Neither middle-aged Lang Wells nor the elder Greco Farg could detect the slightest crack in Leo's expression. The sunny, handsome young man before them seemed truly unaware of why they had come.
The two exchanged glances, searching each other's eyes for confirmation. Were they being too paranoid? Was it possible their sons' disaster at the Flamingo was not some trap Valentino had meticulously set?
But they found no answers. Reason told them to prepare for the worst.
"Mr. Valentino," Lang Wells finally spoke, "my son Tony Wells and Mr. Farg's grandson Eric Farg offended you at the Flamingo Hotel. We extend our deepest apologies. Especially my son Tony—he even dared drive a car into the hotel gates. That was my failure as a father. Please, forgive us."
Both men rose, intending to bow in apology. But before they could bend, Leo intercepted them with quick grace.
"You are both elders. There's no need for such gestures over a minor misunderstanding. As you know, I'm busy with business. The Flamingo is run by my managers. Allow me to first learn more about the matter."
With that, Leo left the room.
"You believe he truly doesn't know?" Lang whispered to Greco.
"I don't know," Greco muttered, "but I doubt this is mere coincidence."
"If it was a scheme, what would his target be? Land? I heard he's been buying it up in bulk lately," Lang said.
Greco shook his head slowly.
"For men like us, anything that can be bought with money is never truly a problem. If he wanted land, would you not sell? We could always buy more elsewhere. America is vast, with no shortage of sellers. No—if this was a trap, it's for something money cannot buy. Think. What does Mr. Valentino want that you'd never willingly give?"
Greco's words sent Lang into deep thought. What else could it be? Their family held shares in countless firms, but always scattered, small stakes. Only one thing stood out: Wells Fargo. That, surely, was the prize the young man coveted.
But that—that was the ancestral cornerstone!
"What should we do, Mr. Farg?" Lang asked nervously. He had grown up in an era when their family retreated from the forefront, content with safe investments and land purchases. He had little experience contending with equals—or superiors. Naturally, he turned to Greco for guidance.
The elder was calmer. Age had made him steady. He knew if this truly was a trap, then Leo's composure meant he would not resort to crude coercion. Still, he had no clear solution. The only path was to play it step by step.
Leo, meanwhile, wasn't making calls. His pretense of phoning was meant to give the two time to align their thoughts. From the moment they entered, he had noticed an unusual naiveté in their eyes—rare at their level of wealth. It reminded him of the Golden State Life Insurance founders he'd bought out: not lacking in ruthlessness, but compared to the East, their "sharpness" was like children swinging knives—dangerous only by chance.
Without giving them time to unify, any negotiation would have been tedious.
"I've checked into it," Leo said when he returned, smiling. "The matter isn't serious. And since it's nearly noon, why don't we eat while we talk?"
In the villa's dining hall, a banquet of delicacies awaited. But Lang and Greco could barely touch a bite—Lang's son was still in jail. Unable to contain himself, he asked:
"Mr. Valentino, regarding our families' offense, what form of compensation do you expect?"
Leo, savoring his food, glanced up.
"What do you think?"
Lang relaxed slightly at his casual tone.
"Well, you don't seem very angry. Perhaps we could…"
He never finished. Leo suddenly set down his fork, his gaze sharp.
"My mood may be untouched. But my face—that is very expensive. Perhaps you've heard the saying: Valentino never forgives a slight."
Spoken softly, the words carried a chill far sharper than if they'd been shouted. Lang shivered. In the West, countless tales of Valentino's vengeance had already taken root.
"Mr. Valentino, tell us plainly—what do you require?" Greco asked directly. He knew that despite their age, they were no match for Leo's cunning. Better to face the knife head-on than be led around blind. It was a strategy that had served him well in the East.
But this time, he miscalculated.
Leo's tone shifted back to warmth.
"You have what I have. So tell me—what could I possibly desire from you?"
The two men locked eyes again. Could it truly be coincidence? Had this young man never planned to strike at them?
Greco clenched his jaw, revealing his suspicion at last.
"Perhaps… you want shares of Wells Fargo?"
Leo laughed, dismissively.
"Wells Fargo? Is that supposed to be precious? Tell me, Mr. Wells—how many Wells Fargos can one American Bank buy?"
There was no direct comparison. Though both were private, American Bank spanned the nation, especially dominant in the West and South. Wells Fargo, by contrast, was strong but confined largely to California—a regional leader.
