Jefferson Coolidge sat at the head of the table, finishing his meal. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, rose calmly, and was about to walk toward the sofa.
His wife and child sat quietly nearby — they were not allowed to eat until he was done.
That was his rule.
If you lived on Jefferson Coolidge's money, you followed Jefferson Coolidge's rules.
But before he could take a few steps, a sharp pain twisted in his stomach.
Not good… there's poison in the food. That damned woman!
Jefferson Coolidge wanted to shout, to move, but it was too late — the toxin spread fast.
With a dull thud, he collapsed straight onto the floor.
Just then, Golondo descended the stairs slowly, hands in his pockets. He looked at Mrs. Coolidge and said evenly:
"Madam, you've made the right choice. Someone will be here soon to clean this up.
If anyone asks, you and your child can simply say Jefferson Coolidge never came home.
Though I doubt anyone will bother asking about the whereabouts of a failure.
As we agreed, as his legal wife, you'll inherit all of his property.
That's not a small sum — you'll soon be Boston's newest wealthy widow."
He paused, gently touched the child's cheek, and added in a colder tone:
"Keep your mouth shut — and make sure your child does too.
After all, everything you've done… is for your child's future."
"Alright… alright…" Mrs. Coolidge replied, her voice trembling, caught between fear and excitement.
"I understand."
The next day, on the third floor of the United Fruit Company building, the same group of shareholders gathered again.
Yesterday, Jefferson Coolidge had instructed them to reconvene today for a vote — to expel the Dulles brothers.
But they waited and waited… and Jefferson Coolidge never showed up.
Just as murmurs began spreading across the room, the main door opened.
The Dulles brothers strode in, full of confidence.
"There's no need to wait," one of them said.
"Jefferson Coolidge won't be coming. He's had… an accident.
Just now, his widow sold all of his shares — half to Mr. Leo Valentino, and the other half to us.
We are now the largest shareholders of this company.
Let's vote. My brother and I are assuming leadership of United Fruit.
Who's in favor? Who's against?"
The room fell silent.
The speech was short, but the message was thunderous —
United Fruit had changed hands.
Meanwhile, in Long Island, New York, Alfred DuPont was in a frenzy.
He smashed everything within reach — bookshelves, porcelain, wine glasses — until his study looked like a war zone.
He was furious.
A day and a half had passed since the operation began, and still no word from the field.
He'd sent urgent inquiries through the intelligence network that had served the DuPont family for over a century — but nothing came back.
The network must have been compromised.
And then came the news — not from his agents, but from Leo Valentino's newspapers.
"Shocking! The World's Richest Man Survives Assassination!"
"Gunfire Lights Up the Sky in Manhattan Suburbs!"
"Coordinated Assault on Multiple Valentino Residences — Attackers Linked to Military Sources!"
Different headlines, same message — Leo had been attacked by a highly trained special unit.
According to FBI officials, some assailants were active-duty soldiers from the Far East.
Others were employees of the DuPont family's private network.
All the signs pointed directly to General MacArthur and Alfred DuPont.
If Leo had died, Alfred could've denied everything — let the scandal fade in time.
But Leo was alive.
"Mr. Valentino miraculously survived the professional assassination attempt,"
the papers read.
Survived. Survived. Survived…
Each repetition hammered Alfred's chest like a drum.
If Leo lived, it meant all their operatives were dead — and now, he would face not only a failed mission and financial loss, but also Leo's revenge and public outrage.
He had lost — utterly and completely.
But why? What went wrong?
Cut off from his intelligence sources, Alfred was in total darkness.
Then, from outside the shattered door, his butler's voice came quietly:
"Sir, Mr. Samuel and Mr. Roland Morgan are here."
The last people Alfred wanted to see.
It was his decision that had plunged all of them into this disaster.
Still, he couldn't refuse.
Whatever pride he once had as the head of the DuPonts, it was gone.
In the parlor, Samuel spoke bluntly the moment Alfred entered:
"My sources tell me — that battle wasn't close at all. Not like the newspapers say.
It was a massacre.
Our intel was wrong, Alfred. Those four bases were traps."
Samuel gritted his teeth. He was furious, but beneath that fury was pain — the pain of being played.
Alfred clenched his fists. He'd suspected it might be a setup, but he hadn't wanted to believe it.
"So… John Stillman lied to me?" Alfred asked coldly.
Samuel shook his head.
"No. He's just a fool. I was deceived too.
The real mastermind — the real snake — is Virginia's governor, Jesse."
"What?! That's impossible! When did he betray us?"
"Not a betrayal," Samuel muttered bitterly. "He was always an undercover agent."
Samuel's face twisted in agony. He'd once saved Jesse's career — even handed him priceless Federal Reserve shares to protect him.
And all that time… Jesse had been Leo's man.
Every secret operation, every "coincidental" failure — it all made sense now.
Samuel's mind reeled.
Who would've thought Jesse was an undercover agent?
After all, he'd publicly feuded with Leo for years!
Each of Jesse's successive patrons had seen him as their weapon against Valentino —
and all along, he'd been reporting back to Leo.
Samuel wanted to scream.
That bastard hid so deep — right in his own hometown!
And now, in the FBI's investigation, Jesse was helping them, exposing personnel and networks that had supported the DuPont and MacArthur operations.
