"I've heard of your good reputation all the way from Brazil. Aside from Valentino, nearly everyone in this state is satisfied with you.
Now I understand why.
You've been governor for two or three years, yet you still live in this shabby little house?"
Oswald glanced around at the surroundings, his tone tinged with both wonder and irony.
"I cannot afford a single mistake," Jesse replied calmly. "There's an enemy who has been watching me like a hawk. I once believed that once I stepped down as governor, the only fate awaiting me was assassination.
But I didn't expect—I actually managed to wait it out.
So don't blame me for being cautious, Oswald. I value my life. I've survived countless times when I should've been caught in the crossfire, and I won't risk it all on a plan of yours that might fail.
If you won't tell me more, then don't blame me. I'm willing to wait."
Jesse's words eased some of Oswald's doubts.
Even without the protection of Harry, the Cottons, or James Roosevelt, Jesse remained unscathed. Oswald and his partners had long worried that Jesse might have already pledged allegiance to Leo.
But now, hearing this, Oswald instead felt that such caution might be exactly why Jesse had managed to remain standing to this very day.
Of course, though Oswald understood this, he couldn't reveal everything he knew. This time secrecy was absolute.
Leo had been moving aggressively lately, almost as if he sensed something. But Oswald could not allow him to know that he himself was involved. That was critical—critical to whether the Cotton family could return to America.
Brazil had been a miserable exile. Rejected by local powers, business ventures were stunted, and the language barrier made everything harder. Day after day, Oswald longed for a way back home.
"Jesse, when the time is right, I'll tell you," Oswald finally said.
"I understand. Truly, I do," Jesse nodded. "And when that day comes, I'll decide whether to help you."
Washington, the White House.
"Leo, you rarely speak out on foreign affairs. This time, you didn't consult me first—you've left me in a very passive position," Truman complained bitterly.
"There's a first time for everything. You'll get used to it, Harry. There will be many more such occasions," Leo said coolly.
"Listen here—I am the President!" Truman snapped.
"Yes, you are," Leo replied evenly. "But isn't America supposed to be a land of free speech? What I say—what does that have to do with the President?"
"But to outsiders, we're tied together! What you say, they believe reflects my position. Look here—these are the calls from London, from Hamburg, from our European allies."
Truman flung down a stack of notes, fuming.
"They're demanding to know when I plan to intervene in the Middle East. Because of your statements, every country wants to use America to their advantage!"
Truman was agitated, his voice rising. But Leo merely tapped the pile of notes with a finger and asked, in a level tone:
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" Truman's temper flared hotter the calmer Leo became.
"Why do outsiders think we are bound together?" Leo pressed.
"Because—because…"
Truman's mouth moved, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to say: because without your support, I'd never have become President. But that was something he could not bring himself to admit.
Watching him stammer awkwardly, Leo smiled faintly.
"See, Harry? You do know why. When no one else supported you, I did. That's how you became President. So to outsiders, yes—we are a political alliance forged in hardship.
But when my ally no longer defends my interests, Harry, you cannot demand my silence. I must speak for myself."
"But Leo—what interests do you even have in the Middle East?" Truman asked sharply.
"Harry, don't play dumb with me. The Middle East and Far East mean little to me directly. But you know perfectly well—the Far East is where my enemy's interests lie.
So whether I have interests in the Middle East is irrelevant. What matters is preventing the Far East."
With that, Leo patted Truman on the shoulder and turned to leave. At the door, he glanced back at the President's desk.
"Harry, I always knew we would part ways someday. I just didn't expect it to come so soon. I regret that," he said softly.
War was coming. Leo knew he had to clean house first. If he didn't clarify his alliances now, then when the attacks came, he wouldn't even know who was friend or foe. That would be suicide.
Men like Truman, destined to waver, were better confronted early.
The benefit was simple—Leo could still bask in the President's aura. Truman would never loudly declare a break, not unless he found new backers. To do so would undermine his own legitimacy.
This was Leo cashing in the political debt from when he had secured Truman's presidency.
Leaving the White House, Leo picked up where Thomas had left off. At the Valentino Hot Springs Hotel, he hosted a series of lavish banquets.
But unlike Thomas, who pushed a cautious rightward stance, Leo was blunt. He played the game of friend or foe—forcing a binary choice.
Some former allies were expelled from his circle. Some who had never been considered friends were welcomed in.
The greatest benefit of this purge was that politicians once dismissed as Leo's lackeys or capitalist mouthpieces could now openly declare their own newly adopted political stance.
The banquets stretched on for half a month. In the end, Leo tallied the results—and to his delight, his Valentino political bloc had not weakened at all. In fact, it had grown.
Among them were zealots who truly believed in fighting for the "free world." But to Leo, such men were useful tools, sometimes even the best kind.
