Dre's land was purchased—and with it, his 0.5% stake in Wells Fargo.
To make the acquisition less conspicuous, Leo bought seven or eight more plots in the town besides Layton's farm.
Among them, Dre's shares were the largest.
In addition to these farmlands, Leo also acquired a variety of industries across California.
By the time the operation was complete, Leo had quietly taken control of 2.5% of Wells Fargo stock.
Correa was not satisfied with the result. Based on the information she had provided, Leo should have been able to acquire at least 6%.
"Don't rush, Correa. The bait you set will already tip off Isaias that we're eyeing him. I don't intend to purchase shares from the remaining shareholders on your list."
Leo said.
"You've found a new way to buy them."
Correa knew Leo too well. The word give up simply didn't exist in his dictionary.
Leo smiled faintly.
"Clemenza's been doing well in Las Vegas. He's tracked down descendants of two of Wells Fargo's founding families. Eric Farg and Tony Wells are gambling at my Flamingo Hotel."
Strictly speaking, the Flamingo had originally belonged to Moe Greene. After Greene's death, Mike Corleone reclaimed the family's assets.
When Mike submitted to Leo, he transferred 51% of the Flamingo Hotel—the crown jewel of Las Vegas—to Leo.
But Leo had never involved himself in the daily operations of the casino. When Mike left for Nevada politics, dreaming of public office, Clemenza took charge of Las Vegas and the Flamingo alike.
Clemenza, once the Corleone family's caporegime, had both the underworld stature and experience to step into Mike's shoes. In Leo's eyes, he even surpassed Mike in one way—he had none of Mike's yearning for legitimacy. Clemenza respected the mafia life and lived by it, making him a model gangster.
He was also a man of respect. After Leo returned to Menlo Park, Clemenza visited Valentino Manor almost every week to report, just as he once had with the Godfather.
When Leo faced obstacles acquiring Wells Fargo shares, he asked Clemenza—on the off chance it might work—to help locate any stockholders.
Leo hadn't held much hope. After all, the two founding families of Wells Fargo had retreated from public life nearly half a century earlier.
Westerners weren't like Easterners. They valued wealth, yes, but often paired it with pastoral grace.
They might be great ranch owners with vast California lands, but their appetite for ever-expanding fortune wasn't as sharp as the men back East.
Of course, if you wanted their wealth, you had to taste the wild spirit of their gold-rush ancestors.
But since the rise of Hollywood and Las Vegas, these rich men had found new playgrounds.
Keeping mistresses among starlets, squandering fortunes on the Strip—such indulgence became the fashion of the younger generation.
That was what Leo hadn't expected: Eric Farg and Tony Wells, heirs of the founding families, had taken to Las Vegas as well. They had even boasted at tables more than once that they were important inheritors of Wells Fargo.
"Do they still hold Wells Fargo shares?"
Correa asked with concern.
"A little trick will tell us."
Leo replied.
Las Vegas, Nevada — The Flamingo Hotel
The grandest, most luxurious casino in the city bustled with gamblers day and night.
Even the valet boys numbered more than ten.
Two Lincoln cars slowly pulled up, and the valets' eyes lit up. Some rushed to open the car doors, while others ran inside to fetch the casino manager. After all, bringing in high rollers meant generous tips.
A tall, lanky valet won the race. He opened the first Lincoln's door without even glancing inside and said humbly:
"Welcome, Mr. Eric Farg. Welcome, Mr. Tony Wells, to the Flamingo Hotel."
At his words, a brown-haired youth and a blond youth stepped out.
Eric Farg casually tossed a wad of bills into the valet's hands. The boy, overjoyed, bowed repeatedly. Eric always enjoyed Las Vegas, not just for the gambling, but for the feeling of superiority it gave him. In Britain, where he'd studied, classmates mocked him as a savage from America's West. On ranches, coarse cowboys never learned proper respect. But here—here, he was treated as nobility.
"Ah! My dear Mr. Eric Farg, Mr. Tony Wells!"
A fat man, having tipped the valet for the news, came barreling out of the hotel doors with surprising agility for his size. He rushed before the two heirs like a whirlwind.
"Junior, your letter promised we'd get to the top floor. If you're lying, I swear—you're dead."
Tony Wells said lazily.
Unlike Eric, Tony had never studied abroad due to poor health. Instead, he grew up with private tutors, developing a frivolous, mischievous temperament. His favorite pastime in Vegas was offending people with his mouth and then watching his bodyguards brawl while he enjoyed the show.
Junior, the casino manager, knew how to answer such threats. He bowed deeply.