It was over.
Alfred's face darkened further.
He couldn't blame Samuel — he'd failed to see through Jesse too.
Roland Morgan broke the silence.
"Talking about it now is pointless. Maxim is still missing — maybe dead.
Alfred, any word from Central America?"
Alfred was about to shake his head when his chief aide, Robert, entered.
He hesitated upon seeing Samuel and Roland, but Alfred waved him forward.
"Go ahead," he said weakly. "There's no good news left to hide."
Robert swallowed.
"United Fruit's private army in Central America has been wiped out.
Their regional operations have been taken over by Valentino's subsidiaries.
And to keep those businesses alive, they've invited Valentino to become a shareholder of United Fruit.
The Central American war is lost.
United Fruit is now… Leo's ally."
Alfred froze.
"Jefferson Coolidge — what about him? He'd never allow this!"
"He's dead," Robert said flatly.
Silence fell.
A cold panic spread among them.
Leo's revenge was swift and ruthless.
They all wondered the same thing — whose turn is next?
Then Samuel's assistant burst in, whispering urgently in his ear.
Samuel's face drained of color.
"What? Maxim is dead too?!"
Everyone jolted — eyes darting, breath shallow, each man half expecting a bullet to come through the window.
The air turned thick with dread.
No one talked about fighting back anymore.
Now, all they could think about was survival.
"I have… something to attend to," Roland said, already standing.
"We'll talk later."
He hurried out, assistant in tow.
Samuel followed soon after, giving Alfred a look that meant You're on your own.
When they were gone, Alfred lost control completely.
He destroyed what was left of the parlor —
furniture, vases, mirrors, even the chandelier.
But the rage didn't ease.
He turned, eyes bloodshot, and glared at Robert.
"Where's that idiot Stillman?"
"In the safehouse we arranged for him," Robert replied.
"Take me there."
They arrived at the villa before dawn.
As they stepped out, Alfred hesitated.
"Stay here," he told Robert.
Then to his secretary: "Make the necessary preparations."
Inside, John Stillman fell to his knees the moment Alfred entered.
Tears and snot streamed down his face.
"Mr. DuPont, please! I was wrong! I didn't know Jesse was a mole!
Give me another chance — I can still help you!
If you want control of Citibank, you need me. With me, it's as easy as reaching into a bag!
Please, sir!"
He kept kowtowing, his forehead bleeding.
Alfred stood over him, gun drawn.
He had once planned to rely on Stillman to seize Citibank's reins.
But after this disaster, it no longer mattered.
Even his position within the DuPont family was uncertain.
Citibank meant nothing now.
"Goodbye, John."
Bang!
John Stillman fell lifeless.
The Stillman family — unlike in Leo's previous life — vanished from American history altogether.
For a moment, Alfred felt… relieved.
It was his first time personally killing someone — and to his surprise, it felt good.
Cathartic.
As he left the villa, a strange calm settled over him.
Outside, Robert stood waiting by the car, door open.
The gesture made Alfred feel reassured — loyal men, loyal ground.
Despite every defeat, his foundation in the military-industrial complex was intact.
He was still the head of the DuPont family.
Still a pillar of America's deep state.
He even smiled.
But as he stepped down the stairs —
A roar split the air.
Alfred turned instinctively toward the sound —
A garbage truck, pedal floored, hurtled straight toward his car.
"Robert! Look out!"
Robert turned his head — but Alfred's shout made him look the wrong way.
He turned toward his master first — not the danger.
That second of hesitation was fatal.
BOOM!
Alfred watched in horror as the truck smashed into Robert — bones shattered, body flung high, crashing down ten meters away.
"Ahh—!"
The man who'd been calm moments ago now trembled uncontrollably, words failing him.
He'd never seen death so close, so sudden, so brutal.
Crawling on all fours, Alfred scrambled back into the house, slammed the door shut, and collapsed against it.
He couldn't even stand.
In that instant, all pride, all arrogance, all illusions were gone.
Why had he chosen to go against Leo Valentino — that "lowborn mudfoot"?
Now, he knew:
There was no escape.
Valentino never forgave.
He wouldn't stop until Alfred DuPont was dead.
Shaking, crying, Alfred reached the phone, grabbed the receiver, and dialed his cousin —
one of the three heads of the DuPont dynasty.
Through tears, he pleaded:
"Help me… brother, please… save me!"
Meanwhile, across America, Leo's media empire was in full motion.
The whole country knew now — their once-proud "world's richest man" had been politically persecuted, and had narrowly survived an assassination attempt.
Outrage spread like wildfire.
Crowds gathered outside the DuPont and MacArthur estates, hurling rotten eggs and curses.
And with Maxim's death, the MacArthur family was leaderless.
Relatives called day and night to the Far East, begging General MacArthur for help.
Ratatatatatat!
Far away, in the frozen plains of East Asia,
Douglas MacArthur — the self-styled "Emperor MacArthur" — squeezed the trigger of a heavy machine gun.
The targets — captured Korean soldiers — were tied to posts.
The bullets tore through them mercilessly.
Even as the barrel smoked red-hot, MacArthur kept firing,
his face twisted in fury.
The magazine was empty —
but his rage was far from spent.