John met with Oswald. Their two families had once dealt with each other, and John already had a faint guess as to why Oswald was now in New York.
The man who had stopped him from entering the game—Mr. Samuel—was absent. Clearly, Samuel thought that Oswald alone, though a fallen man, was enough to persuade him.
"Stay out of this. The American Retail Group is nothing but a trap," Oswald said firmly.
"I don't believe you," John sneered. "All of America knows it was Valentino who drove the Cottons out. And now a defeated man comes to warn me not to join? What right do you have to stop me?"
The implication was clear: Oswald, what qualifications do you have left?
Yet Oswald did not rise to the bait. He knew too well—losing meant losing. If he could not admit defeat, and still clung to the Cotton family's dignity, that would only make him look pathetic. When he rebuilt the Cotton family, those who mocked him now would sing far sweeter words.
From his bag, Oswald pulled out two photographs and handed them over. He knew: facts spoke louder than arguments.
John took the first photo. It was an inventory record from a retail warehouse.
The sheet was handwritten, but the numbers matched exactly with a machine-printed version a journalist had previously published. John recalled that this came from the Ohio warehouse of the American Retail Group.
Everyone had believed that machine-printed record was fake—the inflow and outflow of goods matched far too precisely. It suggested the American Retail Group could not only track customer preferences, but even predict them like a prophet, arranging inventory ahead of time.
But that was absurd. How could they possibly have so many near-omniscient market analysts?
Yet this original record proved otherwise. This was how they truly operated.
John rubbed his temples and turned to the second photograph. It showed a machine. He recognized it instantly—it was the "robot brain" developed by Leo's WLI Research Company.
A flash of understanding hit him.
"You mean Leo has applied computers to retail?" he exclaimed.
Oswald nodded, admitting:
"Much as I hate to say it, Valentino really is more visionary—and bolder—than we were."
"Are computers really that powerful?" John still doubted. He'd heard Wall Street firms were experimenting with computers for stock processing, but reports said the systems were unstable and full of problems.
"At first, we didn't believe it either. A year ago, to investigate Leo's ventures, we purchased a computer from WLI through a Brazilian grain research institute.
Two months ago, it arrived. We used it at one of our ports.
The result? With no increase in staffing, efficiency rose by three hundred percent. We even discovered several redundant employees we no longer needed.
That is the power of the computer. So when I returned to America and saw Leo pouring money into science, people mocked him as wasteful. But I can feel it—he is grasping the future."
Oswald spoke with genuine emotion.
John ignored the lofty rhetoric about "the future." His mind stuck on one thing.
"Three hundred percent?" he pressed.
"Yes," Oswald affirmed. "And what we bought was only a single-function data-processing computer. From what we know, WLI computers can install multiple programs—software designed to adapt them to different applications.
Tell me, do you think they might already have software tailored for retail and data analysis?"
John let out a long sigh.
"I see. Oswald, I owe the Cotton family for this. You have my warmest welcome back to America."
Oswald's joy was immediate. One piece of intelligence had earned him two returns: gratitude and an open door back into America. Especially the last point—this great dining table called "America" always seemed enormous to outsiders, yet to those already seated, it felt crowded.
And those squeezed off the table, desperate to climb back on, were rarely welcomed by those still seated.
As Oswald quietly celebrated, John suddenly asked,
"Oswald, who is your informant inside Leo's camp?"
"Hah, John, trying to trick me? You know perfectly well—that one card is the only reason I can stand as your equal."
Oswald nearly blurted it out, but caught himself. The Cotton family's fall had taught him restraint. He laughed it off instead, dodging the question.
Seeing he would get nothing more, John dropped it. He clapped Oswald on the shoulder and left the hotel.
New York, Westchester County, Sleepy Hollow. Valentino Manor.
Leo stared at the latest stock chart Edward had handed him. The American Retail Group's shares were climbing steadily, but his brow furrowed deeply.
On the surface, the rising price looked like good news. But Leo knew too well—it was built entirely on his own cash. Worse, the climb was smooth, without dips or turbulence. That was torture.
No short sellers. Which meant—the fish he wanted hadn't taken the bait.
Was the trap not tempting enough? Impossible. Compared with stronger companies, the American Retail Group's flaws should be my greatest weakness. How could the enemy resist?
