Adlai Stevenson cleared his throat and said:
"Mr. Valentino, you've long been a friend of the Democratic Party. Illinois is a vital vote base for us—we cannot afford to lose it.
The chaos in Chicago has shaken the very foundation of our party here, posing a grave threat to our cause.
If the Democrats falter, won't that also harm your business?"
Leo's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to Adlai Stevenson.
The air grew heavy. Even a seasoned politician like Stevenson could not resist the pressure. His composure cracked, his eyes darting left and right.
Every Democratic leader knew Valentino's background. A god of slaughter on the battlefield, a Mafia Don, and a man equally at home in politics and business. Each role was fearsome enough—together, they made him terrifying.
"I meant no such thing," Stevenson added hastily.
Leo leaned in further, fixing him with a piercing stare.
"No such thing? Without me, could the Democrats control both the House and the Senate? If you can merely keep Illinois from being plundered, you should thank your God.
And remember—I'm not a Democrat. Your party's rise or fall has nothing to do with me."
Sweat beaded on Stevenson's forehead. He suddenly realized: the party needed Leo far more than Leo needed the party.
Thomas's "reminder" came back to him. Now it was clear—Thomas had sent him only to reveal the truth.
It was a trap, laid by Thomas and Leo together, meant to draw him in.
Stevenson wasn't a radical, nor a conservative, not even truly neutral. He belonged to the so-called "local faction": politicians who cared little for Washington or foreign policy, focusing only on their own turf.
In essence, they were still faithful disciples of Monroe. Their apathy was its own silent resistance to globalist factions.
But this independence gave them weight within the party. And now—he was being dragged into the snare.
"I can only speak for myself," Stevenson admitted at last.
Leo glanced at Mayor Martin Kennelly beside him. Stevenson immediately caught his meaning. Leo wanted to talk privately.
Kennelly, a veteran politician himself, also understood. Though he wished to stay, he was not the governor's confidant. He rose tactfully and said:
"Gentlemen, I'll wait outside."
When the mayor left, the real conversation began.
"You could do this yourself," Leo said evenly. "But why should I trust you?"
Stevenson froze. Then he understood why Leo was so rich—shamelessness. Even after setting the trap, after forcing Stevenson to bow his head, Leo still demanded more guarantees!
"You're not afraid I'll turn to someone else?" Stevenson asked through clenched teeth.
"No. Because you're of no use to them. If you were, they'd have helped you already. No—if you had true value, they wouldn't have set their trap in your own backyard."
Leo's calm words struck deep. Stevenson suddenly saw the truth. His current plight wasn't caused by Leo's scheme—it was because someone else had dared set him up, here in Illinois.
And Leo's reputation mattered. For all his ruthlessness, Leo rarely picked fights without cause. Stevenson now believed: Leo had been forced into this, dragging him along only as collateral.
That thought chilled him. He felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of two hunters.
"Who's your real enemy?" he asked.
Leo stroked his chin. "I've got many enemies. But the one stirring trouble now? You should know. After all, you almost chose to side with them."
Stevenson frowned, pondering. He wasn't fully convinced, but he decided to investigate.
"Who's behind the chaos in Chicago?" he pressed.
"Ever heard of Hyman Roth?" Leo asked.
Stevenson shook his head. Raised in a political dynasty, pampered since birth, he knew little of the underworld.
Still, his network was vast. Digging up dirt on a man would be simple.
He rose and said solemnly:
"Mr. Valentino, give me time to investigate. If what you say is true, I swear on God and my family's honor—I'll help you with everything in my power."
Leo nodded. That was enough for now. Roth might look small to Stevenson, but finding the truth would not be easy.
Meanwhile, Leo had no intention of stopping the chaos in Chicago. Stevenson hadn't given his full commitment yet—and Leo always dealt in cash for service.
Stevenson's network proved formidable. Soon, he returned with firm eyes.
"You were right. A petty Jewish mobster, daring to stir up trouble in Chicago." He was furious.
