"I don't understand. Since you're already in such a dire situation, why send Daniel and me to Europe? Wouldn't it be better if we stayed in the States to help you?"
Desmond asked in confusion.
He was more than just a sworn brother—he was a founding comrade of the business, a veteran of the group. Leo's tone was unusually gentle as he patted Desmond on the shoulder.
"Desmond, by going to Europe, you are helping me. There are things I only trust you two to handle."
"Boss, there've been a lot of nasty rumors about you in Washington lately… are you sure you'll be fine?"
Daniel asked with concern.
Leo shook his head.
"I can't be sure. This is a life-or-death battle. But you should know—whether in the Pacific or in the marketplace, I've never lost. So you'd better have faith in me."
The two young men left, worry written on their faces. Though still in their twenties, they had already gained tremendous experience and influence, each running his own staff team as independent factions within Leo's empire.
They both sensed a storm coming—and neither believed Leo would win easily. But after so many years, they were used to following his orders. Their brief words of concern were already the limit; since Leo hadn't changed his mind, they had no choice but to go.
In a shabby farmhouse on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia, John Steelman sat on a hard bench in the dining room, sleepless for over a night.
A man used to comfort all his life, Steelman shifted uncomfortably, frowning at the man across from him.
"Well? Have you made up your mind?" he asked.
"Do I have to decide now?"
Oswald replied, visibly torn.
"Yes. I haven't slept for thirty-some hours. After leaving Mr. Samuel's, I came straight here. This matter is critical to us—you must decide in front of me."
Oswald frowned deeply. Steelman had appeared suddenly at his hideout, ignored his surprise, and immediately laid out the current situation—pressuring him to strike at Leo.
Through the window, Oswald saw a dozen men in black patrolling outside. Their bulky coats made it obvious they were carrying "Chicago typewriters."
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
"Then I'll have you sent back to Brazil," Steelman said coldly.
Oswald knew better. The men outside weren't there for show. Steelman's "choice" was no choice at all.
Even if striking at Leo was like throwing eggs against a rock, he had no way out. Which meant—if he was to take the risk, he had to demand a big reward.
"What's in it for me?" Oswald asked.
"Everything Leo took from you, we'll return. And as the first to make a move, you'll get three hundred million from his wealth—cash or assets."
Oswald sneered.
"Leo's visible wealth may look like a billion, but I estimate he's hidden at least four billion more. Three hundred million is nothing. Double it—six hundred million."
Steelman's eyes narrowed.
"Six is too much. Five hundred million. That's my limit."
"Deal."
"How do you plan to do it?" Steelman pressed.
"That's my concern," Oswald said with a cold smile. "When it comes to Leo, secrecy is everything. If he gets wind of it, it's over. If you're afraid I'll run, then leave a man to watch me."
Steelman nodded.
"Fine. Just move fast."
"Don't worry. Within a week you'll see results. Now, get me a plane to Miami."
"Miami?"
"I'll slip into Cuba from there."
Carson City, capital of Nevada.
Mike Corleone stepped out of the state government building, his face pale. Normally he carried himself with calm elegance, but the greedy, mocking face of Lieutenant Governor George Underwood still burned in his mind. With a sudden snap, Mike slammed his cane against the ground.
His driver, sensing his mood, hurried to open the car door. Mike climbed in, expression blank, eyes shut, fists clenched. His mind replayed the humiliating meeting over and over.
Owner of several Las Vegas hotels, Mike was one of the city's largest casino bosses—naturally entangled with Nevada politicians. Underwood, the lieutenant governor, had long been one of his closest contacts.
Year after year, Mike had lined his pockets, convinced that even without Leo's support, his political connections would open doors for him.
With this belief, he shed the mantle of Don, presenting himself as a Nevada businessman eager to step into politics.
But the harder he tried, the less he gained. Once people learned he was no longer the Godfather, they wouldn't even grant him an audience.
Some, out of lingering fear or courtesy, did meet him—but the moment he asked for political backing, they flatly refused.
A few, more candid than most, told him the truth: American politics would never allow the tools of power to become their masters. If a gangster turned politician, the system itself would reject him.
Just when Mike's hope was gone, Underwood stepped in—offering him a small-town judgeship. Humble as it was, it was a first step.
Mike lost his reason. One million, then another million, then five million more—seven million dollars in total. In 1950 money, that was a fortune worth 140 million in later years.
