When Barney called for a meeting, Clark sat on the sofa with a darkened face.
His mood was utterly foul, because he knew what his recent refusal meant.
If he lost this time, he could bid farewell to his acting career.
Even if he somehow won in the future, he would most likely be reduced to earning a living from low-budget TV dramas that barely paid.
No studio would ever employ a traitor like him again.
How he longed to accept Barney's terms—if only he could. But he simply couldn't.
"Mr. Clark, then we'll take our leave. Don't worry, we won't harm your little princess.
We're just taking her to Hawaii for a vacation. After all, your wife is already there."
Watching his wife and daughter being escorted by a few burly men in long coats—the unmistakable mark of the Mafia—Clark's face grew weathered and desolate.
"When will they return?" he asked.
"When this is all over," replied the man in front, a silk scarf pinned to his chest.
Staring at the man, Clark felt a deep sense of helplessness.
The attire, the Italian-accented English—everything revealed who they were: the Italian Mafia.
As a veteran actor in Hollywood, Clark was no stranger to these men.
These parasites, leeching off Hollywood, could be seen lurking in every corner.
When you had money and wanted to throw a party, they appeared—bringing the most beautiful prostitutes in Hollywood, the strongest drugs, and anything else you could possibly want to get high.
When you stepped onto a film set, your every move was watched by cold, indifferent eyes.
Every newcomer in Hollywood who made money eventually encountered them.
At that moment, Clark regretted nothing more than visiting Leo.
He beat his fists against his own skull, hating himself for not realizing sooner that Mr. Valentino was also Italian.
How could an Italian tycoon possibly exist without Mafia ties? He had been far too naïve!
While Clark sat in misery, Barney—who had rallied support—was equally furious.
Though all the studios had agreed to provide money and manpower, after hours of discussion no one had much confidence in winning the lawsuit.
"So this is it? Us old powers of the West being pressed into the dirt by some young man from the East?" Howard Hughes fumed.
"He's not just some young man," Jack Warner retorted. "He's a national tycoon, unlike you. California's largest real estate company, Merlin Properties, just announced its merger with American Realty not long ago."
"What if we exploit politics?" suggested Darryl, president of 20th Century Fox. "He's a major donor for the Democrats. We in California are Republican."
"No chance," Louis B. Mayer of MGM shook his head. "Jack is right. He's a nationwide tycoon. I personally witnessed him at a banquet in the East, embracing none other than Mr. Taft, one of the Republican Party's biggest figures.
And don't forget—last year, our very own Governor Earl Warren was defeated by this same young man. Even with Dewey by his side, Warren couldn't match Valentino."
"This won't work, that won't work—what do you expect me to do?" Barney snapped in frustration.
"Calm down, Barney. For now, we just have to take things step by step," Jack Warner advised.
"Ha! Easy for you to say—it's not you who's being hunted by a billionaire! I thought you'd have something useful. Forget it. I don't want your money anymore. The only one who might be able to counter Valentino is Mr. Rockefeller."
"You're being naïve, my friend," Louis Mayer cut in, tossing a newspaper onto the table. "You all should pay more attention to Eastern news. Look—this is American Realty's newest shareholder."
Barney glanced down—and his last shred of confidence evaporated.
Splashed across the front page was the headline:
"American Realty Welcomes New Shareholder: Laurence Rockefeller."
"That's why I keep saying you can't trust those Easterners," Mayer twisted the knife, watching Barney's face turn ashen.
"Look at you, terrified already. Just follow my lead. Drag this out as long as we can. Once we've shown enough backbone, then we can surrender gracefully and the problem solves itself.
"Remember, even Carson Merlin was once interested in Hollywood. But men like him—those who make fortunes in real estate—look down on the petty sums we deal with here.
"Especially someone of Valentino's caliber—a super tycoon of the East Coast. He won't waste too much time in the West."
"That's all we can do, then." Barney sighed, feeling deeply humiliated.
"You're all cowards," Howard Hughes barked, once again storming out after his opinions were ignored. He failed to notice the way the studio heads looked at him—as though eyeing a juicy meal.
"Hey, why is it only that fool here today? Where's Yenny?" Barney asked.
"Probably cleaning up the mess that brat left behind. RKO is finished," Jack Warner sneered, his grin filled with schadenfreude.
But Yenny was not, in fact, covering for Hughes. He sat instead in the Valentino mansion atop Beverly Hills, his expression heavy.
Beside him sat his friend, the famed Hollywood director Frank Capra, who had brought him here.
What weighed on Yenny was the offer Mr. Valentino had just laid before him—an offer impossible to refuse:
Acquire RKO, and appoint Yenny as CEO and executive president.
In other words—full control, with Valentino not interfering in management.
The temptation was overwhelming. Hughes had been at RKO for barely a year and a half, yet his erratic personality and reckless style had become unbearable to Yenny, who preferred meticulous cost control.
After several projects lost money last year, his own dividends had been slashed—and his reputation was at risk.
If Hughes continued this madness, Yenny had already planned to leave.
Sensing his hesitation, Frank Capra—who longed to cling to Valentino's powerful Italian-American network—urged,
"What are you waiting for, Yenny? Hughes will drag RKO into ruin. Do you realize your financial report last year was worse than Columbia's? The Big Five and Little Three are about to become the Big Four and Little Four!"
"But Hughes will never agree," Yenny muttered. "I know Mr. Valentino has more money, but Hughes isn't short of money. Besides…"
He glanced at Grace, seated beside Leo. His meaning was obvious: with Hughes' childish temperament, if RKO were ever to be sold, it would never be to Leo.
