At that moment, in the hidden suite, another man sat alongside Clemenza—Toussaint, whom Leo had sent to assist with the operation.
Pointing at the television screen showing the golden table, Toussaint asked about the others at the game besides Eric Farg and Tony Wells.
"Are those men also your plants?"
Clemenza shook his head.
"No, no. I could never invite such prominent figures. See that old man in the white suit, leaning on a gentleman's cane? That's Edward Merrill, founder of Merrill Lynch."
Then he pointed at the other two young men.
"The one who spoke up as soon as he entered—that's Litton Soth, heir to American Steel and descendant of Michigan's largest landowning family. Back when I was delivering meals across the ocean, his family had already been rich for countless generations. He's lost to me many times at this very table. Each time, what he put down as collateral would make an ordinary man's family comfortable for generations. Yet he never batted an eye.
And the young man beside him is no less extraordinary. You know Cargill Company?"
Toussaint shook his head. Clemenza sighed.
"It's an extremely low-profile grain empire. I dug deep to investigate, and guess what I found?"
"What?" Toussaint asked.
"Their warehouses are everywhere. And this young man is none other than William Wallace Cargill II, the company's heir."
Toussaint whistled under his breath. Each gambler was more impressive than the last. Curious, he asked:
"How's their card skill? Can they actually fulfill Mr. Valentino's plan?"
He worried that these magnates might fail to take money off Eric Farg and Tony Wells. If so, Leo's scheme could collapse.
Clemenza laughed.
"Ha! Toussaint, don't joke. If they can't win, then no one in America can. Do you know why they come to the Flamingo's golden table? Because here, cheating is forbidden. It's a pure battle of intellect and nerve. Many tried at first, but only these three remained.
That's why they come here at this exact time every week. There's nowhere else in the entire country they can find equals to match their skill. They even charter planes for just one day of thrill.
As for Eric and Tony? Their skills aren't even fit to polish these men's shoes. At this table, they won't last half an hour."
At the golden table, young Litton Soth eyed Eric Farg and Tony Wells with disdain.
"What shall we play?" he asked.
Tony, hot-tempered as always, was about to snap back when someone spoke faster. From the table's center, Edward Merrill said calmly:
"Blackjack. Quick and clean. Let's see these two novices off so we can begin today's real game. I've taken an interest in Texas Hold 'em recently—perhaps we'll play that later."
The three veterans ignored Eric and Tony as though they didn't exist. Even the beautiful dealer didn't bother asking their opinion; she simply dealt the cards.
Eric and Tony were furious, silently vowing to make these men pay.
But less than half an hour later, their faces had turned pale. The $5 million in chips they started with now sat neatly in the piles of the three veterans.
"Young men, you've lost. Best go back downstairs—plenty of tables there for you. This place is not where you belong."
Edward Merrill chuckled. Before him stood $6 million in chips—all contributed by the two heirs.
"Yes, this is the golden table, reserved for masters with pedigree. Your skills—well, you should practice more before trying again."
William Wallace Cargill spoke gently, still polite.
Litton Soth, however, was far less charitable.
"William, you're too kind. Even if they practiced a lifetime, their brains would never earn them a seat at our table."
"You bastard, what did you say?!"
Tony Wells shot to his feet, fist raised toward Litton.
But before he could swing, hidden guards moved swiftly, restraining him with practiced ease.
"Let me go! You trash dare touch me? Do you know who I am? One word from me and you're all dead! Let go!"
The guards ignored him. Tony flailed in vain.
The veterans were unfazed. They'd seen countless heirs lose their cool at this very table. Some sipped champagne, others stirred coffee, waiting calmly. They knew someone would step in to handle it.
Sure enough, the casino's manager, Junior, hurried over. Instead of confronting Tony, he approached Eric Farg, who still had some sense left.
"Mr. Farg, may I have a word?"
Eric's temper burned. He felt cheated—how else could he lose every single hand? These men had to be plants. He wanted to hear what Junior had to say. If unsatisfied, he would make him pay dearly. After all, the cowboys on his ranch didn't just herd cattle—they enjoyed tinkering with tanks and weapons.
In a shadowed corner, Junior spoke bluntly. He revealed the true identities of the three veterans. With each introduction, Eric's eyebrows shot higher.
Inside, he reeled. So men of such stature also gamble like this? Glancing at Tony, still struggling like a madman, Eric quickly pulled him aside and repeated Junior's words.
Tony, reckless but not stupid, calmed down immediately. Still, an apology was out of the question.
"I'm not done. I still have $5 million in chips, don't I?" he demanded.
"I wouldn't recommend that, Mr. Wells," Junior said smoothly.
"It's my money. I'll do as I please. Bring me the chips."
Junior's lips curled faintly in the dark. He knew Tony well—advise him against something, and he would insist all the more.
"As you wish, Mr. Wells."
"Bring mine too. I'm continuing as well."
Eric added.
