David hurried back to New York. When it came to the Bank of America, he was no longer certain—if he missed this chance, would he ever have another to seize full control? Uncertainty gnawed at his heart.
He left quietly, without a word.
The next day, all of the bank's shareholders waited expectantly for David, hoping he would lead them to a vote that would finally drive the troublesome Leo out of the boardroom.
But instead of David Rockefeller, it was the very man they had expelled yesterday—Leo—who walked in, hand in hand with Clea.
"What are you doing here?"
It was Clemens, the Rockefeller family's long-planted agent within the Bank of America, who jumped out first to challenge him.
Leo ignored Clemens' provocation—arguing with him would only lower his own stature. He walked straight to the head seat, sat down calmly, and said slowly:
"Mr. David Rockefeller, due to pressing business affairs, could not attend today's meeting. Before leaving, he called me. He has agreed to swap his 5% stake in the Bank of America for my 5% holding in Chase Manhattan.
I accepted. Therefore, I now hold 25% of the Bank of America. As its largest individual shareholder, I naturally have the right to sit here.
And with this stake, I have veto power over any resolution you pass."
Leo smiled as he finished.
The words dropped like a thunderclap—silence fell, then chaos erupted. Faces turned pale with shock. None could comprehend why David would make such a decision.
Only Harriman, who had shouted at Leo earlier, slumped back into his chair. He knew more than most. Leo's announcement spelled it out clearly—his leader had sacrificed him for the sake of Eastern interests.
Clemens also realized the game was over. The small shareholders could no longer oust Leo. On the contrary, Leo now had the power to expel them.
True, with only 25% of shares, Leo couldn't unilaterally purge the board—as long as all the other shareholders united. But unity existed only when there was a leader to give them confidence. With David Rockefeller absent, that sense of safety crumbled.
Without leadership, they were nothing but a pile of loose sand, each scrambling to protect themselves. Clemens knew it, and despair set in.
Leo understood this as well—that was why he immediately chose Clemens as his first target:
"Since there are no other opinions, let me make this clear: the Bank of America is a great institution. But after a deep review with Clea, I've found its business volume has not grown in three years.
This signals a serious problem with its direction.
Therefore, I propose we replace CEO Roger Clemens."
At once Harriman's face turned ashen. He knew too well—without a CEO, he would be the next in line, forced to surrender his stake.
Clemens himself had been abandoned. With David's support gone, his loyalty to the Rockefellers dissolved. Yet bowing to Leo completely galled him. Suddenly, a spark of cunning crossed his mind.
He stood up and said boldly:
"Mr. Valentino, no need for you to fire me. I resign. Moreover, I intend to sell my 3% stake. Anyone interested may contact me after this meeting.
You all know where my estate is."
With that, Clemens strode out.
He had admitted defeat, yes, but he wasn't leaving without throwing a stumbling block in Leo's path. His gaze as he spoke of selling shares had been aimed directly at Eric, the Morgan family's representative, and at Lev, the government's delegate.
They would certainly be tempted—after all, everyone knew Clea and Leo's relationship went far beyond business. In truth, they were already like family. That meant Leo effectively controlled 38% of the bank. With just 12% more, he could seize absolute control.
And everyone knew Leo had both the money and the means to acquire that 12%.
For the government and for Morgan and the Eastern bankers, such an outcome was utterly unacceptable.
Clemens' exit left the meeting to collapse once again in anticlimax.
No one left feeling victorious—not even Leo and Clea.
According to their original plan, Clemens was supposed to become the sacrificial scapegoat. His shares would be absorbed, the other small shareholders intimidated, and Clea installed as CEO while Dick became CFO—thus cementing Leo's dominance over the bank.
But Clemens' maneuver had complicated everything.
"What should we do now?" Clea turned to Leo. She was no helpless woman—she had been the bank's CFO, after all. The reason she deferred to him now was not weakness, but sheer awe at his string of victories and decisive judgment.
Leo studied the faces around the room, reading their thoughts. The hostility in the eyes of Lev and Eric, the government and Morgan representatives, stood out most clearly.
Despite all his caution, he realized he had underestimated just how critical the Bank of America was to all parties. Frowning, he said in a low voice:
"I may need to make a very big move."
Back at Giannini's estate—his base in Sacramento—Leo retreated to the study. He knew a storm was about to break upon him, and every minute now was precious.
He made a string of calls: to Marshall, to Nimitz, to Mac, to Truman, to Augustus, to Phoenix… trusted allies, every one.
He threw everything into preparation because he knew—this time, his enemies would come from every direction. They might not unite, but they would all attack.
They would not demand he give up his shares outright, but they would try to force him into a humiliating treaty: to stop buying any more shares.
In the past, Leo might have agreed. But not this time. This wasn't about pride. It was because the Bank of America was the heart of his future business empire.
Just as the Rockefellers would never let him into Chase Manhattan, Leo would never allow his own "heart" to be controlled by fickle, hostile interests.
As Leo made his calls, the storm he foresaw was already brewing. From Sacramento, countless calls shot across the nation.