Washington now found itself in a peculiar state. Everyone had moved rightward—the only difference was rightward toward the Middle East or rightward toward the Far East.
Leo's political test was complete, and the results satisfied him. Even if some had been swept into the opposing camp, his core base remained intact.
As long as the foundation was secure, future counterattacks could wait.
Now it was time to test the business front. For his enemies, Leo had prepared a generous gift. Whether they would take the bait—that was the question.
Whispers began to spread: Valentino's retail chains—both in major cities and small towns—were falsifying their data.
The accusations were detailed, comparing figures across different retailers. The near-perfect balance between sales and inventory in Valentino's stores was declared "suspicious."
"They've either underreported their stock or inflated their sales. Either way, the numbers don't add up."
The rumor spread like wildfire, soon catching the attention of journalists.
When the story involved Leo, reporters never ignored it. Even if their editors spiked the article, a scoop about Valentino could always be sold for a hefty price.
Eager and relentless, journalists dug into records from Valentino stores nationwide. When they compared the numbers against traditional retailers, the discrepancies jumped out.
Excitement crackled. In their minds, a perfect story took shape:
*Mr. Valentino, undefeated in business, hailed as the God of Commerce, now faces a crisis. To preserve his reputation, he resorts to falsifying data.
And with rumors swirling that he plans to merge several retail firms into one giant conglomerate and list it on the stock market—was this all just a ploy to trick investors into propping up a façade of prosperity?*
It was irresistible—a story with twists, scandal, and the nation's most famous tycoon at the center.
One bold reporter tested the waters by publishing in an obscure state paper. To his surprise, no call came ordering the story's retraction.
Sensing opportunity, others quickly spread the article across every outlet they could.
They loved building gods. But destroying them was even sweeter.
Soon headlines screamed across America: "The God of Commerce Exposed,""The Tycoon's Fall,""The Illusion of Wealth."
The public was eager to believe it. After all, Leo hadn't denied it. And failure made him seem human—beatable—after years of being untouchable.
Wall Street, an obscure synagogue.
"Sir, should we get involved?" John Stillman asked cautiously.
Samuel shook his head.
"No. This reeks of a trap. But if you're unwilling to sit idle, let the greedy speculators take the risk.
That way, even if it is a trap, it won't hurt you. And it won't expose us—or our true plan.
By the way, is Goldman Sachs still underwriting his IPO?"
"I understand, sir. No—it's Brown Brothers Harriman this time," Stillman replied.
"The Anglo-Saxons' own bank? Then it's even more likely to be a trap." Samuel placed his white cap on his head and picked up the Old Testament.
Stillman knew this was a dismissal. He bowed deeply and left.
Back at his firm, Stillman immediately placed several transatlantic calls. As a seasoned player in global trade, he had influence with many pools of speculative capital. And he did not contact them directly—always through trusted agents in different regions.
Soon, whispers of "a golden opportunity in America" spread quietly through financial circles worldwide.
As Samuel predicted, Stillman was restless. He truly believed Valentino was faking the numbers this time.
If they struck now—even if they couldn't kill Leo outright—they could at least weaken him, paving the way for a finishing blow when the real plan unfolded.
Every time Stillman imagined Valentino's downfall, he could barely contain his excitement. He didn't just want to restrain Leo in the West—he wanted him dead.
And so, despite Samuel's caution, Stillman prepared to join the fray once the speculators showed results.
April 20, 1950. The day the American Retail Group went public.
Leo returned to the New York Stock Exchange—a place so familiar it felt routine. The same procedures, the same ceremony.
But as he pressed the button to ring in the IPO, his heart was still. The smile reporters expected never came.
That absence delighted the photographers. His grim face, they decided, was proof of guilt. What kind of man couldn't smile on IPO day—unless he had something to hide?
"Mr. Valentino, what's your response to the allegations of falsified data in the American Retail Group?"
Leo shot the reporters a cold glare. With his bodyguards clearing a path, he walked away without a word.
His silence fanned the flames. From its opening price of $13, the stock slid rapidly to $10.
A three-dollar drop might have been tolerable over a year—but in just two days, it was alarming.
"Has my enemy entered the field?" Leo asked Edward.
Edward shook his head.
"From what we know, it's mostly foreign capital shorting us. Should we intervene—prop up the price?"
"Prop it up," Leo ordered. "We must. Only by raising it can we lure in the prey I want."
With his command, Edward deployed funds. The stock began to recover—slowly.
The sluggish rebound only convinced speculators further of Leo's weakness. The market chatter turned harsher, economists and business leaders loudly declaring the numbers fraudulent.
Foreign capital poured in, eager to shear the sheep.
Watching the storm build, John Stillman decided the moment had come. He was ready to strike.
But just as he prepared to act, Samuel's voice came over the telephone:
"John, calm yourself. Before you make a move, come with me to meet someone."