"Viggo, if we only air a single news program across the five Western states, won't that seem a bit monotonous? Do you have any other ideas for new shows?"
At these words, Viggo's eyes lit up. From their earlier conversation, he had already sensed his new boss's style. Now that the issue of monotony had been raised, it surely meant the boss was ready to invest and wanted him to diversify programming.
Viggo immediately stood, went to his office, and returned with a script. Handing it to Leo, he said:
"Mr. Valentino, before I opened my steakhouse, I actually worked as a Hollywood editor. This is a script I wrote based on the daily anecdotes at my restaurant—Stories from the Steakhouse.
In my vision, everything happens inside the restaurant. No exterior shots are needed, so production costs stay extremely low. We'd need only a handful of actors.
I guarantee it's a wonderful story."
Leo flipped through it casually. The story was indeed good, reminiscent of the sitcoms he had watched in his previous life, something like 2 Broke Girls.
That genre had been a perennial hit back then, long-running and beloved. But now, in this era, Leo wasn't sure whether such a show would catch on.
From his perspective, KTLA was like a fragile cub. If their very first major show failed to make an impact, the station might be forever pigeonholed as a news-only channel—far from what Leo envisioned.
The script in front of him was solid, but he worried that rejecting it outright might dampen Viggo's enthusiasm, and worse, damage his own image as a generous and supportive leader.
"How much would it cost to produce this show?" Leo asked.
"Only fifty thousand for the first season," Viggo answered crisply.
"And the cast?" Leo pressed.
"Tony and Lucy can play the servers—they've both worked as waiters before. I'll play the chef and owner myself.
With the three main roles covered, I can guarantee that many of my old customers, once they hear they'll get to taste my steaks again, won't mind serving as extras.
I've waited a long time for this chance. If we work overtime, we can finish it in ten days."
Viggo grinned as he spoke.
Leo gave him a look that was equal parts puzzled, touched, and—above all else—delighted as a capitalist. To Leo, Viggo was becoming more and more like those tireless worker-creatures in the game Palworld he once played: born to toil, born to make the boss richer.
God of cost-cutting, patron saint of overtime, a nuclear-powered work mule—those labels fit Viggo perfectly.
Leo wrote another check, this one for a hundred thousand, and tossed it over.
"Make it well. Double the budget. Don't scrimp.
But tell me, Viggo—have you thought about what people actually like to watch these days?"
At once Viggo understood: the sitcom alone wouldn't satisfy his boss. He was quick to adjust. A man as wealthy as Valentino wouldn't be content with a small, low-budget show.
"Yes, boss. Right now, the hottest films in Hollywood are Westerns. Whether East or West, audiences love them. They sell out theaters everywhere. NBC even made a Western TV series recently—and its ratings were excellent."
"Then we'll make one too. How much will it cost?" Leo asked bluntly.
The room fell silent. Viggo's team exchanged uneasy glances before Viggo finally spoke:
"Boss… we can't make it."
"Why not?" Leo frowned.
"Westerns require massive crews. Only the big studios can pull them off. We're just a small team. Without experience, we'd ruin it."
Leo could tell he wasn't saying everything.
"Viggo, we may not have known each other long, but you should already understand the kind of man I am. Any problem that money can solve is no problem at all."
For the first time in their lives, the poor men in the room felt words themselves could be gilded.
Viggo sighed.
"Boss, sometimes it's not about money. The studio that produced NBC's Western has already gone bankrupt.
The major Hollywood studios have issued a ban on Western TV shows. Right now, from producers at the top to actors in the middle and crew at the bottom—anyone who takes part will be branded a traitor and blacklisted permanently."
Leo's brow furrowed—then smoothed again.
"So the film industry is afraid of television's rise?"
Viggo nodded.
"Yes, boss. That's exactly why most television stations only air news programs."
Leo stood, patted Viggo on the shoulder, and said:
"I'm glad my station has someone like you running it. Go make your sitcom. Leave the rest to me."