Soon, fresh chips were brought—along with stock transfer agreements.
The two heirs froze.
Junior explained:
"We're not interested in your documents, gentlemen, but the casino must avoid defaults. Your first $5 million was a credit test. Even if you lost, the documents served only as temporary collateral and would be returned once debts were cleared.
But the second $5 million requires signed transfer agreements. This is purely precautionary. Should you win $10 million, you may redeem your documents in full. Even if you lose everything, as long as you bring $10 million, they'll be returned intact."
The words gave both Eric and Tony pause. They knew if those documents were lost, their fathers and grandfathers might kill them.
Just then, Litton Soth fanned the flames:
"Well? Playing or leaving? If not, get out."
In the monitoring room, watching Eric and Tony sit back down, flushed with rage, Toussaint couldn't help but laugh.
"This Litton Soth really isn't one of your plants?"
Clemenza gave a wry smile.
"Not at all. That's simply his style—provoking opponents is part of his craft. Why do you think I posted guards in the shadows? Anyway, let's move on. They'll be cleaned out soon enough."
Clemenza was right. With their tempers boiling, Eric and Tony barely lasted half an hour before their second $5 million vanished as well.
Junior appeared at just the right moment.
"Sorry, gentlemen. The game is over."
The two heirs staggered into Elevator No. 1, descending in defeat. Eric not only lost his birthday gift, but also his mood to spend the night with the Englishwoman he fancied.
They climbed into their car, both scowling. Tony's anger only grew. His eyes bloodshot, he asked Eric:
"You sure Junior was telling the truth?"
"How the hell would I know? But it didn't look fake," Eric muttered.
"Damn it. If we can't beat those three, fine. But you think I can't deal with some mob-run casino?"
Tony's eyes blazed. Yanking the driver out, he jumped behind the wheel.
"What are you doing?!" Eric cried.
But Tony no longer heard. He slammed the pedal—smoke roared from the exhaust. The Lincoln shot forward, straight at the Flamingo's front doors.
Faster, faster, faster—
Boom!
Crowds screamed as the Flamingo's doors shattered.
Junior, on his way back to the monitoring room, stopped at the noise and smirked.
"Well, the effect's even better than expected."
The next day, at a Nevada prison in Las Vegas, Lang Wells visited his disgraced son.
"Father, get me out of here!"
Tony clung to the bars, frantic. The hard bed was unbearable, the place crawled with bugs, and he hadn't eaten—the prison slop was unfit for pigs.
"Shall we post bail, sir?" his lawyer whispered to Lang.
But the police chief nearby snorted.
"Bail is not an option."
The lawyer tried to argue, but Lang shook his head.
"Let him stay. Cool his head. Otherwise, he'll cause an even greater disaster."
Tony wailed at once.
"Father, let me out! It's just a hotel door—I can pay for the damages!"
Lang's gaze turned icy.
"A door? If someone smashed the gates of our Wells ranch, what would you do?"
"I'd kill him," Tony blurted, then hesitated. "But it's just a casino. How can that compare to us?"
"Just a casino? You think anyone can open such a place? Behind it stands the Italian Mafia!"
Lang thundered.
"Mafia? That can be settled with money."
Tony sneered. In Hollywood, he had offended Mafia men before, but cash had always turned them into loyal dogs.
"That was the past. The Flamingo's largest shareholder is Mr. Valentino himself. Even the Mafia answer to him. You crashed into the Flamingo—do you really think Valentino can be bought off with your pocket change?"
At last, Lang revealed his fury. His son hadn't just lost Wells Fargo stock—he had provoked the one man they feared most.
Among common folk in the West, Valentino was admired as a folk hero. But among old money, he was a demon king. In their circles, everyone whispered the same warning: stay hidden, stay quiet, pray Valentino never notices you. Because if he did, you could neither fight nor flee.
Even the founding families of Wells Fargo had kept low profiles for decades. Yet their foolish heirs had practically leapt into Valentino's sight.
Leaving the prison, Lang entered his car. Eric Farg sat beside him, bruised and chastened, head bowed. Across from them sat Greco Farg, head of the Farg family.
Lang ordered the driver:
"Straight to California. To Valentino Manor in Menlo Park."
Greco Farg gave no objection. This had been their plan all along. Since they could not fight him, the only option was to beg forgiveness at once.
California, Menlo Park — Valentino Manor
At the reception villa near the gate, Leo met Lang Wells and Greco Farg.
"Mr. Valentino, forgive our intrusion."
"I wonder, gentlemen, what brings you here? To my knowledge, we've never had dealings before."
Leo's performance was flawless. His guests could not tell if his words were sincere. That was exactly his aim.
This had never been about trapping the two young heirs and coercing their families into giving up Wells Fargo stock. Such a scheme would be crude, easy to expose, and beneath Leo's style of open-handed strategy.
His true purpose was simply this: to draw out the heads of the two founding families themselves.