"What do you want to be when you grow up, my princess?"
Leo teased Bella gently.
"I… I don't know. Before, when our family was poor, I thought I'd grow up and make money. But now, brother, we're already rich."
Bella answered sweetly.
"Do whatever you want, darling."
Leo smiled.
He wasn't made of iron. After years of endless struggle, the warmth of family affection was deeply healing to him. He cherished every moment of joy with his loved ones—because he knew his fortune had already reached the point where it might corrupt the purity of family ties.
The love and harmony they shared now existed only because time was still short, the family line was not yet large, and the old habit of sticking together through poverty still lingered.
Leo could see this clearly, and he had prepared himself. But that didn't stop him from enjoying the tenderness of the present moment.
While Leo basked in familial warmth, word spread across the West: in just half a month, he had settled both Hollywood and the state radio commissions.
For the first time, Westerners realized that their so-called "independence" was nothing more than the Eastern magnates dismissing them as small change. Once the Easterners set their eyes on them, they truly had no power to resist.
Now, as Leo prepared to strike at their moneybag—the Bank of America—they found themselves terrified. And in their desperation, they could only look to another Eastern giant for help: David Rockefeller.
Lately, David had been unusually busy. Rubbing his temples in exhaustion, he forced himself to sit through yet another dinner—his third of the night. He still needed to woo a few more minor shareholders.
As heir to a billionaire empire, David's biggest problem was that he had been appointed by his father, not by merit. His elder brothers all resented him.
Bank of America was the stage his father, John D. Rockefeller Jr., had set for him. After more than a decade of careful planning, the moment had come for David to pick the fruit.
If all went well, with Chase Manhattan in the East and Bank of America in the West, the Rockefeller family would dethrone the Morgans and claim the throne of American banking.
With that, David's path inside the family would be clear—no more resistance, his authority absolute.
Yet, just as the perfect layout neared completion, Leo appeared, smashing everything.
David had hoped Hollywood and the radio commissions would slow Leo down, keep him too busy to turn his attention to Bank of America. That would have bought him time to bribe the minor shareholders.
But things did not unfold as he expected. Leo moved far too quickly, so quickly that alarm bells rang in David's mind.
Now he too was racing against time—he had to finish his layout before Leo met Giannini.
That night, David met people without pause, harder than he had ever worked in his life.
Fortunately, the results were good. Most shareholders agreed: even if Leo inherited Giannini's 20% stake, the board would expel him, or at least strip him of voting rights.
"Strange as it sounds, I have Leo to thank. Without the fear of his thunderous advance, convincing these people wouldn't have been so easy."
David closed his eyes in satisfaction. Soon Leo would be pushed out, his shares bought up cheap, and Bank of America would fall neatly into his pocket.
It was destined to be a busy night.
Leo, however, slept soundly—until a shrill ring cut through the darkness. He picked up the phone to hear Clea's helpless sobs:
"Leo, my father is dying."
Leo rushed overnight to Sacramento.
Giannini's home was modest, like a slightly larger country villa. Inside, his room was packed with relatives.
As Leo entered, they instinctively stepped aside. Like him, they were Italians, but in front of Leo they seemed diminished, as if a head shorter.
On the bed lay Giannini, frail yet smiling at Leo with a hint of shyness, almost embarrassed to be seen in such weakness. Perhaps more awkward still were his two sons, weeping loudly yet without a single tear.
When they saw Leo, their sobs stopped at once, replaced by guarded stares.
Giannini cast one last fond look at his kin, then signaled his daughter. Clea understood, and ushered the family out. The room was left with Giannini, his two sons, Clea, Leo, and the lawyer.
Giannini first beckoned his sons closer. With his last strength, he whispered:
"Leo will buy 12% of my shares. But the money won't go to you directly.
It will be placed in Leo's James River Foundation, as a family trust, to ensure you and your descendants live in comfort."
He turned next to his daughter. His sons opened their mouths to object, but Leo's stern gaze silenced them.
"If only you were a boy, Clea—you could directly inherit my work. Such a pity.
But what I regret more is that you met Leo too late. Still, it doesn't matter. Your children together must bear the Giannini name.
One day, they will inherit the Bank of America. With my remaining 8% shares, they will hold 32% of the bank."
Each sentence took Giannini five or six minutes. Clea remembered her father in his strength—lifting her high into the air, spinning her about. Now he was a gaunt shadow of that man. The memory broke her heart; tears streamed down her face.
Suddenly, Giannini's eyes lit with clarity. He looked at Leo.
"Take care of Clea for me.
There's little more to say. Let's sign."
He forced himself upright, took the two prepared documents—the will among them—and signed with remarkable decisiveness. Then he smiled at everyone, lay back, and said softly to his daughter:
"Clea, sing me The Beautiful Village."
The melody of the Italian folk song rose gently.
Giannini closed his eyes, and in his mind drifted back to a warm childhood summer, lying in his mother's arms on a hillside, watching the distant sheep.