"That's not the same," Lang said proudly. "American Bank has been polluted. Wells Fargo still represents every man and woman of the West."
Leo studied them, recalling a line from Journey to the West: Better to be a free king than a slave to another.
Perhaps, to them, American Bank was a tainted colossus—a servant enriching the East by draining the West. Wells Fargo, though smaller, was their king, uniquely their own.
In truth, Leo agreed. This was precisely why he coveted Wells Fargo. American Bank was too tangled—its ties to the Morgans and Rockefellers impossible to unravel. But with Wells Fargo, he could consolidate the entire West with ease.
Outwardly, however, he sneered.
"Not interested. Just another local bank. Forget it. Think instead of how to restore my face."
Relief washed over the two elders. It seemed Valentino had no designs on their ancestral jewel. But that left them troubled—how could one appease a man who asked for nothing?
Silence hung heavy over the table. Food dwindled, and Leo's expression grew colder. Sweat rolled down their temples. Both sensed a truth: if they failed to act before the meal ended, they might truly incur his wrath.
Unable to bear the pressure, Lang finally bowed his head.
"Mr. Valentino, please… show us the way."
Leo looked at them evenly.
"In the East, you'd already be standing outside awaiting punishment. But this is the West. And my family and I wish to root ourselves here. So, I will give you a chance. Do business with me."
The words stunned them both. Not punishment—but partnership? Everyone in America knew: to tie yourself to Valentino was to board the express train to fortune.
Happiness struck so suddenly it left them dizzy. Greco asked reflexively:
"Why? Mr. Valentino—why such generosity?"
"Don't make it sound so pretty," Leo said with a smile. "Doing business means investing here in Menlo Park—factories, laboratories."
"What?" The two blinked. Their families had not touched true cutting-edge ventures in decades. They were landowners, cautious investors. To leap suddenly into science felt alien.
Leo frowned, feigning displeasure.
"Well?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Valentino. We'll invest," they stammered. "How much?"
"Five million per family."
They swallowed hard. "And… which firms?"
Leo slid across two prepared documents.
"Two transistor manufacturers from the East. They've been eyeing California's incentives, but lack relocation funds. Invest, and they'll root themselves here. Trust me—once they arrive, the Valley's countless labs will become their customers. Local TV makers, electronics producers—they'll all have cheaper suppliers. It will be a fine business."
Hearing his reasoning, the two were swayed. Who would doubt an investment recommended by Valentino himself?
"Thank you, Mr. Valentino, for bringing us this opportunity. We'll invest at once." Lang's voice carried relief, though a question nagged him—was this truly punishment?
"Wait. Take mine as well."
Leo tossed two more documents.
They read—and their faces darkened. The contracts made clear: though they put in the capital, Leo would hold the lion's share of equity. The profit would be his.
So this was the punishment.
"I know you're displeased," Leo said calmly, "but by year's end you'll understand what a bargain this is. The demand for transistors in the West—and across America—is about to explode. Why? Because the first great wave of postwar television is upon us."
As the two men departed, dissatisfaction etched on their faces, Toussaint emerged from the shadows, puzzled.
"Why this approach? I thought you'd press for Wells Fargo stock. Why waste time with transistor factories?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"If all I wanted was to live here and make money, I could bully and grab. But I aim to make the West my fortress. That means I can't breed enemies everywhere. Especially not by preying on the weak.
Do you know why I triumphed in the East despite being outmatched? Beyond my cunning, two things: my enemies' arrogance, and the power of seeming the invincible underdog.
This world is strange. People feel sympathy for far-off weaklings, and disgust at strong men who bully them. Helping the weak, striking at the strong—it gives them joy beyond measure. That was why so many rushed to my side back then. They saw in me a savior.
Here in the West, I can no longer be weak. But at least, I must never become the strong man whom the weak hate.
So if they call me the God of Wealth, then I shall truly be that. I will bring prosperity to the West. And once every fortune here ties back to me, I will be the unquestioned master of this land."
Leo's plan was simple: once the Wells and Farg families tasted the sweetness of his ventures, would they really go back to farming? Of course not. No one turns away from money once they've had a taste.
And when they were firmly in his camp, would they refuse if he later proposed an "exchange of shares" to deepen family ties?
Not a chance.
He would win the people's hearts in the West and take Wells Fargo. A victory both public and private.