"How could I deceive two gentlemen like yourselves? You are my most valued guests. Since you expressed interest in the top floor, I petitioned the boss many times. He finally agreed—and I sent you the telegram at once."
The top floor of the Flamingo was legendary. Everyone knew it existed, everyone whispered of its games, but few had ever seen it. Entry began at $100,000 per room.
This was 1949—when one dollar equaled twenty of the future's. In modern terms, the buy-in was equivalent to $2 million.
Eric Farg and Tony Wells had heard rumors from fellow gamblers. Bored of $5,000 tables, they craved something more thrilling.
"Well then, lead the way."
Tony lifted his chin.
Behind them, the second Lincoln opened. Two glamorous starlets from Hollywood's lower ranks stepped out, clinging to their arms. Different women each time—standard fare for their Las Vegas escapades.
Guided by Junior, the party crossed the lavish lobby to Elevator No. 1. They had always taken Elevator No. 2 before, assuming No. 1 was broken.
The doors opened with a golden glow, befitting the Flamingo's opulent style.
"Wow, even the buttons are gold!" one starlet gasped.
Eric frowned. Such a woman, so uncouth—next time he'd tell his producer friend to recommend someone better. Were it not for Las Vegas, where choices were limited to prostitutes and wannabe actresses, he would never tolerate such bad company.
Ding. The elevator opened.
Before them gleamed a massive gambling table—solid gold, blazing beneath the chandelier.
The dealers were women whose beauty outshone the starlets at their sides. Eric and Tony exchanged impressed glances. Now this was the top floor.
Just as they prepared to sit, two impeccably dressed staff blocked their way. Tony scowled, but Junior quickly explained:
"Gentlemen, as noted in the telegram, to join the golden table you must provide proof of assets. Did you bring it?"
Before he finished, Eric and Tony each produced a document from their bags.
The staff verified them, then bowed.
"Gentlemen, according to the rules, these stock agreements will remain here as collateral. Win or lose, you may reclaim them when the game ends. Please enjoy yourselves. A word of caution—the stakes are immense. Play responsibly."
Eric and Tony exhaled in relief. They trusted the Flamingo not to cheat them, but they knew the worth of those papers—enough to make half the West's elites lose their minds.
Each document represented 1% of Wells Fargo stock.
Of course, their families held more. But this 1% was theirs to control—gifts upon reaching adulthood.
Value: no less than $10 million.
The casino had gauged them perfectly. Junior clapped, and two stunning attendants delivered stacks of high-value chips.
"This is $5 million in chips. The buy-in is $10 million, but we start you here. If these run out, more can be provided—though I don't recommend it. The table attracts founders and heirs of true empires. Best to enjoy the experience."
"Bullshit! You know my luck's been hot. The bigger the stakes, the more I win!"
Tony sneered.
Eric didn't reply. His eyes had locked onto the woman carrying the tray.
Junior, ever perceptive, smiled.
"She's the daughter of a fallen British noble house. Her father was a baron, killed in the Great War. Ruined, she came to America. Perhaps you'd like her company?"
"Yes. She stays."
Eric nodded. She reminded him of the haughty noble ladies who once mocked him in Britain. Tonight, after winning, he would savor his triumph over her.
"And me?"
The Hollywood starlet at his side protested.
Eric slipped a $1,000 chip into her dress.
"You don't belong here."
Before she could cause a scene, security from the shadows escorted her out.
"What about the other players?" Eric asked, settling at the golden table.
"The game begins at ten. We arrived twenty minutes early so you could get comfortable. The others will join shortly."
Right then, the elevator opened.
An old man with a cane stepped out, followed by two young men. One sneered when he saw Eric and Tony:
"Well, well. Fresh blood."
His tone was more arrogant than Tony's, provoking both heirs to vow silently they'd take him down.
At ten sharp, the golden dealer rang her tiny bell. Cards were dealt, and time melted into the rhythm of the game.
Eric and Tony, swept up in the thrill, never noticed that Junior hadn't left by Elevator No. 1. Instead, he vanished into a hidden door, entering a shadowy room.
Inside, he bowed deeply to Clemenza, seated on a sofa.
"Godfather, the task is done."
"Good work, Junior. The chance of reprisal from those families is small, but for your safety, return to New York and lie low."
Clemenza said.
"I understand. Thank you, Godfather."
He knew why—he had been the one to lure the young heirs upstairs. Piece by piece, he had cultivated their gambling fever. They weren't prodigies; they were marks.
After he left, a lawyer entered and whispered:
"We've verified the documents. They're genuine. Real Wells Fargo stock."