Mike's quick reflexes once again saved his life.
After all, this was the Corleone family's stronghold.
The moment the gunfire erupted, the family's bodyguards rushed toward Mike's bedroom.
The shooters were many, but they had only half a magazine's worth of time. Almost at the same instant Mike clamped his hand over Kay's screaming mouth, the gunfire outside abruptly ceased.
Soon after, shots rang out again in the woods around the Tahoe mansion.
Mike understood: the family guards and the hitmen were already locked in a firefight. For now, he was safe.
The joy of surviving quickly gave way to fury—two brushes with death in a single day.
He kissed his wife gently, then entrusted her to his mother's care.
As he left the bedroom, the aura of the Don returned in full force.
In that moment, he began to understand what Leo had once told him:
"You can never escape completely. You can paint the darkness white on the surface, but you can never make the darkness itself turn white."
Nelly was waiting in the sitting room outside. The moment he saw Mike, he stepped forward to report:
"All four shooters are dead."
Mike's eyes narrowed, displeased.
"Why wasn't at least one kept alive?"
Nelly explained,
"We did leave one alive—but Fredo, who just arrived, finished him off."
Mike's hand twitched unconsciously before he composed himself again.
Just as he was about to issue further orders, the shrill ring of the telephone cut through the room.
Nelly answered. After only a few words, his expression turned grim. He hung up and walked back to Mike, his voice heavy:
"Clemenza has been killed in Las Vegas."
Clemenza had practically watched Mike grow up. It was Clemenza who taught him how to handle a gun, back when Mike first stepped into the family business to avenge his father by killing the police chief.
He was more than a mentor—he was family.
When Mike set his sights on a political career, everyone else opposed him—except Clemenza. Though he had planned to retire, Clemenza returned to the field, overseeing business in Las Vegas solely to support Mike.
"How did he die?" Mike asked, grief-stricken.
"At the entrance of the Flamingo Hotel. Riddled with bullets."
Mike clenched his fists. For the Don of the Italian Mafia to be slaughtered in broad daylight at the Flamingo—the family's Las Vegas stronghold—was nothing less than open provocation.
It was a declaration of war.
Forcing down his grief, Mike pressed on:
"What's the situation in Las Vegas now?"
Nelly replied,
"Leaderless. Everyone is panicking."
Mike's sorrow hardened into resolve, his face settling into the expressionless mask of the Don.
"Get the car ready. I'm going to Las Vegas."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Nelly's face. To him, Mike belonged in the Don's chair, not on some petty judge's bench.
By the time Mike arrived at the Flamingo, the entire Western Mafia leadership was in chaos.
Some demanded shutting down operations immediately and convening a nationwide Mafia summit to elect a new Don.
Others opposed the idea. They weren't interested in power, only in keeping the casinos running and profits flowing.
Everyone had their own schemes.
But the instant Mike—former Don—walked in, all their thoughts vanished.
They could see it clearly: the man who entered wasn't the stumbling, humiliated Mike of recent months. This was the old Mike—the ruthless, decisive Don who killed without blinking.
He naturally took the head seat. No one objected.
"Clean up the entrance. Business resumes tomorrow."
At once, the casino manager protested:
"But Don, we already called the police. They said the crime scene must be preserved."
Mike raised an eyebrow. His very first order—challenged.
He turned to Nelly. Nelly understood. He motioned to his men, who grabbed the manager without a word and dragged him out.
A moment later—bang, bang.
The muffled shots made everyone in the room shiver. Yes—the old Don was back.
Only then did Mike explain,
"The Flamingo is our face. It must stay open. If we shut down, everyone will know what happened—and that will only weaken us."
He then turned to Nelly.
"Prepare for a nationwide Mafia teleconference. Notify everyone."
Then he looked at another commander, Rocco Lampone, the guardian of all Las Vegas hotels.
"I don't care what it takes—even if you have to tear down the sky—find Clemenza's killers."
Rocco, a blunt man with enough sense to obey orders, nodded grimly.
But not everyone accepted this. Tom Hagen, the family's aging consigliere, interjected:
"Wait, Rocco."
In Clemenza's time, Rocco and Tom had been allies—Tom supplied strategy, Rocco supplied muscle. Tom assumed that partnership still held.
He forgot that Clemenza was dead, and with Mike back, Rocco no longer needed him.
To Rocco, the Don's word outweighed all else. He ignored Tom completely and walked out.
Flustered, Tom turned to Mike.
"Mike, you can't do this. Making such noise will anger too many people—it'll cripple our business in the long run."
Mike studied him. He wasn't angry; he knew Tom's worries were sincere. But Tom was the same as ever—too soft, too eager to bow to the mainstream, to retreat when strength was required.
Mike remembered his father's words:
Tom is a good wartime lawyer, but not a wartime consigliere.
Still calm, Mike stood, eyes sharp.
"Clemenza is dead. I will appoint a new consigliere. For now—leave us."
