White House — inside President Truman's office.
At that moment, the faces of those powerful figures—men who, in the eyes of ordinary Americans, stood at the very top of the pyramid—were all ashen.
Just then, Roland Morgan walked in and said to the group:
"Jack just called. He told me that if I don't give up on Coleman, the Morgan family will give up on me."
Alfred's face darkened as well. He said,
"People in my family are also voicing objections about my insistence on protecting Coleman."
"But if we abandon him now," Samuel said worriedly, "we'll completely lose the loyalty of those who've already started wavering. Who would ever join a coalition that can't even protect its own?"
"There's no time to think that far ahead, Mr. Samuel," Truman replied grimly. "If we don't drop Coleman now, they might move to impeach me in both Houses. Without presidential power, how could we possibly back MacArthur?
Yes, he's a damn fool—but he's our only shot at turning the tables. As long as he can win—or at least not lose—we can still hold the situation at home."
"I said it before—I was against this from the start," Samuel muttered helplessly. "Playing dirty breaks the rules, and when you do that, the blowback is inevitable. You decide."
Before long, Coleman—having been officially abandoned—lost all authority over the IRS.
FBI agents stormed into the IRS building and arrested him.
Hoover personally came to see his old friend in the temporary holding cell—though his real motive was to see if he could get Coleman to flip, to expose the people behind him.
But no matter how long Hoover talked, Coleman remained stone-faced.
With his vast experience, Hoover quickly realized the truth: Coleman's family must already be under control. His backers clearly wanted all the public outrage against Leo to end with Coleman—and go no further.
Hoover gave a cold chuckle and said,
"Your people are too naïve. This war of life and death—Mr. Valentino won't give them what they want."
Seeing that Hoover no longer pressed him for names, Coleman finally spoke:
"They know they're being naïve too. But what else can they do? Just wait for death? That's not their style. Edgar, am I going to die?"
"Valentino always pays his debts," Hoover said evenly. "When you chose to stand against him, I thought you'd already made peace with that."
Coleman gave a trembling sigh. "Well, looks like I lost the bet."
"Don't worry," Hoover said with a faint smile. "You won't die too soon. Mr. Valentino has ordered that you be kept alive—until he decides it's time for you to die."
But Coleman's capture didn't calm the storm at all, as his enemies had hoped.
It was a perfect sword of Damocles—and Leo had no intention of putting it away.
So, in Leo's media outlets, the headlines continued: "The Committee Has Not Yet Released Its Final Report." The detained officials were described as "still under investigation."
And every few days, new tidbits of "exclusive findings" were released—keeping the public's attention exactly where Leo wanted it: on his enemies.
Those enemies were all seasoned veterans. Facing Leo's "boiling frog" strategy, most of them—those who still had a way out—jumped ship entirely.
The anti-Leo alliance crumbled from within.
Many came to beg for leniency—but Leo rejected them all, even McKay's plea.
"You must pursue the routed enemy with what courage remains," Leo said coldly. "Don't stop halfway to play the hero."
Then came Leo's fifth strike.
"Reut, Benjamin—we've been friends a long time," said Thomas, standing before his two old neighbors in the Richmond district. "I'll be blunt: you can choose your family—or your life. Not both."
At his words, Reut Hutchinson and Benjamin Jefferson both shuddered involuntarily.
No matter their age, no matter their faith in God, neither man was ready to meet the Lord just yet.
"Thomas," Benjamin said, "when you were governor, we supported you with everything we had. This time we simply chose the wrong side. As an old friend, you wouldn't really take our lives over that, would you?"
"Of course not," Thomas said coolly. "The ones who want you dead aren't me. And don't twist things, Benjamin—this isn't just about choosing the wrong side. You know perfectly well what would happen to Leo if he lost."
Benjamin's expression turned to despair.
"We helped you before," Reut pleaded. "Valentino's wife is your granddaughter. Please—ask him to spare us!"
"I did," Thomas said, his voice flat. "That's why I'm here. If I hadn't intervened, your businesses would already be seized, your political allies forced to choose between you and Valentino. Once your wings were clipped, your families would start dying off, one by one.
But now, thanks to my plea, you have a choice: trade your lives for your families' safety."
At those words, both men began trembling uncontrollably, terror plain in their eyes.
"If we refuse… will he really wipe out our families? Is that necessary, Thomas?" Reut asked, his voice shaking.
"Enough. Make your decision. If you must blame someone, blame yourselves for losing the gamble.
Valentino was born a Virginian—you could've backed him from the start. Then instead of facing death, you might've been back at the table, chasing your old ambitions.
My old friends—the future of the Jeffersons and the Hutchinsons now lies in your hands. Think carefully."
Thomas left the Jefferson Hotel in New York. As he stepped outside, the sky was clear and the sunlight brilliant.
"The old dynasty has fallen," he murmured, smiling. "A new one rises. It's time for the Morton family to take the table."
Three days later, while the press still railed against Truman and the Democrats—painting Leo as a victim of political persecution—the upper circles of America exploded with news of Reut and Benjamin's deaths.
Their families claimed it was a "sudden illness."
But no one was that stupid—two men dying of "sudden illness" at the same time?
Everyone knew whose hand was behind it—just as they had with James Roosevelt.
