Tom led Leo up to the second floor and asked him to wait in the hallway. He knocked and entered the Godfather's study.
The reception room outside was packed with people anxiously awaiting their turn to see the Don.
"Leo! Come in," Tom called, cracking the door just enough to obscure the view of those waiting.
As Leo entered, a man was just about to leave—a short, stocky figure with a fierce expression. Their eyes met.
The man's shoulder twitched slightly, readying to strike. His expression radiated confidence—he clearly didn't see Leo as a threat.
But Leo was no novice in combat.
With a longer reach and quicker reflexes, Leo moved after yet landed first. Before the man could raise his hand halfway, Leo's fist hovered two centimeters from his throat.
"Stand down, Luca," Tom said—but his voice faltered midway. The outcome was already clear.
Tom gave Leo a long, deep look. The most feared enforcer of the Corleone family—Luca, the man who terrified all of New York's underworld—had been neutralized in a single move.
"Luca."
A gravelly voice came from within the room—calm, yet carrying a hint of reprimand.
"Godfather, allow me to stay and protect you," Luca said respectfully, turning back.
"Thank you, Luca. But I trust Mr. Valentino means me no harm."
At the window, Vito Corleone stroked a cat as he spoke in a calm yet unmistakably commanding tone.
Tom escorted a reluctant Luca out of the room.
The dimly lit space was thick with cigar smoke.
Leo looked toward the Don. Vito's gaze was deep and intimidating—it evoked a natural sense of reverence.
He carried an intense presence. Leo hadn't felt anything like it since standing before Admiral Chester. And Chester was a U.S. Navy admiral.
"I'm glad you came, Leo."
The Godfather's face was calm, his voice even.
"My respects to you, Don Corleone. It's an honor to attend your daughter's wedding. A small token of my gratitude."
Leo pulled an envelope of cash from his coat and placed it on the desk in front of the Don.
The Godfather didn't even glance at it. His eyes remained on Leo.
"That's not your article payment from yesterday, is it?"
Leo tensed. He trusted his counter-surveillance skills and his battlefield-honed instincts. The Godfather couldn't have tracked him. Which left only one possibility—yesterday's café must've been owned by the Corleone family.
Damn old man. Had to get back a bit of face after Luca lost his.
"The payment has already been mailed to those who need it. This is from me, personally."
The Don dropped the topic. He'd already made his point.
He gently placed the cat on the floor, rose, and stepped in front of Leo, blocking the room's only light source.
"Leo, among us Italians, men like you are rare. To keep you out of a military tribunal—and to avoid dragging others down—a lot of people paid a heavy price."
"Were you one of them?" Leo asked directly. He wanted to understand the Don's purpose.
The Godfather gave a dry chuckle.
"I'm not even allowed a seat at that table. Some wanted to cut their losses and suggested offering your life to MacArthur in exchange for a ticket to fortune. I trust you've already felt the surprises they had in store for you."
Leo recalled the assassin on the train, the cyanide in his hotel water glass, and the gang attack the previous day.
In his past life, Leo had achieved modest success, but never touched the upper echelons. He hadn't realized that with the war over and the pie baked, everyone was scrambling for a slice. And if he took one, someone else got less.
Because of that single punch, his backers not only lost access to the pie—they also had to burn resources just to distance themselves from him.
Leo thought giving up his medals would be enough to settle the matter. Now he understood. The only reason he hadn't died in the military was because the real players still needed clean breath for the banquet.
He'd been left in the cold because it wasn't time to serve the mess yet.
Failed investments often required throwing in more to cover the loss. Killing him might have been the cheaper solution. MacArthur's delight could be worth a partial refund.
"I'm lucky to be alive," Leo said with a bitter smile. "So why am I still breathing? Someone hoping to buy in cheap?"
"This is America. People chase success. But you, right now, are worthless.
You're here because a few still remember you as a war hero. Be grateful, Leo. You saved many lives in the Pacific."
Seeing Leo about to speak, the Don raised a hand.
"I still have a wedding to attend. Time is short. Listen carefully.
You arrived here today as a fellow Italian attending a countryman's wedding.
In our Sicilian tradition, we don't refuse a guest's request on such a day. You came to me seeking protection.
And I, in turn, asked my friends for help. They agreed—with one condition:
You must leave New York and all major cities. Don't give anyone an excuse to dredge up old business.
So, Mr. Leo Valentino, do you accept their terms?"
Truthfully, Leo was reluctant.
After 1945, no city on earth would flourish like New York. It was the launchpad of America's global dominance.
Get the timing right here, and not just pigs—entire pigsties could fly.
But compared to money, life mattered more.
"I accept. Don Corleone."
The Don nodded, picked up the phone, and dialed.
"He's agreed."
No reply. The line went dead.
The Don walked to the window, gazing at the wedding in the garden below, saying nothing more.
Tom rose and gestured that Leo should leave.
"Thank you, Don Corleone."
Leo turned and walked out slowly. Just as he reached the door, the Don's voice came:
"You owe the Corleone family a favor. Good luck, Leo."
"I'll remember that. And I wish you a seat at the table someday."
With that, Leo left the room.
The silence inside contrasted with the joy outside.
Vito Corleone's eyes remained fixed on Michael, who laughed and chatted with his girlfriend in the garden.
He murmured:
"We will. The Corleone family will have a seat at the table one day."