William Jones, the fourth son of the Lynchburg clan, had once run Richmond's underworld on Leo's behalf.
But he was too young to command true respect, and organized crime was never considered a glamorous profession. As one of Leo's most loyal men, William was arranged to pursue a career as a sports star instead.
Born into a family of Irish lumberjacks, William possessed extraordinary physical strength from childhood. Other than Leo himself, he was the toughest fighter in Lynchburg.
With Leo's guidance—and investment—William managed to join the New York Yankees. Thanks to his physical prowess, he soon rose from a substitute to a starter.
This happened to coincide with the rapid rise of The New Daily. With Leo's support, the paper frequently ran features and special reports on William, making him a household name among New Yorkers who adored football.
Just a year ago, Leo had once again given William an assignment: build a force loyal to him. But this force must not be a mafia outfit—it had to remain secret and invisible.
No turf wars. No gang insignia.
To keep this new force self-sufficient, Leo gave them a few leftover businesses—minor contracts that had once belonged to American Real Estate, now folded into Pacific Real Estate. Demolition jobs, foundation digging, and the like.
It wasn't much, but enough to sustain the organization.
William founded several small construction companies. Officially, they hired construction workers. In reality, those "workers" underwent intensive military training, with instructors provided by Joseph.
After several months on the job, each recruit was sent to British Honduras in Central America for "field training." In truth, they were thrown into violent plantation disputes over railroad transport—brutal, bloody skirmishes that hardened them in combat.
These men fought so desperately because the pay was generous.
As the Yankees' star, William had no shortage of money himself. All the revenue from his construction companies went into wages and bonuses for his men. The company's income far exceeded that of a normal firm, and even low-level captains earned as much as executives at the New Jersey factories.
Well-treated and loyal, they felt no moral qualms about doing dirty work in New York.
Frank Pentangeli had been shocked for two reasons: first, that his favorite sports idol was in fact a ruthless gang boss; and second, that as a Mafia Don, he had failed in his duty—such a powerful private army had existed in New York under his nose, and he had never noticed.
He had a hundred questions, but now was not the time. William wasn't looking at him—he was walking toward the Rosato brothers.
Though bound hand and foot, the Rosatos still put on the airs of power. They had never heard of William before. Social butterflies as they were, their ignorance only proved how little interest they had in sports. They liked money and women—football meant nothing to them.
Scowling, they threatened William:
"Kid, Mafia affairs aren't for outsiders. Do you even know who we are?"
William gave them a dismissive once-over.
"Of course I do. The Rosato brothers. Two pieces of trash who only know how to stab people in the back."
Before they could retort, he drew his pistol and fired twice into their knees.
The Rosatos weren't even allowed the dignity of a scream—black-clad men gagged them instantly. They writhed in agony, eyes bloodshot, veins bulging, as pain and despair consumed them. Their legs were ruined forever.
"From now on," William sneered, "you're not the Rosato brothers anymore—you're the Crippled Brothers."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a deadly growl.
"Now tell me—which scum ordered you to assassinate Frank Pentangeli?"
At his gesture, the gags were lifted. The Rosatos instantly spewed a string of curses beginning with "F."
William sighed, motioning for their mouths to be covered again. He shot each of them in the arm.
"Now you're not just cripples—you're cripples with one arm left. Think carefully. My patience is limited. You've got two chances left."
Nodding frantically, the brothers were ungagged again.
"No one ordered us! We've always hated Frank. Everyone in the underworld knows it—we've wanted him dead for years!"
But William had matured in his two years of hard training. He instantly spotted the flaw.
"If you've wanted him dead for so long, why wait until now? Someone gave you the courage. Who was it?"
He pressed the gun barrel into the younger brother's arm.
Facing the threat of being turned into limbless torsos, the Rosatos cracked.
"Mr. William, it was Hyman Roth! He was once our mentor. He egged us on this time, promised to make us the true kings of New York's underworld!"
Satisfied, William nodded. Just as they thought their ordeal was over—two more shots rang out.
The brothers howled in fury.
"You bastard! We told you the truth, and you still shot us!"
"Because you weren't fully honest. But Roth's name is enough for now."
William turned to his men.
"Keep questioning them. If necessary, cut them down to stumps. I'm going to call the boss."
