough flour either. Our old prewar oven is broken beyond repair. No bread for us lately. Those people get up far too early."
"Hmph, they don't even sleep," Joe spat.
That morning, Joe and his wife had dragged their child out of bed at dawn, determined to fill their empty refrigerator.
But when they reached Macy's, confident they'd be early, the entrance was already clogged with a long, desperate line.
Quick on his feet, Joe flagged down a taxi—something he normally couldn't bear to spend money on—and barked, "Take us to the nearest Sears!"
All the way, they prayed silently. But God did not answer. Sears too was swarmed with customers.
Defeated, they shuffled into line, stomachs empty, bodies stiffening from the cold. Yet colder still was their sinking hope.
When at last they squeezed into the store, the shelves behind the counter looked thin, but not bare. They breathed in relief—until Joe's eyes landed on the oven section.
Where the ovens should have been, a cardboard sign glared back:
"SOLD OUT."
His wife, searching for flour, fared no better. The bakery shelves were stripped bare.
When they returned home empty-handed, their children came running, eyes wide with anticipation. They knew their father always brought back little toys for them—cheap, but precious.
This time, Joe carried nothing.
The children's disappointment cut deep into his heart, turning his frustration into rage.
Just then, laughter echoed from the stairwell below. Their neighbor, Doss, appeared with his wife, staggering under bulging bags. Their faces glowed with satisfaction.
Spotting Joe's empty hands, Doss sneered. "Well, well! Got up early, eh? And nothing to show for it? I left later than you—and look at this haul! Tell me, Joe, isn't this new oven the very same model your factory makes?"
He jostled the box mockingly.
The wives and children of the two families were on good terms, but between the men there was always a quiet rivalry. If Joe bought something one day, Doss would run all night to find it himself.
Now Joe's insides burned. Impossible! He's just a worker. How could he have connections to get all this?
Unable to stand the man's smug grin, Joe slammed his door shut.
That night, after a day of hunger, Joe sat down to a supper of instant macaroni instead of his beloved bread. The image of Doss's gloating face refused to fade.
He slammed the table. "If Doss can buy it, so can I!"
Dragging his wife, he stormed back out.
They weren't alone. Many in the building had suffered the same fate—long lines, empty shelves. Couples poured into the street, including Joe's coworker, Jack.
Joe seized the chance. "Hey, Jack, where are you headed?"
"Valentino Retail Store," Jack replied without stopping.
"Valentino Retail? What's that? Isn't that Italian billionaire in real estate?"
Joe rarely did the shopping himself. His wife had been there once, with Mrs. Doss. She explained:
"It's one of that young billionaire's new ventures. Big place, on Eric Street. Very few customers. Shelves full, though. People pick things themselves and check out at the register—Mrs. Doss likes that style."
But she added doubtfully, "Still, I prefer Macy's. Talking with clerks, familiar brands… And today's the big New Year shopping rush—if Sears and Macy's are out of stock, can a new store really have anything left?"
Joe grunted. "If Jack's headed there, that must be where Doss bought his goods. Eric Street's not far. Let's go see."
This time, Joe swore, he would not come home empty-handed.
They weren't the only ones. The closer they drew to Eric Street, the more couples joined the march.
Joe and his wife exchanged uneasy glances. They hadn't worn enough clothing for a long wait. Likely, there'd be another queue. They quickened their pace.
At the street's end, the normally dark Eric Street blazed with white light.
Not new streetlamps—rather, a massive glowing signboard hung above a large storefront.
"God, that must burn electricity," Joe's wife gasped.
Joe barely heard. His sharp eyes were fixed on the bustling crowd inside the store.
No line.
Heart racing, he pulled his wife forward. They burst through the doors—and were greeted by a rush of warm air.
At once, an attendant appeared, pressing two steaming cups of tea into their frozen hands. "Welcome to Valentino Retail. We're open until eleven tonight. Please, warm yourselves first."
The hot tea melted the chill in their bones. For the first time all day, they felt alive again.
Inside, the store buzzed. Customers pushed carts down aisles, selecting items themselves. Joe blinked in confusion—wasn't it the clerks' job to fetch goods?
Thankfully, his wife knew the system. She tugged him toward the aisle marked Entrance.
