"Leo isn't the kind of man who meddles in others' business—unless the other side crosses the line."
Outsiders always thought Leo traveled with just one driver and one bodyguard. In truth, ever since his early days, he had always been protected by an entire convoy, and his current security level was higher than ever.
Many of the innovative security concepts he personally devised had greatly elevated the standards of his own security company.
Standing in the town center, Leo looked toward the church steeple—two sniper teams were stationed up there. Then he turned his gaze to the island's only hill, within which more men were hidden.
At the lone pier, tourists flocked in for the American Association for the Advancement of Science's annual conference. Some were indeed genuine tourists, but many others carried weapons. They had already scouted the island thoroughly, mapping out the terrain and key restricted areas.
Farther out at sea, three yachts patrolled around the island—not with sunbathing beauties aboard, but with men armed to the teeth. They could extract Leo within two minutes if necessary.
This overwhelming security was the reason Leo had chosen to act against Fellin here. With such a force under his command, even large-scale operations could be carried out on the island without immediate detection.
The only thing that had enraged him enough to phone Hoover was the discovery of something intolerable. On the invitation sent by Stankoman, certain underage girls had been delivered to a designated location.
Had Leo not seen it, he might have stayed out of it. But once it was in front of him, he couldn't look away.
"Can you keep your mouth shut?" Leo asked over the phone.
"You! Must you interfere?" Hoover barked.
"Yes. I already have plenty of enemies—I don't mind a few more. Just answer me: can you keep quiet?" Leo's voice carried crushing pressure.
"I—I won't say a word. Tonight, you never called me," Hoover replied hastily before hanging up. He felt a pang of worry for Leo; the Grain Syndicate was not to be trifled with.
But then Hoover chuckled bitterly. Perhaps he was just getting old. True, the Syndicate was brutal enough to wage small wars in certain regions as routine—but was Leo someone easily crossed? Hardly. His security company was the envy of even FBI elite squads, and Hoover had heard whispers that Leo operated mercenary camps in Australia and Central America.
More importantly, he was the most successful civilian businessman backed by the military. In terms of force, it was difficult to predict who would prevail.
That night, wealthy guests in ornate masks slipped through a secret entrance into the ancient castle. Their eyes gleamed with greed and desire. As Stankoman and Marlan Billings entered, the doors shut behind them and the ceremony began.
Under dim lights, the arched hall glowed with bonfire flames. Guests shed their finery for red robes, forming a circle around the fire, awaiting the ritual. But their priest never appeared.
All eyes turned to Stankoman, whose mask bore the symbol of a book.
A man in an eagle mask, clearly of high status, asked coldly:
"Knowledge, you promised us a new initiate tonight. No initiate, no priest—what is this?"
Stankoman quickly assured him:
"I'll look for him. It doesn't matter—if he's delayed, I can deliver the words myself. The sacrifice is ready; we can begin without him."
The crowd grumbled; everyone knew that without Fellis, the ritual would be far less effective.
Stankoman dispatched Billings to search for Fellin and descended into the castle's dungeon himself, where the "sacrifices" were held.
But in the basement, he was met with the stench of blood. His hired war maniacs lay dead in pools of it.
He spun toward the stairs—only to find a man in a skull mask waiting, dagger dripping red. Another assailant gagged him from behind.
Though not killed, Stankoman was mutilated, forced to watch as his assailants set fire to the oil-soaked logs in the basement.
Flames cleanse sin.
Soon, the inferno blazed so high that all of Mackinac Island could see the church tower burning.
By morning, townsfolk gathered as police carried out charred corpses.
"Strange," one local murmured. "The fire started underground. They should've had time to escape."
A young officer muttered:
"They couldn't. Someone locked the doors from outside. And under the castle, the water is filled with more bodies…"
"Quiet, Doss. Loose lips bring ruin," an older sheriff warned.
Moments later, National Guard troops stormed the island, sealing every exit.
"Did our people withdraw?" Leo asked Joseph.
"Relax, boss. Everything's cleaned up. I heard Billings and the mutilated old man survived, though—could that be an issue?"
"No," Leo replied coolly. "If he wants to live, he'll make sure this looks like an accident."
And indeed, survivors later insisted it was nothing but a fire. But among grieving families, some began demanding answers, revealing themselves—exactly what Leo wanted.
Helicopters soon thundered overhead, startling islanders who mistook them for monsters. Powerful men in suits rushed to the castle ruins, some wailing in genuine grief, others only pretending.
John Daniels, former ADM chairman, roared in anguish at the sight of his burned son William's body, identifiable only by the scorched eagle mask in his hand.
He demanded answers, but reports all pointed to an "accident." The only oddity: Fellin, the priest, had vanished.
John's rage burned. To him, William had been nearly perfect—a Harvard graduate, ADM CEO at forty, ruthless yet brilliant, and his intended heir. His only flaw: a vile taste for underage girls, which John shared and excused.
With connections to Michigan's governor and the National Guard, John stormed to the house Fellin had last visited. Soldiers moved to kick the door open—when it suddenly flew wide.
A shadow burst out, felling them in seconds. Their officer's gun was shot from his hands by a sniper. Panic scattered the militia.
John, though shaken, studied the figure—Joseph. He recognized a top-tier bodyguard, clad in fabric only Washington elites could afford, backed by professional snipers.
Suspicion filled him. Who was their employer?
"Sir, who do you serve?" John demanded.
"Mr. Leo Valentino," Joseph answered coldly.
Shock slammed into John like thunder. The mansion housed the very tycoon who had captivated America for years.
Desperate to salvage the situation, John asked to apologize in person. Joseph denied him curtly.
Afterward, Leo departed the island quietly.
The tragedy was buried in silence; Michigan media dared not report it. With its leaders disgraced or dead, the AAAS annual conference was relocated.
When scientists floundered to find a new venue, Leo stepped forward—Lynchburg, Virginia, welcomed them warmly.
There, beneath the gentle slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the shaken scholars found solace.
As the conference began, many struggling scientists begged Leo for funding. He deemed most of their work impractical but still invested half a million dollars in promising small projects—enough for them to hail him as their greatest patron.
But Leo's goal was never just treasure-hunting.
A young man approached nervously, saying:
"Mr. Valentino, I've gathered all the scientists working in semiconductors and electronic information."
"Excellent, Claude. Thank you. Let's meet at the glass villa on the mountaintop."
Treasure wasn't what Leo sought.
He was here to lead the future.