Ackland spoke.
Leo shook his head and replied,
"Mr. Londo, if it's truly profitable, then why did you search for shareholders for so many days and still end up coming to me?
Alright, let's assume it is profitable—but I'm confident that any money in my hands will grow faster than in yours.
Bring it in."
At Leo's command, Walter and a few others carried in a blackboard, on which was pinned a large map of Virginia, densely covered with small pins.
"Each of these pins represents a deal—most of which have already submitted a 50% down payment.
Why would I waste time and energy developing land when I could just pick up this money?
Oh, by the way, a quick ad: if any of you are interested in investing in my company, I welcome it with open arms.
I'm not like Eddie, who likes to eat alone."
Several of the board members looked visibly tempted. Ackland frowned deeply—Leo was flipping the script, turning the host into the guest.
Ackland dropped the pretenses and said bluntly:
"Mr. Valentino, let's be honest. If you weren't interested in Londo Company, this meeting would never have happened."
"I am being honest, Mr. Londo.
I'm not interested in buying into the company... because I want to acquire it outright."
Leo stood, radiating confidence.
"Impossible!"
Ackland Londo had just regained control of the company—how could he possibly sell it off completely?
"Don't be so quick to reject it, Mr. Londo.
As you can see, all of Virginia knows the name Leo Valentino.
Orders pour in like snow every day.
Being a company director is all about making money.
As long as you make more than before, what difference does it make if your shares are fewer?
I promise that once I take over, you'll see dividends in the very first year."
"You're delusional!" Ackland roared, standing and walking toward the door.
But then he noticed something odd—he was the only one moving.
None of the directors who had come with him were following.
"You guys coming?" he asked.
His old friend, Vice Chairman Dougal Rory—who had helped him retake control from Eddie—stood and said:
"Ackland, we think Mr. Valentino has a point.
Since Eddie became director, we haven't seen a single dividend in seven years.
Even if we sell some shares, the returns from the remainder would be more than we're making now.
I think this is a good deal."
Eventually, a preliminary acquisition agreement was signed, pending legal and regulatory procedures from both parties.
After the signing, Leo immediately gave the 30-plus board members a taste of the "Lieutenant Governor lifestyle."
The next morning, over breakfast, the now-youthfully invigorated Ackland had completely shed his reservations about Leo.
In that short breakfast, Leo had thoroughly reviewed the Londo Company's core assets.
"Our strategy had flaws," Ackland admitted.
"We hoarded too much land.
Yes, these plots are in prime locations, but developing even one community takes too long.
The timeline is uncertain, turnover is low, and the risk is high.
It's like gambling.
But now, with your massive order volume, Londo Company finally has a future."
Ackland said this casually, but Leo took the words to heart.
In truth, Leo hadn't bought the company for its legacy or brand—he wanted those so-called "chicken-rib" land plots.
In today's American real estate industry, people like Ackland saw land development as gambling.
The long cycles and slow returns killed most companies before they ever saw a profit.
But with pre-sale models tied to banks, it was a different story.
Pre-sold housing would greatly accelerate capital turnover.
As Leo was expanding his commercial empire, back in the Virginia State Assembly, the Speaker announced:
"The Special Incident Investigation Committee is now authorized to take full charge of the case involving Governor Clint.
Simultaneously, the process to initiate impeachment proceedings has been approved."
The moment the announcement ended, the chamber erupted into cheers.
Clint collapsed into his seat, dazed, staring at the lawmakers in front of him.
Just ten days ago, these very people had cheered for him—only for different reasons.
Clint glanced across the chamber to the opposing seats.
Ten days ago, he had sneered at the two men who sat there.
Now, even though they weren't present, he had already lost.
"Sir, you should know how our jobs work.
Be frank—it's better for you and your family," said one of the investigators from the committee.
Clint looked at these political scavengers.
Thirty years ago, he had started his political career in this very place.
The Special Committee never investigated anything—they were merely a means for the victors to claim their spoils more quickly and efficiently.
"My family wants to return to Virginia Beach," Clint offered.
"No problem, sir," they replied.
"Seems Thomas and Harry are more generous than I thought.
Fine, I'll send them a gift first.
How about the Gurion family?"
In the Gurion family study, the patriarch, Sullivan, declared:
"I know Clint—he will sell us out.
Our peers in New York are already squeezing us out of the grain markets.
America is no longer safe for us.
So abandon all hope—we leave. Now."
Before his words even finished, the butler burst in:
"Sir! It's bad—multiple police cars are headed this way!"
Sullivan jumped up, grabbed the dazed Herbert, and shouted:
"Go! Take the secret tunnel. In the air chamber, there's $500,000 in cash.
Run. Leave the U.S.—anywhere is fine.
Don't go to Hyman Ross.
Remember, Herbert—you have the ability to rebuild our family."
With that, he shoved Herbert into the tunnel.
Half-stumbling, half-running through the secret passage, Herbert hadn't gone far before gunshots rang out above.
Eyes red, ignoring the pain in his leg, Herbert kept running.
In the air chamber, he found the cash—and grabbed an M1911 pistol off the table as well.
The tunnel's exit led to a sewer.
In the distance, he could hear the James River.
Seeing the glimmer of light ahead, Herbert hesitated.
Something told him that even this tunnel wasn't safe.
Instead of heading toward the river, he turned and plunged deeper into the stinking blackness of the city sewers.
At the James River sewer outlet, Faes and Kirill were on a stakeout.
"That house has been blowing up for half the day.
You sure no one's coming through this tunnel?" Kirill asked.
"According to the boss, this is the tunnel's exit.
We just don't have enough manpower to cover the whole sewer system," Faes replied.
"We'll wait a little longer, then pull out."
What they didn't see was that a hundred meters away, on the rooftop of a nearby building, stood a foul-smelling Herbert.
He stared at them, eyes filled with hatred.
He recognized them—they were Leo's men.
The ones who'd repeatedly opposed him and ultimately destroyed his family.
Herbert hid the money in a safehouse and looked at the gun in his hand.
His next stop was Argentina.
But before that, he swore he'd make Leo suffer.