From there, they fell into a frenzy of grabbing:
Flour? Take it!
Oven? Take it!
Prime beef on the next shelf? Into the cart!
Frozen chicken? One box!
Milk? Essential!
Soon their cart overflowed. At checkout, Joe spotted toys his children adored—and a pack of cigarettes he grabbed for himself.
The total bill stung, but he had finally secured supplies.
Then came the problem—too much to carry home.
Sensing their plight, the attendant who had served them tea reappeared. Smiling, he recited what he had surely repeated countless times that day:
"Sir, we offer home delivery for $5. But since you've spent over $100 today, if you add a $100 deposit, you'll become a Black Iron Member of Valentino Retail and receive two free home deliveries."
Joe's expression shifted—pleased at free delivery, frowning at the cost, pleased again at the "free."
"Deposit?" he asked warily.
The attendant explained patiently: "Think of it like Macy's membership program. But here, status rises with spending.
There are five levels—Black Iron, Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Diamond. Black Iron gives 2% off all purchases and two free deliveries a year. Diamond Members enjoy 15% off and unlimited delivery, plus exclusive benefits on holidays and birthdays."
His wife's eyes sparkled. "How do we become Diamond?"
"By spending $30,000," the attendant said smoothly.
The light in their eyes died instantly. A worker's family could never dream of that sum.
Still, Black Iron seemed useful. Joe asked again, "But what's 'deposit' mean?"
"It's a green channel. For example, if you deposit $100 today, that money is stored in your account. Next time, you use your member card number to spend it here.
That way, you enjoy the membership benefits now—saving $5 today."
For a family like theirs, $100 was no small sum. But $5 was money too. His wife whispered eagerly, "Let's do it, Joe."
Joe hesitated. "What if you're scammers, running off with our savings?"
Unfazed, the attendant produced a newspaper and pointed to a photo: a young billionaire, Valentino himself, arm-in-arm with Walker, CEO of Valentino City Retail, taken in this very store.
"A billionaire won't care about your hundred dollars, sir."
Harsh, perhaps—but logical. Joe nodded. "We'll deposit."
Card issued, data entered—their purchase and deposit were recorded into a black, oven-sized device behind the counter.
Late that night, a truck unloaded heavy storage disks into the third floor of Valentino City Retail headquarters on Wall Street.
Technicians quickly fed the data into a computer. Within half an hour, a bound report landed on CEO Walker's desk.
As he flipped through the pages, the others in the room watched with tense anticipation.
Leo, though, wasn't nervous. A call from Mafia boss Clemenza had already confirmed success.
Clemenza's trucking company had made more in one day than two casinos combined, thanks to the deliveries. For the first time, he truly understood how Leo turned even ordinary businesses into fountains of gold.
This man isn't just a partner—he's a god of money.
"We did it!" Walker shouted, breaking Leo's thoughts. "Fifteen stores across New York State. Average daily sales per store—over $10,000!"
Sam, unable to wait, snatched the report from his brother's hands, flipping through it feverishly.
Walker rushed to Leo's side, eyes blazing. "Boss, give me another idea—just one more."
His excitement was justified. The membership system Leo had devised had stunned even him.
Without computers, a $10,000 sales day would have meant $15,000 in costs—losses of $5,000 due to overstocking.
But with computer analysis of regional buying habits, Walker had tailored inventory precisely, turning that loss into a $2,000 profit per store, per day.
Even conservatively, with post-holiday sales leveling off, the machines predicted daily profits of $1,000 per store. Fifteen stores meant $15,000 daily profit. $450,000 per month. $5.4 million per year.
And this was only New York State. Their goal: 200 stores across 14 Eastern states. Even if each averaged just $700 in daily profit, the total yearly profit would hit $50 million.
Less than real estate, yes—but pure cash flow. Stronger than any bank loan.
That alone thrilled Walker. But what awed him most was the membership system's hidden power.
He had assumed most customers would stop at the lowest tier—Black Iron. But human nature proved otherwise.
On the very first day, at the Wall Street flagship store, over fifty customers had become Diamond Members.
Fifty! At $30,000 each, that meant $1.5 million in deposits in a single day.
Even after setting aside half as reserves, as Leo insisted, Walker still had $750,000 in usable capital—enough to open five or six more stores outright.