New York, Long Island, the core district.
The true gathering places of "old money" weren't mansions like Vito's or the Bazzini villa, but grand French-style estates.
This particular manor once belonged to Count Honoré de Montmorency, Commander of the French Navy during the American War of Independence. As thanks for his service, the Federal government funded its construction.
In 1900, Harold Cotton, the current patriarch of the Cotton family, bought it from the Carnegie family for $1.5 million—a sum so massive it shocked the entire East Coast elite.
Over forty years, the Cotton Manor became the unquestioned headquarters of the family.
The family dining room was deliberately modeled after Da Vinci's Last Supper, filled with religious atmosphere. This wasn't for show: the Cottons had built their empire on religion. Their ancestor was the only minister aboard the Mayflower.
That evening, three generations of the family were eating dinner there.
Although the Cotton family had many members, most were busy with their own affairs all over America.
When the main meal ended, dessert was served. This was the family's traditional time for intergenerational discussion.
Oswald looked at his youngest son:
"Alf, didn't you have a question for Grandfather earlier today?"
Alfred felt his grandfather Harold's gaze on him. He set down his mousse fork and stood very straight:
"Grandfather, I've been learning from Father about dealing with enemies. I have a question:
Our family is so powerful. Why don't we simply deal with this Valentino ourselves instead of using weaker people?"
Harold wiped his mouth slowly. He was pleased his grandson could ask such a question.
"Imagine two fully armed knights dueling.
Each has a move that can kill the other instantly.
Both are watching carefully for openings while making sure to gather food to keep up their strength.
Suddenly, one knight spots some food nearby—but it has thorns.
He could pull out the thorns himself, but that would leave him vulnerable.
Tell me, Alf—if you were that knight, would you remove the thorns yourself or command a servant to do it?"
"I'd have the servant do it."
Alf's face turned thoughtful.
Seeing that, Harold nodded approvingly and went on:
"Now imagine a powerful lord who attracts many lesser lords.
They all eagerly solve problems for him—even if their methods are a bit extreme.
But they never worry about consequences because they trust the mighty lord will shield them.
Alfred, if you were that lord, and one of your vassals caused trouble, would you personally step in to solve it?"
Alfred thought for a long moment before raising his head.
"I understand now, Grandfather.
A rival like Valentino isn't worth us acting directly.
Win or lose, it would weaken the family's aura of power.
Even if Lamb & Hammon fail on the first try, we just keep pressuring them to finish the job.
And if they still fail, we use other vassals.
But what if all of them fail?"
Harold burst into booming laughter, ruffling his grandson's hair.
"Alfred, the fact the Cotton family has lasted 200 years proves there simply isn't anyone like that out there!"
Meanwhile, at a high-end club in New York City
Lamb & Hammon's CEO Robert Davis was talking with Richmond Mayor Eamon.
"The Bazzini plan failed."
Eamon snorted.
"I told you. That kid's cunning as hell.
Those cheap tricks don't work on him.
Harry and I both said months ago—his 'playboy phase' was just a smokescreen to fool you.
You idiots thought you could hit him while he was distracted.
Instead he used the distraction to fix the debt crisis that could've killed him in one blow."
Robert complained:
"JP Morgan's rates were too high."
"Fifteen percent is too high? Stop being greedy," Eamon snapped.
"Enough, Eamon. I didn't call you here to get lectured.
Don't forget—you get 10% of the new company once this is over.
We just need your help now.
Christoph convinced that guy who got hit with the ashtray to testify.
All we need is to get Valentino locked up for a month.
Once he's in jail, the whole field flips."
Eamon grinned coldly.
"Two percent more. Don't hide behind Mr. Cotton's name.
You want my help? Pay for it.
Out of your cut. If you screw up, you pay the price, right?"
Richmond suburbs, James River, an abandoned warehouse
Grelick was swigging whiskey straight from the bottle. He had a decent tolerance—it was almost empty.
Leo handed him another bottle.
"My luck's always been shit.
I never wanted the spotlight.
I didn't even believe in that bubble-house crap.
Herbert kidnapped my family to force me in.
And now this.
Lamb & Hammon are known as industry savages.
I screwed them over once, and now I'm finished."
Leo handed him a stack of photos and a document.
"Your family is settled in a small town near Stanford University.
These are their photos.
That document is a deed for 3% of a West Coast real estate company—held in your eldest son's name.
And don't be so pessimistic.
Once this trial is over, I'll make sure you're moved out west immediately."
Grelick's eyes lit up at the words.
Leo patted his shoulder.
"Grelick. Since Christoph showed up, you agreed to act as my mole.
You've taken all the abuse, done the job well.
Don't worry. I take care of the people who help me."
The next day, Richmond East District Courthouse
"Grelick, you coward! An ashtray gave you a scratch and now you're testifying against Mr. Valentino?"
"He's selling out to the big corporations!"
"Yeah! If Valentino goes down now, our whole association's finished!"
Several small construction company bosses hurled insults as Grelick walked to the courthouse.
Christoph, dressed in an immaculate suit, stood on the steps looking down at them like they were insects.
"Gentlemen, Grelick is simply exercising his lawful rights.
America cannot become a society of violence!"
He didn't see them as colleagues—but as prey.
And in truth, these fools didn't even see the big picture.
Once he was president of the association, Virginia wouldn't need this many small builders.
They'd all be fuel for his own rise.
"Mr. Valentino's here!"
Leo stepped out of the car and looked up.
Standing on the courthouse steps were all too many familiar faces.
Christoph sneered and strode to block his path—standing one step higher so he could look down on Leo.
"Oh look—it's President Valentino!
No, wait—I should say Defendant Valentino!"
He was baiting Leo deliberately.
The presiding judge was watching from a side window.
If Leo lashed out now, it would seal the case.
Leo didn't even glance at the clown in front of him.
He stepped up onto the same level, regaining the height advantage.
"Whether I'm a criminal or not isn't up to you, Christoph.
That's for the judge to decide."