Talk of "strategic patience" was meaningless to Leo. In two centuries of American history, where had there ever been true patience? The real American way was simple: grab a bargain, flee when beaten.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
After Edward left, Leo called Joseph.
"Joseph, the plan I had you prepare two years ago—it's time to activate it."
"Understood, boss."
Joseph knew his role well—Leo's knife. He immediately returned to the western security company, file signed by Leo in hand, and entered the archives guarded by Colondo.
Back when they first moved west, Leo had ordered them to create an internal control plan.
That plan required every key figure in his business empire to have someone planted at their side. People who seemed insignificant day-to-day, but who could be activated instantly.
They were easy to place: graduates of top universities, or senior managers from other firms.
As Leo's empire expanded, his brothers' talents still needed support from specialist advisors. Joseph had arranged for one or two of those to be his men.
To avoid suspicion, Joseph and Colondo each controlled their own network.
Joseph had never wanted to use this file. It meant betrayal among the brothers. And as Leo's blade, it would fall to him to deal with traitors.
But habit was habit. Leo gave the order—Joseph obeyed. With the file in hand, he dispatched his operatives across the country, each carrying an activation code.
Behind the Lynchburg Hotel, a cluster of buildings stood. Among them, a plain three-story block. But from the air, its heavy security was clear.
This was the headquarters of James River Asset Management. Beneath it lay Leo's eastern gold vault—not as rich as Monroe Park's in the west, but still enough to drive men mad.
After Dick left, Leo had given James River to Hubert, a former loan manager at Virginia Morgan Bank, who had long shown loyalty to Leo and Augustus.
Hubert was often absent, handling delicate public relations with clients that required discretion. That left the building staffed mostly by relatives of potential politicians—handpicked veterans' families, trained in accounting, given easy jobs with high pay.
They lived entirely dependent on Leo, and so far, James River had run without a hitch.
But today, Hubert had returned, with his secretary, Weiss.
Hubert looked cheerful. Weiss looked grim.
"What's wrong, Weiss? Why the long face? We just closed a major deal—helped a politician out of trouble. That's a victory for Mr. Valentino's cause!" Hubert said, as always invoking Leo's name.
"I'm just tired," Weiss muttered. "That politician wasn't easy to deal with. Most of the negotiation fell on me."
"Then take a break. Go rest," Hubert said warmly, patting his shoulder.
Weiss nodded, then shook his head.
"I do need rest. But not at home. I'll stay in a hotel tonight."
"Hah! An excuse to enjoy yourself. Go on, the company will cover it."
That afternoon, in a suite at the Lynchburg Hotel, Weiss dismissed the women he had hired for distraction. Alone, cigarette in hand, he slipped into a pensive silence.
Normally he was cheerful. But today was different.
Earlier, after finishing the business in Richmond, he had gone to the restroom—where a stranger had approached him.
"Mr. Valentino needs your help," the man had whispered.
Weiss froze.
He was born at the very bottom of society. His father had died young. His mother remarried, only to lose her second husband as well. The inheritance was split among relatives, and Weiss received just enough to pay for college.
He finished school barely, his family once again destitute. Then his mother fell gravely ill.
Desperate for money, Weiss met Joseph.
Joseph offered him a job: become Hubert's secretary. After a week of training, Weiss passed the interview. Joseph even advanced him the money for his mother's surgery. She survived—and now lived comfortably in Monroe Park.
But that comfort was his leash. Weiss knew it.
Two years with Hubert had changed him. He admired the man's honesty, his discipline, his mentorship. Hubert had taught him much. Weiss respected him—considered him a benefactor.
So deeply that sometimes, he forgot his real role: to watch.
Yet lately, Hubert had been acting strangely. Traveling under pretexts, visiting companies instead of handling clients himself. And always carrying a miniature camera.
Weiss noticed. And he struggled. Report it, and betray Hubert. Stay silent, and risk dragging down his mother and himself.
So he chose denial. No solid evidence. I'm just a pawn. If Mr. Valentino doesn't ask, I shouldn't speak.
But today, hearing those words—Mr. Valentino needs your help—he could no longer hide.
Weiss had to choose.