Four key positions remained: Chairman of the Economic Committee, Director of the CIA, Secretary of the Treasury, and Secretary of State.
Leo intended to fill them all with his own men.
Of course, by "his own men," he didn't mean the people from Lynchburg or the Special Forces.
They were too young— even Desmond and Daniel, despite their ambassadorial experience, didn't have enough seniority.
What Leo meant by "his own" were those who, besides him, had nowhere else to turn—people whose careers and loyalties depended entirely on Leo.
Take, for example, Gerard's protégé, the current Director of the Federal Housing Administration—Frank Underwood.
Frank was woken from his sleep by a ringing phone.
As one of Washington's most sociable political climbers, he, of course, had heard the news—Mr. Valentino now held the power to appoint senior government officials.
Coming from the bottom rungs of South Carolina society, Frank naturally dreamed of visiting Mr. Valentino's home and earning himself a real title.
But he wasn't delusional.
Though Mr. Valentino had placed him at the Federal Housing Administration—a position seemingly crucial to his real estate empire—in truth, by the time Frank took office, Leo's real estate operations were already mature.
Frank's presence or absence didn't really matter.
If it hadn't been for his mentor Gerard's recommendation, Frank probably wouldn't even have gotten that post.
How could he dare to hope for more?
Later that evening, at a social gathering, Frank learned who else would be going to Valentino's villa that night—each of them far above his rank.
That snuffed out the last spark of ambition in him.
He drank a few glasses of whiskey to numb the feeling and fell into a restless sleep.
But when a man sleeps with desire in his heart, his rest is never deep.
The moment the phone rang again, Frank bolted upright, startled awake.
Moonlight spilled into the room, bathing the ringing phone in a strange, almost sacred glow.
He had a feeling—this might be the call.
And sure enough, when he picked up the receiver, a familiar voice came through:
"Frank, do you have time to come to the Valentino Hot Springs Hotel?"
Frank began trembling uncontrollably. He was so overwhelmed that he couldn't even find his voice.
"Frank?"
Leo's second prompt snapped him back to reality.
"Yes, Mr. Valentino! I'll be there right away!"
When the call ended, Frank felt as if he had just conquered a mountain—parted the clouds to see the sun.
His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees on the floor.
The commotion woke his wife.
"What happened?" she asked, staring at her husband kneeling in the moonlight as if in prayer.
Frank rose, took her by the shoulders, and said with trembling excitement:
"Mr. Underwood is about to become somebody."
When Frank arrived at Leo's private suite, he saw two others already there.
Leo smiled, gesturing to a chair.
"Sit down, Frank."
Then he introduced the group:
"Allen, Prescott—this is Frank Underwood.
Frank, meet Mr. Prescott Bush and Mr. Allen Dulles."
Finally, Leo nodded toward the last man in the room.
"No need for introductions with this one."
Frank smiled.
"Indeed—my old mentor, Gerard."
After everyone exchanged pleasantries and took their seats, Leo finally spoke.
"I suppose you can all guess why I called you here so late.
You're right—I still have four major positions to fill.
And all of you have stood by me through every crisis, never once complaining."
Of course, that remark didn't really apply to Allen Dulles.
The Dulles brothers had only made two key decisions in Leo's favor: one during their first meeting in Central America, and the second when they defected to Leo's camp more recently.
Still, their inclusion made sense—not only because Leo lacked better candidates, but also because the Dulles brothers had proven ruthless and useful.
Once they took charge at United Fruit, they'd staged a performance worthy of the phrase "a son sells his father's land without flinching."
In just a few days, Leo's stake in the company had skyrocketed from 25% to majority control.
How?
The Dulles brothers had lied, coerced, even kidnapped their fellow shareholders to force them out.
Men like that were valuable.
Leo had no illusions of moral purity—he understood that a good leader needed every kind of subordinate.
Only then could he face any opponent with the right cards in hand.
He was already a leviathan in the political sea.
At his level, there was no point in personally wrestling with rivals anymore—future battles would be between his dukes and theirs.
Everyone present was thrilled.
To be face-to-face with the king during an enfeoffment—that was every politician's dream.
They could barely contain their eagerness to display their loyalty.
Leo began with the youngest.
"Frank, I want you to serve as Chairman of the Federal Economic Committee.
Technically, it's just an advisory body to the President, but as we all know—during Roosevelt's time, it wielded enormous real power.
I need you to keep a close eye on things for me."
Frank stood immediately.
A graduate of the Infantry Academy, his response was crisp and military—he saluted like he once did to his headmaster at graduation.
"Yes, sir!"
He knew exactly what this meant.
With this appointment, he'd no longer need to run for Congress back home.
This credential alone could propel him to a governorship—or through Washington's revolving doors into Wall Street and major corporations.
From there, the Senate was within reach, and after a few years chairing committees, he could easily climb higher: Secretary of State, Vice President—even President.
For Frank Underwood, this was like being granted the imperial scholar's title in one stroke—no longer a bureaucratic foot soldier, but a man of true distinction.
Next, Leo turned to Allen Dulles.
"Allen, I'd like you to take charge of the CIA.
Your intelligence network in Central America impressed me deeply."
"Thank you, Mr. Valentino," Allen said, almost glowing.
Like his brother, he dreamed of political power.
