Kleiman's heart was filled with regret, yet he was utterly lost, not knowing how to salvage the situation.
Originally, he thought his clever scheme would work perfectly—stay at home, sit back, and wait to be courted, bleed Leo dry, and vent his anger. That way, he could strut proudly in the West as a man of influence.
But he never imagined that Leo would be so bold, so decisive—simply flipping the table outright!
Inside the study of his villa in Sacramento, Kleiman lifted a corner of the shutters, staring in despair at the cars parked at the front and back gates.
Hopelessness consumed him as he picked up the phone. As a San Franciscan, his only wish at that moment was to make a final call to his wife and children back home. He knew Leo would never let him off so easily.
But the line was dead silent. With a roar of rage, Kleiman smashed the phone against the wall. In truth, the phone line had been cut days ago. He had only been clinging to a shred of false hope.
Meanwhile, just across from Kleiman's villa, Leo stood with Mike.
"Mike, is he here?" Leo asked.
Mike nodded.
"Not Italian, right? No loose ends?"
"Don't worry," Mike replied. "His daughter's gravely ill. As long as I keep paying for her treatment, he has no choice but to obey me."
As they spoke, a ragged man dressed in black stumbled into Kleiman's villa, revolver in hand.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Sharp gunshots tore through the night's silence.
Moments later, the mafia car vanished from the gate. In its place arrived a police car, followed closely by reporters from The New Times.
The next day, Sacramento's female mayor announced the lifting of martial law. Citizens soon learned from The New Times that the arsonist behind the airport fire was named Andreev, a Russian who had once worked at Bank of America.
Dismissed by Kleiman for leaking bank secrets, Andreev had begged the government for compensation to save his sick daughter, only to be rejected. In his despair, he had committed this shocking act.
The blame was swiftly pinned on the "all-powerful" Russians of that era. But everyone knew deep down what truly killed Kleiman.
The small shareholders of Bank of America looked on in despair as the Eastern bankers abandoned them. Frail and powerless, they now had to face Leo—the "Great Demon King"—alone.
Against him, they had no choice but to surrender. Many quickly sold off their shares and fled the bank.
One man tried to reach out to the Morgan family and the government—but he, along with his farm, vanished in a blaze that lit up the night sky.
Soon, Leo acquired 25% more of the bank's shares. Combined with his existing holdings, he now controlled 50% of Bank of America, making him its largest shareholder.
Additionally, the 8% stake held by Giannini was placed under the trust of the James River Association—whose authority rested firmly in Leo's hands. This gave him 58% of the voting power. He no longer needed the board's approval for anything.
With the board reduced to a hollow shell, California's government realized that its dream of nationalizing the bank was dead. At best, holding 10% management rights meant they could gain early insight into decisions and exert some influence. The remaining 5% might as well be sold for funding.
Thus, they sold those shares to Leo instead of the Morgans. Governor Earl chose to side with the victor.
By now, anyone with foresight knew that the Valentino family's roots in the West would only grow deeper.
"At this moment, I formally appoint Ms. Correa as CEO of Bank of America, and Mr. Dick as CFO," Leo declared at the shareholders' meeting.
This marked the placement of the beating heart within the Valentino business empire. From that day, Leo stood firmly among the world's top players.
The mark of that echelon was simple: using other people's money to do one's own business, and using other people's money to control them.
Now Leo could do just that.
There was even a side story in this takeover.
Some of the small-town bankers who had once helped Bank of America fend off Eastern takeovers, now stripped of their shares, banded together to form a cooperative bank in their hometowns. They hoped to recreate Giannini's early glory.
But these relics of the past underestimated both the pace of the modern era and Leo's overwhelming influence over the American public.
The New Times trumpeted the bank's new direction, especially the popular financial products Leo rolled out after taking over.
Leo integrated the Central America Plan, the Dutch and Italian reconstruction funds, overseas investment projects, American real estate developments, and Valentino retail expansions into nationwide financial products.
With his "living god of wealth" image, these moderately risky yet high-return investments instantly won the hearts of Westerners.
And Leo wasn't cheating anyone. He was confident that these products—and his future companies—would become the most profitable enterprises in the world, enriching the West along with him.
His intention was to make the West his unshakable base, building a community of shared wealth. This was only the first step.
When the dust finally settled, Leo returned to Los Angeles. In his Beverly Hills mansion, he picked up the phone.
"You've made quite a stir this time," came Truman's voice on the other end.
"Thanks to your solid support, Harry," Leo replied. "Don't worry—I called to confirm that I will fulfill my promise. As we agreed, after your two assists, I'll hand you the reins of the National Housing Program. This will be the centerpiece of your fair governance platform.
In the history books, this program will forever be linked to your name."
Truman cared little for money. As president, his true pursuit was historical legacy. Under Leo's guidance, he began championing the National Housing Program in Congress, increasingly seeing its value—it perfectly aligned with his vision of fairness for the common people.
After all, the houses people lived in were built under the president's initiative, and the highways they traveled on were built under his watch.
And so, later on, whenever Truman saw "Valentino" printed on the first line of the bills, it always rankled him.
Leo, ever perceptive, had already seen through Truman's thinking during a brief chat in Lynchburg. For Leo, what mattered most was the tangible profits his American Real Estate Group would reap from the program. The "credit" could be traded away. Securing Bank of America was already a massive win.
