Mike pulled his pistol out of the drawer.
Just as he chambered a round, a knock came at the door—two short, three long. It was the prearranged code he'd set with his bodyguards.
Cautious as always, Mike leaned against the door and peered through the peephole. Seeing only his four guards outside, he finally unlocked the door.
They didn't step inside. Instead, they stood at the entrance, the leader, Gale, speaking first:
"Mr. Corleone, the people downstairs look ready to make a move. We ought to prepare a little surprise for them."
"They've got a lot of men. Is there still time to prepare?" Mike asked.
Gale grinned, holding up a melon—inside it, a grenade.
"Don't worry, Mr. Corleone. Just a few simple traps. And you don't need to worry about your safety. Our only request is that when the time comes, you follow orders and don't fire recklessly."
Mike frowned.
"I'm a World War II veteran."
"We know," Gale replied with a nod. "Before sending us, the boss showed us your file. If you weren't, we wouldn't have let you carry a gun at all."
"Leo told me you're all war veterans too—Special Forces. I know you're elites, but I'm not so different. What makes you better than me?" Mike asked.
These four weren't strangers—they were Leo's men, assigned before Mike boarded the plane, his personal protection detail.
"Sir, the four of us are the company's top scorers in CQB."
"CQB?" Mike asked, watching them rig the doorknob with a trap.
"Close Quarters Battle," Gale explained.
CQB had taken shape after World War II. When the security company was founded, knowing future battlegrounds would be city buildings instead of Pacific jungles, they'd hired Rex Applegate as an executive to train their Special Forces in CQB tactics.
Mike only half-understood, but Gale didn't give him another chance to ask. He yanked Mike into the room across the hall.
Then he turned to his team.
"Ander, take your old buddy to the roof—we need a sniper.
Wesson, guard the stairwell—that's our retreat."
Not long after, the elevator on the fourth floor dinged open.
Two men dressed as chefs stepped out, a third pushing a food cart behind them.
Without hesitation, they went straight for Mike's room.
"Sir, your dinner has arrived," one said, knocking on the door.
Silence.
They glanced at each other, repeated the line. Still no answer.
The one with the cart flipped open the lid of the "hotbox." No food—only a silenced pistol.
He grabbed it, signaling to his partner to open the door. The man nodded, pulling out the stolen room key taken earlier from the terrified front desk clerk.
Click. The lock turned.
He pushed the door open slowly, while the gunman advanced.
Clack. Something hit the ground.
Before they could wonder what it was—
BOOM!
The explosion ripped through the corridor, flinging both men off their feet.
Downstairs, Izak saw flames burst from Mike's room. His first plan had failed.
Slamming the car door, he shouted to his men:
"Prepare for an assault!"
Yes—he would lead it personally. After all, this was no ordinary hit. Killing the Godfather of the American Mafia would earn him Roth's full favor. In Izak's mind, he was already Roth's heir.
Bang!
A single shot cracked the night. Izak crumpled, a bullet hole in his skull.
On the rooftop, Ander lay behind his scope. A seasoned sniper, he had hunted Japanese officers across Pacific islands, often using the faintest glimmer of light to identify his targets.
Spotting the commander had become second nature.
Among the cars below, one vehicle drew repeated visits. The leader had to be inside.
So Ander made his choice: anyone stepping out would be eliminated.
By sheer luck, the first one was Izak himself.
The proof came instantly—his men gathered in shock, then scattered and drove away.
Yes. They retreated.
When Ander descended, Gale was still at the elevator, braced for combat.
"Stand down," Ander said. "The men after Mr. Corleone are gone."
"Gone?" Gale was stunned. A mob boss charging in himself? Impossible. But of course—he and his team were soldiers. The mob had never trained against snipers. Their weapon of choice was the Tommy gun, not rifles with scopes.
That night, Mike and his protectors relocated to a secluded villa by the coast.
As they settled in, the Palm Beach banquet drew to a close.
Hyman Roth had planned to leave with the other guests. But as he stepped out, Bush family guards blocked his path.
A killer hardened by years of bloodshed, Roth's glare alone made one guard flinch back. Satisfied that his presence still commanded fear, he moved forward—only to be blocked again.
"Mr. Roth, Mr. Bush requests your presence."
The anger in Roth's eyes softened instantly.
This was the chance he'd long dreamed of.
Though Miami was his base, few besides the local Jews would deal with him. Roth had always sought ties with a powerful Florida family—just as Victor Corleone once did. But Florida, steeped in Southern prejudice, had little use for Jews. His hopes had gone unfulfilled.
He thought the night a waste. George Bush, the host, had ignored him all evening. But now—George Bush wanted to see him.
Nodding eagerly, Roth followed the guards.
They passed the grand Bush family mansion. Roth asked, puzzled:
"We're not going inside?"
"Sir," the guard replied coolly, "you know who you are. The main house is still full of distinguished guests. Mr. Bush prefers to meet you privately, at the hunting lodge."