Their deaths shattered the anti-Leo alliance completely.
From then on, Alfred, Roland, and Samuel's words fell on deaf ears. Only their closest loyalists stayed.
Meanwhile, the Wallace family—tasked with gathering the remnants into Leo's camp—was thriving, their mansion buzzing with visitors every day.
December 5, 1950.
Leo landed in Washington, accompanied by Eisenhower and Earl, returning triumphantly to his beloved America.
After witnessing Leo crush his opponents with five decisive moves, Eisenhower and Earl were utterly convinced.
Eisenhower, always a self-aware man, knew that while Leo might not beat him on the battlefield, in politics and manipulation, he wasn't even in the same league.
From that day forward, whenever Leo was present, Eisenhower would stand half a step behind him.
"Gentlemen," Leo said, "come with me to one more place."
"Where to?" Earl asked.
"To a funeral," Leo said lightly.
Richmond, Virginia.
At the Hutchinson family cemetery, relatives wept as the caskets of their former patriarchs were lowered into the earth. The priest intoned solemn prayers.
"Just like at my grandfather's funeral," muttered Bertram, recently discharged from the hospital. "None of our old friends came."
"They didn't come—and worse, neither did the ones who caused all this," Edwin Hutchinson said bitterly.
Just then, a motorcade appeared in the distance.
"They're here!" Edwin's eyes lit up. Unlike his timid relatives, he still dreamed of aligning with Leo's enemies—the true powerbrokers of America—and avenging his grandfather.
A group of bodyguards exited the cars, all in black suits and sunglasses, forming a cold, silent line.
Then three men stepped out.
Leading them was the one Edwin could never forget—the man who had stolen his beloved and killed his grandfather: Leo Valentino.
"He dares to come? I'll kill him!" Edwin shouted, clenching his fists.
Bertram grabbed him. "Calm down, Edwin. Look at those bodyguards—armed to the teeth. Leo would love for you to make a move. You'd only give him an excuse to kill you outright. Save your revenge for another day."
Edwin stopped himself, trembling with rage, his eyes fixed hatefully on Leo as he approached.
"Mr. Valentino," Bertram said, bowing low and handing him a white mourning flower.
Leo nodded in satisfaction, then looked at Edwin, whose neck was stiff with fury. A smirk curled on Leo's lips as he let out a disdainful snort.
That tiny act of mockery broke Edwin's fragile restraint. He lunged forward—but Leo merely sidestepped, caught Edwin by the throat, and shoved him.
The young man stumbled, fell face-first into the cold Virginia mud, and rose again, humiliated and filthy.
Leo, meanwhile, had already moved on—offering hollow condolences to Edwin's grandmother and tossing his flower carelessly onto the coffin.
"He's here to send a message," Bertram whispered. "Look who's with him—Eisenhower and Earl, two major Republican figures. A Democrat, flanked by Republican elites, attending the funeral of an old Virginia political family—that's not respect. That's a warning: defy Valentino, and you die."
Bertram was right.
Having made his point, Leo returned to his car—now driven by Noodles.
"Handle that Bertram fellow," Leo said quietly. "Hotheads like Edwin don't scare me. But men who can stay calm in front of an enemy? They can't be allowed to live."
Samuel's estate, Long Island, New York.
The remaining leaders of the anti-Leo faction gathered once more. The once-crowded conference room now felt hollow and cold.
"Do we really keep this war going?" Samuel asked.
"If we stop, what happens to us?" Alfred replied. "Valentino doesn't forgive. You think he'll spare us?"
"Yeah," Roland Morgan added grimly. "You've seen what he's capable of these past few days."
Samuel frowned. "Our scale isn't small. He can't just snap his fingers and kill us. He doesn't have that power—yet."
"I disagree," Roland said. "Surrendering would cost us everything. Forget the Far East war—that's secondary. Once we surrender, no one will ever follow us again. When our lives are on the line, no one will help us. Because we surrendered first."
Alfred nodded in firm agreement.
Samuel looked at the two younger men, curling his lip.
He told himself that Leo wouldn't dare kill him—he was the face of Wall Street's new Jewish capital. But Alfred and Roland? One a DuPont, the other a Morgan—there were plenty more where they came from.
"Then I'm out," Samuel said, standing up.
"You can't leave," Alfred snapped, stepping forward, eyes blazing. "You think Leo won't touch you because he needs your tax networks? Maybe you've got a way out—but we don't. And we're not afraid to cross you. Try walking out that door, and we'll come for you first. Valentino may take revenge—but so do the DuPonts!"
Faced with Alfred's fury, Samuel reluctantly sat back down.
Once control was reasserted, Alfred scanned the room and declared:
"Valentino killed Sidney and drove Hutchinson and Jefferson to their deaths. He's already broken the 'no-kill' pact. If he can do it—why can't we?"
"This isn't so simple," Samuel said. "You and the DuPonts have the military-industrial complex behind you. If an assassination fails, you can hide behind your armed forces. But we Wall Street bankers—we have nowhere to hide."
"Exactly," Roland added. "Until we're certain of success, we can't act blindly. If we fail, we'll face Leo's limitless vengeance. You all know how ruthless his special ops teams are—they're monsters he trained himself."