"Mike, you… I…"
Tom's face fell. Heartbroken, he turned and left.
Moments later, Nelly returned, carrying several telephones.
The nationwide Mafia conference was about to begin.
The call lasted until dawn.
Exhausted, Mike picked up the phone again—this time dialing Leo.
"I hear Clemenza's dead," Leo said immediately. His network of spies in the Mafia was extensive.
"Yes. And not just Clemenza. Several other state bosses have been assassinated. The Mafia heads of Chicago and Miami are also gone."
Leo's face darkened. Miami mattered little; its Mafia was weak. But Chicago was another matter entirely.
As the hub of America's Midwest, Chicago was crucial to Mafia interests—and to Leo's future plans. It could not be lost.
"What's the situation there now?" Leo asked.
"A mess. Leaderless."
"Do you need men?"
"Yes, Leo. I don't know who to trust anymore."
"Go to the Golden Gate Hotel. Find Corondo."
Mike froze. Of all the Las Vegas hotels, only the Golden Gate could rival the Flamingo. He had targeted it repeatedly as Don, only to be countered at every turn.
Once, he even prepared to unleash the Thompson guns, but the local FBI chief, Kent, warned him off—leading Mike to believe the hotel belonged to the Bureau.
Yet now Leo was telling him to trust Corondo, its master.
"Corondo? That man's reliable?"
"He's mine. Trust him," Leo said calmly.
Mike hesitated.
"I still have a question—"
"I know what you want to ask," Leo cut him off. "Kent is mine too."
Mike was stunned. He remembered hearing once in Richmond that its true underground godfather was Leo Valentino. He'd dismissed it over time, dazzled by Leo's business brilliance.
Now he realized Leo commanded a hidden empire in the underworld—and even had infiltrators inside the FBI.
How many other secrets did Leo hold?
Still, Mike voiced one last concern.
"Leo, Corondo is Italian, but the Golden Gate's guards are Russians. Sending an Italian to Chicago with Russians at his back—it doesn't sound right, even with my authorization."
"Corondo is Cypriot," Leo replied. "No weaker than your Sicilians. Trust him—he has his own men."
Chicago.
The Mafia gathered at the home of their slain boss, Paul Ricca.
Even in mourning, the mobsters shouted and bickered, accusing one another of betrayal, of leaking Ricca's whereabouts. Most of the shouting came from lackeys pushed forward by hidden backers.
The real powers—the two remaining capos, Victor Paul and Joe Accardo—whispered quietly aside.
"Las Vegas is sending men," Victor said.
"Of course. With us in chaos, someone must step in—or we'll be devoured."
Joe nodded solemnly.
Victor sneered inwardly. Everyone knew what "sending men" meant: an outsider parachuting in to claim Chicago's throne.
"I know you doubt me. But right now, with outsiders circling, we can't afford weakness. Let's join forces. Drive out the parachuted Don. Then—we settle who leads Chicago."
Joe only nodded silently.
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Chicago, Corondo arrived with three hundred Cypriot compatriots.
They stood in perfect formation, exuding raw menace.
In just two years, Corondo had not only built the Golden Gate but forged a razor-sharp fighting force for Leo.
Now, it was time to draw the blade.
Ten squads. Thirty men each.
His childhood friend, Rapaccio, came to report:
"Orders have been issued. We'll seize the families and mistresses of both capos at once. Their key lieutenants' families too—we've placed guards on all of them."
Corondo nodded with satisfaction.
"Good. That gives me the leverage I need. Go. The boss gave me only two days."
Paul Ricca—known as The Waiter—had led Chicago since Al Capone. Unlike Capone's flamboyance, Ricca lived humbly, banned drug trafficking, and upheld old Sicilian rules.
Though wealthy, he lived in a country house, not a grand estate.
Corondo arrived in a Lincoln, pulling into the farmstead.
The city's Mafia figures stood waiting to greet him.
They didn't know who this Corondo was, but they respected Mike—and above all, the man behind him: Leo Valentino.
"He's bold, I'll give him that," Victor muttered to Joe. "Shows up with only a driver. Does he really think Mike's words are law—that we'll just bow?"
Joe shrugged. "I checked. Nothing on him. It's like he appeared out of thin air. Enough. He's here."
The two descended the steps to meet Corondo.
Once, he had guarded Leo's gold on a Pacific island, suffering from PTSD after the war. In Vegas, treatment and casino life had restored him. Now, he was smooth, affable, every bit the businessman.
But his eyes swept not the capos nor their men, but the dozens of armed guards lining the house, coats bulging with weapons.
He smiled inwardly. Clearly, the capos feared sharing their boss's fate—or feared Vegas.
After brief pleasantries, Corondo entered the meeting room. Without hesitation, he sat at the head of the table.
Every face darkened.
Victor signaled one of his men. The underling barked:
"Hey, Vegas—you're sitting in our Don Ricca's chair! What makes you think you belong there?"