Leo patted Grace's hand. "Let's go for a walk, Grace. Give Yenny some time."
He left, casting a meaningful glance at Frank.
Once alone, Frank leaned closer.
"Yenny, you're not new to this circle. Hughes can't manage the company without you. So stir things up a little—let him give up on his own. Assign him real responsibilities. We both know he hates such 'trivial' business.
"And of course, our Italian friends might add some 'surprises' at RKO studios. As chairman, wouldn't Hughes be obliged to deal with them?"
Yenny stared hard at his friend. He understood perfectly: if he refused, those "surprises" could easily be directed at him instead.
He recalled the calm, commanding look Leo had given him earlier. There had been no room for refusal.
At last, he nodded. "Tell Mr. Valentino—I accept."
"You've made the right choice, Yenny. But as your friend, let me remind you—Mr. Valentino does not forgive betrayal."
When Leo received the news, Yenny was already gone. He handed Frank a check for $300,000.
But Frank only shook his head. "Mr. Valentino, you are the pride of us Italians. Serving you is my honor."
Leo smiled. "Frank, you are truly a clever man. You have earned my friendship. In the future of RKO, there will be a place for you."
Frank did not blush at having his ambitions exposed. Instead, he smoothly replied, "Nothing escapes you, Mr. Valentino. My little schemes are nothing before your eyes."
Leo reflected once more on the peculiar world of Hollywood. In business, it could not match Wall Street. In politics, it could not match Washington.
But when it came to shamelessness, no place on earth could compare.
That evening, Leo and Grace arrived at the Los Angeles Biltmore Hotel, where he was hosting a banquet. Many Californian elites and officials were invited, including members of the California Radio Commission.
But the most notable guest was Governor Earl Warren, Dewey's former running mate—the so-called "Twin Stars of East and West."
Warren had come chiefly to discern Leo's true purpose in California.
He understood Leo far better than the studio bosses. Having once faced him as an opponent, Warren knew: Leo never acted on impulse or emotion.
The governor recognized Leo's aim in Hollywood: control of public opinion. During the elections, Warren had suffered greatly from the people's ignorance about him and Dewey. He had learned the true power of the media.
But Warren wasn't here to cause trouble. After the failed election, he too had been sidelined within his party, his influence now confined to the West Coast. Years of effort had been undone.
As a seasoned politician, Warren believed in joining if you couldn't beat them. Already, many Southern Republicans had invested in Valentino's new retail company. So many had bowed their heads—why shouldn't he?
American Realty had already been carved up. Valentino Retail had not yet come West. This, Warren decided, was his chance.
The governor's conciliatory tone disappointed those hoping for a grand clash between a governor and a billionaire.
Vice Governor Don Pacheco muttered to AmBank shareholder Kleeman Anson,
"I told you, Earl is nothing but a political opportunist. If you wanted fireworks, forget it. Better prepare your own people. Everyone knows old Mr. Giannini won't last much longer. Valentino showing up here now—this is no coincidence. They're Italians, after all."
Kleeman scowled. "AmBank belongs to the West, not to Italians. Stirring trouble, Don, is pointless. Don't forget—most of Hollywood's Jewish money flows straight into your Pacheco family's pockets. This tycoon threatens your interests as much as mine."
Both men fell silent, each tempted to speak of cooperation, but the centuries-old feud between their families kept them apart. With cold snorts, they drifted off to mingle elsewhere.
Scenes like this played out all across the hall.
Leo, while conversing with Warren, kept scanning the elites of California with his peripheral vision.
He nodded inwardly. A divided California—that was the hunting ground an Eastern tiger like him desired.
"Mr. Valentino, may I introduce Mr. Carol Sepúlveda, chairman of the California Radio Commission. His brother, Simpson Sepúlveda, is a judge on the California Superior Court."
Warren deliberately emphasized the family's legal clout.
Leo smiled. "A pleasure, Mr. Sepúlveda. As you know, I recently bought a new toy. But it feels a little too small. If I want it bigger, I'll need your family's help."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Valentino, my job is to handle matters like broadcast licensing, radio frequencies, signal towers. If you want your toy bigger, perhaps you should ask a carpenter."
The hostility in the man's voice surprised Leo. He searched his memory. Most of his enemies were in the East—he hadn't had time to make enemies in the West yet.
But Warren leaned in and whispered,
"The Sepúlvedas are also minor shareholders of AmBank. In fact, more than half the people in this hall hold stakes in it."
In an instant, Leo understood. That explained the hostility. Everyone here knew his sights were set on AmBank.
He glanced around the hall, meeting eyes pretending to chat but all focused on him. His lips curled into a smile.
They were right—AmBank was his real target in the West.
Perhaps his arrogant gaze offended Sepúlveda, who snapped,
"Mr. Valentino, Easterners like to think themselves refined. But even you should learn to bow your head when asking favors. I'll be clear: no Radio Commission in the West will ever allow your towers. Unless—"
"Enough," Leo cut him off. "You've already refused. I'll take it as a declaration of war from all the Western Radio Commissions. Prepare for war."
He no longer bothered with this pawn pushed forward to play the blade. Nor did he care to waste more time on this meaningless banquet.
Sensing his disinterest, Warren quickly said,
"Mr. Valentino, perhaps I can help."
Leo smiled faintly.
"Perhaps, Earl. Or perhaps I won't need it."