The Rosatos were gagged again, crudely bandaged, and shoved into a trunk. Their destination: a remote safehouse, where William's "construction workers" had recently been learning new skills—not bricklaying, but interrogation.
With the matter settled, William approached Frank.
"Old man, stay out of trouble. If you must throw parties, host them at home. Michael gave you the Long Island villa for a reason. Safer there than at the Copacabana."
Frank ignored the advice and asked instead:
"Are you really a mob boss, or William Jones the Yankee star?"
William straightened Frank's collar, ruffled from dodging bullets.
"When you cheer for the Yankees, I'm an athlete. When New York is in danger, I'll be your savior.
Frank Pentangeli, work hard. Mr. Valentino is watching you."
At that, Frank finally understood who had saved him—the supreme leader of Italian-Americans, the revered Leo Valentino.
"Thank Mr. Valentino for me. If he ever needs me, I will give everything—even my life. That is my Sicilian vow."
Frank's eyes blazed with sincerity.
William clapped him on the shoulder.
"You'll see Mr. Valentino one day. He values you greatly. You are a true Sicilian—faithful to tradition."
With William's findings, the truth was clear: the mastermind behind the attacks on Mafia Dons across the nation was Hyman Roth.
When all the reports reached Michael, he boarded his private plane under Leo's watchful gaze, grief heavy on his face.
All evidence pointed to Roth. And if Roth was involved, then his foolish brother Fredo might be implicated too. Holding onto one last shred of hope, Michael flew to Miami.
Leo had arranged far more than just an escape route to Central America. As a Florida native powerbroker, he had already called in the Bush family.
From the cold north, Michael flew into Florida's warmth.
Straight to Roth's palatial mansion.
Their conversation was a duel—every word laced with probing.
"Michael, Las Vegas has no future. The only place where money can be laundered completely clean is Cuba.
Just invest two million, and I'll give you twenty percent. Guaranteed profit."
Roth kept his eyes glued to the football game on TV, never once meeting Michael's gaze.
That cowardice told Michael everything. Roth controlled his foolish brother.
Hope died in him. He left.
From the window, Roth watched him go. His new lieutenant, Isaac, entered.
"Sir, did the Don suspect anything?"
Roth sighed. "Young men are sharp these days. Michael knows."
"What's our next move?"
Roth's eyes flashed cold. "Don't let him leave Miami."
"Yes, sir."
"No, you don't understand. Michael isn't so easy. I'll handle him myself."
"Sir, if you strike personally, he'll never leave Miami alive."
"Enough flattery. Think about how best to trap him here."
Isaac chuckled. "Don't worry, sir. Miami is ours. Dealing with one Mafia Don will be easy."
Michael walked out of Roth's house smiling. But once in the car, his face turned grim.
"Book me a hotel by the beach. No flights tonight—we'll leave tomorrow."
He cherished life too much to ignore Leo's warnings. He had friends, a wife, children. He wasn't ready to die.
And though Leo hadn't said it, Michael knew—Leo was in trouble. With Clemenza dead, if he too fell, the Mafia might slip from Leo's grasp.
Survival was Michael's greatest contribution to Leo.
But in the hotel, unease gnawed at him. He ordered his bodyguards to watch the area.
Meanwhile, Roth was plotting.
Just as Roth's ambush was being set in motion, an invitation arrived—from the Bush family, Florida's political powerhouse.
Isaac entered again. "Sir, will you still oversee Michael's elimination?"
Roth shook his head. "No. The Bush family's influence here is enormous. If you refuse their first invitation, you become their enemy."
Night fell. Palm Beach glittered with light as the Bush family villa overflowed with champagne and laughter.
Between toasts, the powerful reached a new consensus: sacrifice the common people of Florida to enrich corporations, their shareholders, and executives.
Roth played the humble Jew, smiling at everyone, shaking every hand. Yet inside, he was tense—uncertain if Isaac could handle Michael.
As George Bush himself approached, Roth forced away his worries and put on his best grin.
But Isaac was already moving. He had found Michael's hotel, and ringed it with watchers.
Still, he underestimated Michael.
The veteran of the Pacific War had the instincts of a soldier. He noticed three hidden lookouts. Cars were gathering outside, strangers filling the lobby.
Danger was coming.
The enemy was ready to strike.
But Michael knew the rescue ship from British Honduras would only arrive tomorrow.
And now, he saw seven or eight men climbing the stairs.