By afternoon, The Wall Street Journal fired the first salvo. For years ignored, the Bank of America now surged back into the American public's view.
The people also rediscovered Leo—the business prodigy who had seemed to vanish after the presidential election. All along, he had been in the West.
The Wall Street Journal and then The Washington Post painted him as a demon, casting the small shareholders as victims, hoping to win public sympathy.
But Leo had his own media muscle. Le Monde, with influence among elites, and The New Daily, popular with the masses, published special issues almost simultaneously.
They recounted the bank's history, and made it clear: Wall Street was the true villain, while Leo was Giannini's chosen heir—the entrepreneur who truly cared for the American people.
The counterstrike was brilliant. In the eyes of ordinary Americans, the "miracle child" Leo Valentino shone far brighter than Wall Street, which still carried the infamy of the Great Depression.
Public opinion was not in doubt.
But this media victory only enraged Wall Street. Many bankers hostile to Leo began preparing to fly West.
Even McChesney Martin, the Federal Reserve Chairman who had long admired Leo, called him. His words were simple:
"You are still young. You have plenty of time. Some things cannot be rushed. You must learn to go slowly."
Leo knew Martin meant well. Were it not for the looming MacArthur crisis, he too might have chosen patience—laying long lines to catch big fish.
But now, a great demon was about to arrive. And if he had a golden pill in hand—a treasure his master forbade him to swallow, yet that would let him leap from mortal to immortal in one stroke—how could he not take it?
He could placate his master's anger later. If he didn't take it now, there would be no "later" at all.
So he nodded and played the dutiful student on the phone, but in truth he only accelerated his preparations.
That very night, black-clad men slipped into Sacramento's airport control tower. They doused it with gasoline, tossed a match.
At New York Airport, Wall Street's representatives, ready to board their flights to California, were stopped.
The tower in Sacramento was on fire. The cause was under investigation.
The bankers' men erupted in uproar.
One, however, stayed calm—Roland Morgan, the new heir of the Morgan family, restored to the U.S. after Augustus gave up his claim.
He coolly ordered his men to reroute to Los Angeles. In his eyes, Leo was merely desperate—reduced to torching a control tower.
Soon Roland landed in L.A., slid into a waiting car, and took the file on Clemens handed to him by an aide.
Clemens' defiance had swiftly drawn other rebellious small shareholders to him—those unwilling to bow to Leo. They now declared themselves ready to stand with him.
For the Eastern bankers, hungry to carve up the Bank of America, winning Clemens meant winning the war.
Roland smiled at the first page. It showed clearly—Clemens had once been a Rockefeller man inside the bank.
That pleased Roland greatly. David had mocked him often for his failures against Leo. Now David too had stumbled, while Roland had a chance to reclaim face.
"On the plane, I saw many familiar names—Lehman, Loeb, Seligman, Sachs, Davis. Their families sent representatives too. Have you found out who has met with Clemens yet?" Roland asked.
"Sorry, sir. I don't know."
"You don't know? What does that mean?" Roland snapped.
"We cannot enter Sacramento at all."
"What? Impossible!"
"The mayor of Sacramento says evidence from the tower fire suggests the arsonists are still inside the city. To root them out, she has sealed Sacramento entirely."
Roland was stunned. "Is the mayor insane? How would the citizens tolerate such a thing?"
"My source left just before the lockdown. He saw large numbers of Mafia flooding into the city."
Roland scowled. "And who is this mayor, daring to gamble her entire political career like this?"
"Belle Curicci—Sacramento's first woman mayor, and close friend of Clea, the bank's heiress and Leo's companion. As for her career, there isn't one. The city council impeached her just yesterday. This order may be her final act as mayor."
Roland was speechless. He could not get into Sacramento.
At his hotel, he tried to pressure Governor Earl. What Curicci had done could easily be branded treason. The governor could call in the National Guard to break the city open.
Roland was sure he wasn't the only one making this demand. All those other bankers must be pressing the governor too.
He even left his car running, ready to drive the instant Earl agreed.
But the reply came not from Earl himself, but from his secretary:
"Governor Earl will remain neutral in this matter."
Roland froze. He realized his mistake.
Leo was not flailing in desperation—he had prepared every move in advance.
Roland had crossed Leo many times. He knew now: once again, he would come away empty-handed.
Still, he had one more idea. Deploying troops usually required the President's signature—but sometimes, generals at the Pentagon could tip the scales.
He called two he knew well. Both gave the same answer:
"Generals Marshall and Eisenhower have instructed us not to involve ourselves in Western affairs."
He called the Navy. The reply was identical—only the names had changed: Marshall and Eisenhower were replaced by Nimitz.
Roland left the hotel, climbed into his car, and told his men:
"Take me back to the airport. I'm returning East."
And so it was with all the bankers. One after another, bloodied and beaten, they abandoned the field and returned East.
It looked like thunder without rain, but in truth it was Leo's careful defenses—layer upon costly layer—that held the line.
At last, the heart of his financial empire was secured.
The price had been steep—Leo's heart ached at the cost.
But now that the wolves outside had scattered, it was time to deal with the mad dog that had caused him such trouble.