"He wouldn't dare. Truth is, if not for someone interceding, he'd have met his God long ago. I spared him, and he hid in Cuba, quiet as a mouse. Clearly someone pushed him to take this risk."
"I'll make him suffer—and the world will know. Anyone who dares disrupt Illinois will pay the price."
Stevenson's words rang with resolve.
Leo smiled. This was the true beginning of their alliance.
"I may consider it. But what will you give me in return?"
"All the support I can muster. Call it an alliance."
He stood, extending his hand.
"This isn't about parties," Leo said, rising too. He didn't take the hand.
"It's not about parties. It's about friendship," Stevenson replied.
At that, Leo gripped his hand tightly.
"You won't regret this.
California's transistor plants are at capacity. Even with new facilities, we can't meet demand. I plan to build five new factories here in Illinois.
And I'll establish a Midwest Real Estate Group. I won't be the major shareholder—you know what that means. The Housing Fund Committee's Midwest investments can be funneled into Illinois."
The mere suggestion made Stevenson's eyes light up. He wasn't poor, but even so, Leo's wealth awed him.
Still, both knew: promises were just words until tested. Each would reap only what they sowed into this new friendship.
New York.
Frank Pentangeli, successor to Clemenza, stumbled drunkenly out of the Copacabana nightclub.
His bodyguards scanned the street warily. Michael had already warned all the Mafia Dons nationwide to strengthen their security.
But Frank had been cooped up for a week. Fond of lively scenes, he couldn't resist sneaking out with a few trusted guards.
His driver, smoking by the car, rushed to open the door. One bodyguard stepped forward to check the interior.
Michael's warnings had been thorough: every Don now checked their cars for bombs before getting in.
But as the inspection began, figures emerged from the shadows of the street. Armed men, waiting in ambush.
Gunfire split the night.
Frank's loyal Sicilian bodyguards threw themselves in front of him, riddled with bullets.
The driver reacted swiftly, shoving the half-sober Frank into the car, jumping behind the wheel, and flooring it.
Blood pooled on the pavement as the car roared away.
The attackers gave chase immediately. Cars peeled off from the curb. Thompson submachine guns barked from rear windows, raking Frank's fleeing vehicle with lead.
Now fully sober, Frank cursed:
"Damn those Rosato brothers—they really mean to kill me!"
The driver didn't flinch, ignoring the hail of bullets.
"Sir, could it be the same people who killed Clemenza?"
Frank's eyes darkened at the name. For a moment, grief flickered through him.
"Could be. I should've listened to Michael. I shouldn't have come out. Now I've brought him trouble."
"You'll be fine, sir," the driver said cheerfully, still weaving through traffic. His skill behind the wheel had earned him this job.
Frank eyed him, surprised at his calm. "You're a fine lad. Shame you're not Italian—I'd have groomed you. But with their firepower, this car won't last long."
"I said you'll be fine, sir—and you will."
With a sharp turn, the driver dove into a narrow alley. Left, right, left again, before cutting the engine in a hidden cul-de-sac. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Frank was stunned. "You live here? How do you know this place?"
The driver shook his head.
"Your skills are good, but this is a dead end. If they know the area, they'll search on foot. Outnumbered and outgunned, we won't escape."
"Sir, we don't need to run. Big Boss William will take care of them."
"Big Boss William?" Frank was baffled.
A flash lit the alley. Gunfire thundered. From shops and upper floors, black-clad men appeared, Thompsons blazing.
The ambushers were shredded in seconds.
At the alley mouth, the Rosato brothers grinned when the first shots rang out—until the firefight turned against them.
Panic set in. "Start the car, now!" they shouted.
But too late. Five cars rolled in from both ends, sealing the street. Armed men poured out, stripping their guards of weapons and dragging the Rosatos out like dogs.
The driver opened Frank's door, guiding him out. Still woozy, Frank understood one thing: his rescuer belonged to another power.
"Who saved me?" he asked.
"Big Boss William," the driver said, smiling toward a figure stepping from a car.
Frank squinted—and his jaw dropped.
"That's William 'Billy'—the Yankees star who led them to a 7-5 record, the best in history!"