Beverly Hills, Los Angeles—land of mansions. Two years ago, Wallace, the famed designer who had first crossed swords with Leo in real estate, had built his reputation here by designing homes for the rich and famous.
At the end of last year, when Carson Merlin bowed to Leo and merged Merlin Real Estate into American Realty, he sweetened the deal by gifting Leo a mansion in this prime area.
As one of California's most influential developers, Merlin Real Estate's properties in Beverly Hills were all golden locations. Houses here sold for over a million apiece.
Today, after three years of standing empty, this mansion finally welcomed its true master.
Grace had been in Hollywood for six months. She knew that living here meant raising one's status instantly on set.
Watching her skip happily into the estate, Leo smiled. This time, he could clearly feel the change in her.
The little tantrums were gone—replaced with endless affection.
Leo knew why. Grace had dipped her toes into Hollywood's great dye vat, the Vanity Fair of America. Only after swimming in those waters could she truly grasp how profoundly a man of Leo's stature shaped her fate.
That had been Leo's purpose in letting her come here in the first place.
As they walked into the mansion together, they didn't notice the neighbors spying with binoculars.
The surrounding estates belonged mostly to top producers, famous directors, and star actors.
The moment the "For Sale" sign was taken down, they had all learned who the new owner was.
When you find out your neighbor is the richest young man in America, it's hard not to scheme—especially in a place like Hollywood, always desperate for money.
Producers prepared to call right away, wives baking cakes to show sincerity. Directors also readied themselves—funding was their ticket to making their dream films.
But the actors were quickest. The smallest estate, farthest from Leo's, was the first to open its gate. A middle-aged but glamorous couple strode out with gifts in hand.
"Damn it, Clark Gable moves fast," the other neighbors cursed silently.
Leo, still touring his new home, was stunned when told neighbors had already arrived.
So this is Hollywood, he thought. News really does travel fast here.
He told the butler, whom he barely knew:
"Let them in."
Then he called out to Grace, who had been about to change into a swimsuit.
"Grace, we have guests."
The mansion was grand yet welcoming, clearly the product of careful design. To Leo's surprise, it even had a cozy sitting room intended specifically for receiving neighbors.
"Good evening, Mr. Valentino. I'm Clark Gable, and this is my wife, Sylvia."
"Hello, Clark. I've seen your Gone With the Wind. I never imagined we'd be neighbors."
Leo's words sounded like praise, but his flat tone made it feel more like a superior's detached evaluation.
As an actor, Gable prided himself on reading people. He'd met big shots before and could usually sense their attitude toward him.
But no matter how hard he studied the young billionaire's face, he couldn't read a thing.
"Mr. Gable, may I have your autograph? I've always admired you."
Grace, seeing him enter, lit up with excitement. Naturally so—Gable had been the heartthrob of her generation, and a notorious screen lover of great beauties like Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, and Vivien Leigh.
"Of course, my dear lady. It would be my honor."
Inside, Gable rejoiced. At last, an opening! The billionaire's companion was giving him a perfect assist.
But just three seconds later, Leo's words shattered his joy.
"Grace, I see Mrs. Sylvia is very interested in our home. Aren't you as well? Now that you have your autograph, why don't you accompany her on a tour?"
Grace was no fool. She instantly understood Leo's intention. She took the autograph, tucked away her fangirl smile, and donned a graceful elegance. Linking arms with Sylvia, she left the room.
Their voices faded. The sitting room grew silent.
Clark Gable felt like a mouse before a cat. His every thought seemed transparent to the man across from him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. No wonder this young man had become a billionaire so early—the pressure was immense.
As a last resort, he tried:
"Mr. Valentino, forgive my bold visit, but I noticed Beverly Hills finally has a second veteran of the Pacific War."
That struck a chord. Leo showed curiosity. In Hollywood, the heart of vanity, true patriots were rare.
Of course, his softened expression wasn't only for that reason. He wanted to hear Gable's real purpose. Pressure was the point—he needed Gable to know who was in control.