He bled himself dry. Nearly half of the clean money he'd saved under the "Mike" identity. All for that one tiny political post.
And now—when he came to collect—Underwood demanded ten million more.
Mike realized instantly: he'd been conned. When he called him out, Underwood just laughed in his face.
"So what if I conned you? What can you do, sue me for bribery? Do you think a court will believe a former mob boss over a respected lieutenant governor? And besides, you paid Washington lobbyists, not me.
Listen, Mike—you'll never be a politician. A gangster in politics? Absurd. Tools don't become masters.
You're a dog. And dogs don't bite their owners."
Mike's chest heaved violently.
"A dog? I'm a war hero!"
Barely controlling himself, he growled:
"Aren't you afraid I'll retaliate?"
Underwood's smug expression replayed in his mind even now, his mocking tone like a stone crushing Mike's chest.
"You wouldn't dare. The gambling licenses of Las Vegas are in my hands. Go back to your casinos. Stop dreaming."
Bang!
Mike smashed his fist into the seat in front of him.
He hadn't struck Underwood—he couldn't. The lieutenant governor held too much sway over Vegas.
Still, the punch brought some relief—until Mike noticed the car hadn't moved.
He glanced at the driver's seat. Empty.
Trouble.
Years of living on the edge sharpened his instincts. His driver was already disappearing into a nearby alley.
Exactly like the bodyguard who fled moments before the bomb that killed his Italian wife.
Mike's pulse quickened.
Through the rear window, four men were running toward the car, hands buried in their coats. Guns.
He slammed the windows shut. The car was armored, a gift from Leo.
But when he opened the glove box—his pistol was gone. The traitor had taken it.
The killers closed in. Mike knew the car's protection wouldn't last. A few bursts from those Thompsons and it'd be shredded.
Worse, he couldn't risk starting the engine. What if a bomb was wired to the ignition?
In that case, there was only one option—fight back.
He yanked open the steel box under his seat. Six pineapple grenades gleamed inside.
Leo's standard safeguard for his men. A last resort.
Without hesitation, Mike grabbed one, popped the sunroof, and hurled it with a soldier's precision.
Boom! Two gunmen were blasted off their feet, dead on the spot.
The other two fired wildly, but their aim was poor. Bullets rattled uselessly against the armored frame.
Mike stayed cool. Another grenade. Another explosion. The killers dove aside, surviving, but crippled.
He pocketed the remaining grenades, then climbed out. Sirens would be coming soon—he had to vanish.
A quick scan. No second wave. No hidden observers. He grabbed a Thompson from a corpse and slipped into a side alley.
Within the hour, he reached a mafia safehouse disguised as an Italian restaurant. The owner immediately called for reinforcements.
By afternoon, Mike was back at his Tahoe villa.
When his loyal aide Nelly arrived, Mike's voice was icy:
"Find that traitor driver. And bring me those two wounded gunmen alive. I want to know who sent them!"
Nelly nodded and left at once.
Mike's wife, Kay, who had seen everything, protested:
"Mike, you promised me—you'd stay out of this life! We should call the police!"
Her innocence stung him. Rage burned in his chest, but he pressed his hand over her lips.
Now was no time for arguments.
When he let go, Kay's eyes were full of hurt.
"You must call the police, Mike! If you really want a political career, you can't keep handling things the old way."
Mike's patience snapped. His gaze turned cold.
"As my wife, shouldn't you care whether I'm hurt, whether I survived? Instead of lecturing me?
Kay, you don't understand. Leave me. I have work to do."
The Don's aura returned. Kay's shoulders slumped in despair as she left the room.
That night, Nelly returned with grim news: the wounded killers had died at the station. The driver—found dead in an alley.
Clearly, the overseer had tied up loose ends. And yes—the car had been rigged with explosives. Had Mike panicked and started it, he'd already be dead.
Mike frowned. Too many enemies to name. Who had struck?
Exhausted, he finally retired for the night. Tomorrow, he'd face police questioning—after all, his bullet-riddled car still sat outside the statehouse.
In the bedroom, Kay pretended to sleep. Mike didn't bother with her. He stood at the window, peeling off his clothes one by one.
Then—movement. A shadow outside.
He didn't hesitate. He lunged for the bed, dragging Kay down with him.
Tat-tat-tat!
Gunfire erupted, spraying the room with lead.