To him, this position was perfect—both a field where he excelled and a stepping stone to greater ambitions.
"But before you take office," Leo added, "I want to recommend someone to join you. No objections, I hope?"
Allen shook his head so fast it was almost comical.
Objections? Of course not. He knew what the CIA really was.
Sure, there were a few patriots fighting for freedom—but they were rare, an endangered species.
Most of the agency was filled with corporate soldiers and bureaucratic placeholders.
The big families loved placing their private militias inside the CIA—it gave them access to trade secrets, let them assassinate competitors, and best of all, allowed them to use public funds to feed their own armies.
Allen understood this perfectly. So did Leo.
So who was Leo's recommendation?
None other than Joseph—the man who had risked his life countless times in Leo's service.
To reward outsiders and not his own brothers would be wrong.
Besides, bodyguards needed rotation; it was time for fresh blood.
Now that Coronado had been recalled from Central America to rebuild Leo's covert personal guard, Joseph would take his battle-tested forces into the CIA—becoming Leo's visible hand of power.
Then Leo turned to Prescott Bush.
"Mr. Bush, I've always had a good relationship with George, and I believe in his future.
He's been a loyal friend, standing by me through every storm.
And your family, alongside the Harrimans, has been one of my strongest allies.
Therefore, the post of Secretary of the Treasury—is yours."
Prescott had long harbored political ambitions, but he'd never found a position that matched his stature.
Now he had one that perfectly suited the chairman of Harriman Brothers & Brown and the voice of Florida's elite.
He was ecstatic.
He also caught Leo's subtle message:
Your son's future depends on the decisions you make as Treasury Secretary.
Leo also appointed Tucson, his longtime attorney and now head of the largest law firm in the American West, as Deputy Secretary of the Treasury.
The firm might lack the deep roots of the old East Coast giants, but in influence, it rivaled them already.
Given the revolving-door system of American politics, Tucson's credentials more than qualified him.
To Leo, unchecked power was dangerous—there had to be balance.
Finally, Leo looked to Gerard.
By now, Gerard was nearly trembling with excitement.
He wasn't the brightest man in the room, but he could count—four posts, three already given. The best one remained.
"Gerard," Leo said, smiling, "you'll be Secretary of State."
Frank, Allen, and Prescott all turned to look at Gerard with a mix of envy and disbelief.
The man everyone considered a fool had just won the grand prize.
"Mr. Valentino, I… I'm deeply honored," Gerard stammered, nearly in tears.
Still, even in his simplicity, he understood why Leo valued him—loyalty.
And he knew he wasn't truly capable of running foreign policy.
"Mr. Valentino," he added, "please—assign me two assistants."
Leo raised an eyebrow. The man wasn't as stupid as he looked—he'd even learned to ask ahead.
That kind of initiative was refreshing.
"All right," Leo said. "I think Ambassadors Daniel and Desmond would suit you well."
As dawn broke over the horizon, the grand enfeoffment was complete.
Everyone leaving the Valentino Hot Springs Hotel wore a smile.
But where there was joy, there was also despair.
In Wilmington, Delaware—along the Brandywine River—stood the Nemours estate, built by Alfred himself.
Inside, two members of the DuPont family's "three-horse chariot," Thomas Coleman DuPont and Pierre Samuel DuPont, watched through the window.
On the bed lay the third—Alfred DuPont, alternating between lucidity, delirium, and fear.
Thomas exhaled deeply.
"It's time to make a decision. If we don't, our business is finished.
Every arms contract from the world's war zones is now going to Valentino's companies."
Pierre nodded grimly.
"If only it were just business. I've noticed we're being followed.
Some of our relatives say they've seen Mafia men around their homes.
And we all know who the Mafia listens to."
He sighed. "This isn't about profits anymore. Alfred crossed a man who never forgives—Valentino. We won't survive unless we appease him."
Thomas met Pierre's eyes.
"Then it's decided. The three-horse chariot exists to protect the family in times like this.
It's time for a painful sacrifice."
Pierre hesitated. As a proud Frenchman, the thought of bowing to an Italian stung his pride.
But pride meant little compared to survival.
He nodded reluctantly.
They both knew—the only way to calm Leo's wrath was to offer up Alfred's life.
"Then let's not delay," Thomas said coldly. "Let's end it tonight. Together."
Pierre nodded again. Thomas took a syringe from his secretary and entered the bedroom.
Alfred's wife saw them coming and stepped protectively in front of her husband, her face pale.
She knew too well how ruthless this family could be.
"It's for your own good, Jane," Thomas said softly. "Without the DuPont family, you and your children would lose everything."
As he spoke, he signaled Pierre, who began quietly circling behind her.
When she faltered, the two men lunged—knocking her unconscious.
Thomas uncapped the syringe, while Pierre pinned down the struggling Alfred.
The injection went in smoothly.
But as the needle withdrew, Alfred's eyes suddenly cleared.
He saw the syringe in Thomas's hand, and realization struck.
"You're killing me!" he roared.
Then the poison hit.
Agony tore through him like a thousand knives; his body convulsed violently.
He could feel life draining away, his vision dimming.
He didn't want to die.
He wanted to rebuild, to take revenge on Leo—to make him pay!
But ambition died with the poison flooding his heart.
Alfred DuPont's eyes froze wide open as he left this world.