The excuse was airtight. Though Roth felt unease, he pressed on. This might be his only chance to climb into the Bush family's circle.
Through the woods they went, toward the private hunting grounds.
The darkness gnawed at him. His instincts, honed by decades of survival, screamed louder with every step.
Finally he stopped.
"I've just remembered urgent business. Please tell Mr. Bush I'll call again—with a proper gift next time."
He turned to leave.
Pfft.
The silenced shot pierced his throat. Roth gurgled, collapsed, and died in the shadows of the Bush family forest—utterly unwilling.
He had never imagined George Bush would kill him on his own estate.
Like Mike, Roth had misjudged America's ruling class. He thought bloodletting was for men like himself. He never grasped that the true butchers were the families who held the lifeblood of states and nations.
Mike and Roth lived under rules—at least they dared not openly kill police.
The Bush family? They had murdered more "men of justice" than Roth had ever seen.
When the guards confirmed the kill, George Bush nodded. Excusing himself from his guests, he slipped upstairs and phoned Leo.
"Leo, Roth is gone. I'll have Miami PD wipe out the Jewish mob."
He spoke as if mentioning the death of an insect.
"Thank you, George. At a time like this, standing with me means everything. I promise—the Valentino family will bind itself tightly to the Bush family."
Leo's deep, sincere tone stirred Bush's heart.
"Our family may not be the cleverest, Leo. But once we choose, we never waver. Luck has always favored us—we've never lost a gamble. I believe this won't be the first. And removing Roth strengthens our hand in Miami.
"Jews run Wall Street now. Their arrogance grows unchecked. Here in Florida, people grow restless under their grip. I admit, we can't beat them in finance. But ruling Florida? That's our domain. Eliminating Roth sends the warning they need.
"They've survived for thousands of years. Every so often, they require reminders. This is one such reminder. For both of us, this is a win-win."
Listening from Washington, Leo marveled. For an Anglo-Saxon, George was remarkably humble. No wonder he would one day be President of the United States.
Leo couldn't be halfhearted in reply.
"Whatever you need, I'll always provide the funds."
Bush froze. Not even his father knew the depths of his political ambition. Publicly, he was still an executive at Brown Brothers Harriman. Privately, he was planning to return to Florida politics.
Leo had seen through him without a word spoken.
"Thank you, Leo. Perhaps you are the one man in America who truly understands me."
After the call, Leo phoned Mike.
"No need for high alert. The crisis is over. Return to Nevada tomorrow and handle your own matters."
"I was nearly killed tonight," Mike said bitterly. "If not for your sniper, I'd be bleeding out. A dozen cars downstairs—your CQB men are good, but against those numbers, I doubt we'd have held."
"Roth is dead," Leo said flatly.
Mike froze.
"Really? That old bastard? You're sure? I heard he used doubles."
"Not this time. When the Bush family invites you, you don't send a double. Go back to Nevada. The war is just beginning. Before we face the world, we must clean house."
The next day, a plane carried Mike back to Nevada.
As the sun set, he stood in his favorite spot, the lake-view room, gazing at Lake Tahoe's shimmering surface. Yet his face was dark with worry.
Especially as his brother Fredo lounged in a rocking chair, casual and disrespectful toward the head of the Corleone family, the Godfather of America's Mafia.
"Fredo, I want the truth," Mike said coldly.
All clues pointed to one traitor—his brother.
Fredo sneered, rose, and towered over Mike.
"You want the truth? Fine. I'm your older brother. But you treat me like nothing. Look at the scraps you give me—greeting guests, playing host.
"I'm a Corleone. Sicilian blood runs in my veins. I'm not your servant. Those petty errands are beneath me."
Mike rubbed his temples. He ruled America's underworld, but his family life was chaos—an untrustworthy sister, a wife obsessed with respectability, a distant child. Only his mother's love remained.
Fredo claimed disrespect. Mike felt equally misunderstood. Fredo had no idea the weight his position carried.
Their argument spiraled. At last, Fredo lost control. When words failed him, he slapped Mike across the face.
The blow stunned him. He regretted it instantly, clutching his brother and sobbing:
"You were always my kid brother. I taught you fishing, I taught you hunting. I love you, Mike. We're family. I know I was wrong. Please forgive me."
They embraced, both in tears.
When Fredo left, Mike wiped his face clean. His expression hardened—no longer the younger brother, but the Don, judge and executioner of America's Mafia.
He looked at his loyal aide, Al Neri, then at the lake's golden surface.
"Take Fredo fishing," he said softly.
Neri nodded. He knew what it meant. Fredo's death would haunt Mike forever. But orders were orders.
When Neri left, Mike remained, staring at the sun sinking into Lake Tahoe.
He didn't want Fredo dead. But as his brother had said—Sicilian blood ran in his veins.
And Sicilians had only one punishment for betrayal.
Death.