A smile touched his lips. He whispered:
"Mama…"
On the first weekend of May, rare storm clouds gathered above Sacramento.
From the sky, one could see black-clad figures pouring into the streets. Those with small homes led their families on foot; those with large estates drove toward the city and the outskirts.
From far away, cars streamed toward the capital.
Today was the funeral of America's legendary Italian-American banker, Giannini. The West's dignitaries and the Italian elite of the nation gathered to pay tribute.
The service was presided over by Cardinal Celes from Central America, invited by Leo. Skilled and dignified, he carried it out with solemn grace.
Yet after the funeral, most did not leave.
Half were Bank of America shareholders. The rest were opportunists waiting to profit from the coming turmoil.
Clea's cheeks were still streaked with tears when David Rockefeller moved. He sent his man, Clemens—himself holding 3% of the bank's shares—to approach Clea. With 5% of his own, David demanded a shareholders' meeting.
Clea and Leo had expected this. She agreed at once. Soon, an expanded board meeting convened at a hotel near the cemetery.
The atmosphere was tense from the start, stripped of all pretense of friendliness. Nearly every shareholder rallied around David, demanding Leo's expulsion from the board.
David looked at Leo, who had been silent the entire time, and pressed him:
"Mr. Valentino, won't you say something?"
"What is there to say? You want me out. I can only refuse. Let's move to the next step."
Leo and Clea rose to leave.
His calm demeanor unsettled David. He didn't believe Leo was a man who gave up easily. Unease drove him to reveal his backup plan early:
"Leo, if you want to keep your shares, fine—but give up your voting rights and management authority."
Leo ignored him and walked out.
The minor shareholders erupted in cheers. They thought they had finally defeated the invincible demon of the West. They felt vindicated, ready to hold their heads high even in front of Hollywood.
But David was not so sure. Back in his hotel, he immediately called in his family's detectives.
Since the days of John D. Rockefeller Sr., the family had valued intelligence. They had long cultivated ties with the famed Pinkerton Agency.
When Pinkerton detectives lost work, the Rockefellers had given them jobs. With their information, the family always struck first in business and could break strikes without mob help.
That era had passed, but the Rockefellers' appetite for intelligence had not. Their network stretched across America. With family backing, their agents had even penetrated key institutions: the tax police, the FBI, even the newly founded CIA.
"Find out what moves Leo is making against me."
There was silence on the line, then the reply:
"This request requires authorization from Mr. John Jr."
David froze. That meant Leo's actions involved his own family.
He immediately called his father. John Jr. did not hesitate—he granted authorization.
Soon the detectives reported back:
"Sources in Chase Bank's management say someone is contacting their shareholders in secret. The intermediary is Mr. Nelson Rockefeller. We suspect the man behind it is Valentino.
They are cautious—we've already lost two men trying to dig deeper."
Damn that second brother.
"How far have they gone?" David asked.
"We're not sure. But we know Mr. Rice and Mr. Cameron are wavering."
David knew those names well—together they held 5% of Chase. He had pressured them hard to sell to him. Now it seemed they were ready to sell to Leo instead. Rage boiled in his chest.
If he weren't tied down in the West, he would have flown East to crush them himself.
"Why is Nelson helping him?" David demanded.
"We don't analyze motives. We only know Mr. Nelson has been in Britain recently."
At once, David recalled the meeting at the brownstone mansion, when Nelson mentioned Leo's plan to launch a news group with a British earl.
"Damn him! He traded my assets to get what he wanted!"
The voice on the phone added:
"And more, Mr. David. We believe Nelson may have leaked Chase Manhattan's shareholder list to Valentino."
David's heart nearly stopped.
"Nelson betrayed us? That list is sacred! Does Father know?"
Chase was the Rockefeller crown jewel—the family's core, both in business and in shadowy affairs. As a private bank, its shareholder identities were a closely guarded secret.
"We believe Nelson leaked selectively. Mr. John Jr. has only just learned of it."
David hung up and immediately called his father again.
"Father, keep Nelson in Britain. Don't let him come back."
Like the Morgans, the Rockefellers saw Britain as their pig farm.
"I'll handle Nelson," John Jr. said firmly.
"Father, he's leaking family secrets! This isn't his first betrayal. How can you forgive him so easily?" David raged.
"I said I'll deal with it."
"Father!"
"Enough, David! You are not yet head of this family."
The words cut him like a whip. Then John Jr.'s tone softened, weary.
"Be patient. When you become head, you may do as you wish."
"And what about Bank of America?" David pressed.
He was already preparing to fly East. Chase was too vital, its secrets too dark to be exposed.
"We endured Giannini. Handle Leo the same way.
You are still young—learn patience."
With that, John Jr. hung up.
David stared at the dead line, seething.
Endure Giannini? Endure Leo? As if they were the same!
Patience? What patience?
Leo was barely in his twenties—how much younger could he possibly be?