Truman's greatest help had been his restraint—he hadn't ordered the army into Sacramento. Sometimes, silence itself was a statement.
After the call, two guests arrived at Leo's door: Eisenhower and Governor Earl of California.
The meeting was not held in the parlor or the grand hall—those weren't suitable for serious business. Instead, they gathered in the study.
"Leo, can you really convince the Southern Democrats to switch to the Republican Party?" Eisenhower asked impatiently, eager to bolster his standing for the next election.
Earl also looked at Leo expectantly. Their full-throated support of Leo hinged on his promise to flip the South.
The South had been a Democratic stronghold for a century, deeply ingrained in the national psyche. If that ironclad voter base defected to the Republicans, the man who engineered it would earn unmatched prestige within the party—saving vast time otherwise spent uniting its factions.
Leo nodded. "To be honest, the South only stays with the Democrats because of me. Without me, their backers would demand they leave tomorrow. Truman's fairness agenda and equal-rights push have already crippled the interests of Southern businesses and plantation owners.
If not for the federal government's growing power, the Southern states would've already formed a Lone Star Party."
A good broker was needed for such a defection. With influence in both parties, Leo was the perfect intermediary.
For Eisenhower, whose reputation rested mostly on the military, having alternative power bases was vital if he wanted to avoid becoming a mere puppet of the military-industrial complex.
"When?" Earl pressed, still chasing his dream of the vice presidency. He had already allied with Eisenhower.
"Not long. Next year," Leo replied. "I'll arrange for the Southern Democrats to join the Republicans next year."
Leo's timing was deliberate. By then, the war in the East would erupt, and Truman would likely part ways with him. The looming threat of Southern defection would deter his enemies from destroying him outright.
After Eisenhower and Earl left, Leo visited his old superior, Admiral Nimitz, bringing gifts.
Leo didn't hide anything. He fully honored the conditions Nimitz had once set: he bought out the failing shipyards—some of which had Nimitz family shares—at original value. And Nimitz's young grandson, Jess Nimitz, received an invitation to the James River Association.
Other friends didn't warrant as much ceremony—those were mere courtesies. Marshall had helped immensely this time as well, but Leo didn't go out of his way to thank him. Their bond was already so close they were practically one.
Back home, Leo received a call from Jack Warner.
"Leo, Howard Hughes wants to sell RKO."
After hanging up, Leo thought for a moment, then phoned Edward in Central America.
"How much cash do we have left?"
"Boss, your cash flow was about to hit a billion. Right now, it's 960 million. But buying Bank of America shares cost you 500 million," Edward reported.
"So we've got 460 million left. Enough to buy RKO?"
"Easily," Edward said, "but I don't recommend it. You already control Bank of America with a hundred billion in deposits, plus half a billion in your Central American bank.
And don't forget our tax shelters—there's twenty billion parked in the mid-channel reserves. That money isn't technically yours, but you can use it freely."
Leo slapped his forehead. Right—he was now like a cultivator who could draw spiritual energy from heaven and earth for his own use.
It felt damn good.
He called Jack Warner back. "How much does Hughes want for RKO?"
"Thirty million," Jack said.
Leo hung up and, after some thought, dialed Phoenix.
By the second week of May, Los Angeles was sweltering. The blazing sun only worsened Howard Hughes's foul mood. His film projects were in shambles. Even Jenny, who had once worked with him seamlessly, was now failing constantly.
Beyond the films, the pressure from Leo was crushing. Hughes might have been arrogant, but he wasn't insane—he was smart enough to be terrified.
Knowing how Leo had swallowed Bank of America whole, even sealing off California's capital, Hughes now locked himself nightly in a bathtub inside his bathroom, convinced it was the only safe place left.
He was petrified. He no longer wanted anything to do with Hollywood.
Selling RKO meant escape—back to Las Vegas, back to his hotel, never to emerge again.
As for his former muse, the angelic Grace? No angel was worth more than Howard Hughes's own life.
Yet even in his paranoia, Hughes refused to sell to Leo. But such a massive deal could only be closed by a handful in the West.
Just as his crumbling nerves were about to snap, Jenny burst into his office, thrilled.
"Boss, Altria Investment is interested! They sent over a bid!"
Altria—Southerners, not Easterners. They wouldn't break Hollywood's unspoken rules. And most importantly, not Leo. Perfect!
Hughes snatched the offer and felt his chest tighten. Only fifteen million. Just a million more than what he'd paid—and such bids usually came inflated. In negotiations, they'd surely drive it down another twenty percent.
The thought of haggling with those smoke-stained Southern hicks made his illness flare on the spot. He bolted into the bathroom, scrubbing his hands raw.
Minutes later, Jenny saw him emerge, bloodied hands trembling, eyes red.
"Tell Altria… I'll sell. Twelve million. As long as I don't lose money, I'll sell!"
With that desperate concession, Altria acquired RKO at Hughes's original purchase price.
But no sooner had Hughes locked himself away in his Las Vegas hotel than he discovered—RKO's majority owner had already been swapped out.
It was Leo Valentino.
"AHHH!"
Howard Hughes screamed, dashing into his suite's bathroom. The sound of furious hand-washing once again filled the air.