"Oh? You also fought in the Pacific, Mr. Gable?"
"Yes, Mr. Valentino. Unlike you, who enlisted out of noble patriotism, I joined after tragedy.
In 1941, my second wife, Carole, died in a plane crash. I was consumed by grief and rage. The following year, I enlisted in the Navy Air Corps to escape it."
At the mention of his wife, Gable's face darkened with practiced sorrow.
An ordinary man might have been moved. But Leo was the world's sharpest reader of micro-expressions. Even the most seasoned politicians couldn't fool him—what chance did an actor have?
To Leo, the grief was half-true, half-feigned. Still, he humored him.
When Sylvia and Grace returned, signaling the end of their visit, Gable finally revealed his purpose.
"Mr. Valentino, may I ask your opinion of the film industry?"
"I watch it from a theater seat," Leo deadpanned.
The joke stunned Gable into silence.
Leo smiled.
"All right, Clark. Since we both fought in the Pacific, be direct."
"Thank you, Mr. Valentino. Since my return, I've starred in a dozen films, but none have done well. This year, only small productions have offered me work.
Hollywood is brutally competitive. Small productions harm my career more than help. I've long wanted to remake my breakthrough film, Red Dust.
Everything is prepared—except funding. I've mortgaged even this house to raise money.
I know it's presumptuous, but I beg you to consider this project. If you find it worthy, please lend your support."
He handed over the prepared materials just as Sylvia returned. They took their leave.
Leo barely glanced at the script. To him, television was about influence, not the meager profits of movies. Personally producing films would cheapen him.
But Grace was fascinated. She sat where he had been, eagerly flipping through the pages.
When Leo emerged from the bath in his robe, he found her still reading intently.
She looked up, eyes pleading.
"Will you invest in this movie? I want to play the leading lady!"
Leo chuckled, caressing her smooth skin as he tilted her chin. His eyes gleamed with playful challenge.
"It's not impossible. But you'll have to satisfy me first."
With that, his robe slipped to the floor.
She was determined to prove her "understanding" of the script in her own way.
After their passionate reunion, word spread that Clark Gable had sought Leo's backing. Soon, more neighbors came calling, as if coordinated.
Leo's cozy sitting room couldn't contain them all. He waved a hand and hosted a small cocktail party instead.
As glasses clinked, before anyone could state their motives, Leo spoke first.
He explained his "problem": he wanted to produce a Western-style television series.
The billionnaire's proposal tempted many, but none dared commit.
Pressed again, they dodged and deflected.
The party ended quickly. That very afternoon, news of Leo's intent to make a Western series spread through Hollywood like wildfire.
Within hours, the Big Five and Little Three studios issued an industry-wide decree:
Any filmmaker, actor, or crew member who dared work on a television Western would be blacklisted forever.
The ban crushed every opportunist's hopes.
By night, only fraudsters came knocking. Their fates were predictable. Unlike in New York, where swindlers had ended up in the Atlantic, here they were dumped in the Pacific.
Near midnight, Leo's final visitor arrived—his station chief, Viggo.
The chubby chef looked deeply worried.
"Mr. Valentino, you've stirred the hornet's nest. If we'd kept quiet, maybe we'd have had a chance to succeed."
Viggo, the master of thrift and entrepreneurship, still thought only of how to get things done.
Leo admired him all the more. Such men were worth cultivating. They were pioneers—indispensable wherever new ground had to be broken.
Pouring him a whiskey himself, Leo said warmly:
"Viggo, you're excellent. Every boss wants employees like you.
But your concern shows you still don't fully understand me.
If we filmed a Western in secret, yes, we might succeed. But soon the headlines would scream: 'Billionaire secretly produces TV show to dodge Hollywood ban.'
My reputation is worth far more than the money saved.
As for your worry about alerting the snakes—that's exactly what I intended. I'll flush them all out and crush them in one sweep.
That's what a man of my stature is meant to do."