Harold had survived countless brushes with death, and he knew well that assassins rarely left a target's fate uncertain. If the poison failed, they would always return to finish the job.
Without hesitation, he scooped up Alfred and rushed toward the hidden passage.
Being an old veteran in the world of power and betrayal, Harold had built the tunnel the very day he moved into this manor — a precaution born of instinct.
The moment he entered the tunnel, two masked men broke into the dining hall behind him.
Gloves, masks, and calm efficiency — professional cleaners.
"The primary target's still alive," one whispered.
"No problem," said the other. "Old D's waiting at the exit. It's in the mountains — easy place to dispose of… evidence. We don't need to rush over. Works out fine."
"Yeah," his partner replied, chuckling grimly. "That squad of Old D's is ruthless. Took out all those guards."
"Trained by the best," said the other coldly. "Now shut up and finish the job."
In the pitch-dark tunnel, Harold carried Alfred through the winding passage until he saw the faint light of the exit.
He pushed Alfred upward first, then turned back to grab a small metal case filled with cash — his escape fund, his road to America.
He swore silently: If I live through this, Leo will pay — in full.
"Alfred, give Grandpa a hand with the box," he called softly.
A hand reached down and took the case.
Harold hesitated. Alfred's strength couldn't possibly be that great — the case weighed over thirty kilos.
A cold realization struck him. The hand was too large. Not Alfred's.
Before he could retreat back into the tunnel, a powerful arm yanked him upward.
Harold caught a glimpse of Alfred lying motionless on the grass, a small crimson wound on his temple.
His vision blurred. Rage flooded his body as he struggled to reach the boy.
"Don't worry," said a cold voice beside him. "You'll join your family soon."
A gunshot cracked through the night.
When Leo stepped out of Lynchburg that morning, the centuries-old Cotton family — his greatest domestic rival — ceased to exist.
At Citibank's New York headquarters, John Stillman stared furiously at the telegram from Peru.
The headline of the morning paper on his desk read:
"Government Forces Mutiny — Peruvian Regime Collapses."
He grabbed the phone and barked into it:
"You useless fool! Three days ago you swore the situation was under control — and now you tell me Citibank operations in Peru are frozen?"
The branch chief's voice trembled on the other end:
"No one expected the rebels to have weapons! They hit us before we could react. Sir, the capital's in chaos — a shell just landed outside the main office! Please, get me out of here — if I stay, I'll die!"
John slammed the receiver down. "You ruined everything! Get out yourself!"
He sank back in his chair, fury simmering. Who supplied the weapons?
His secretary, more composed, spoke quietly:
"Sir, we need to contain this before it reaches the U.S. press. If investors hear about it, our South American projects will collapse."
John nodded, breathing heavily to calm himself.
Before he could issue orders, his assistant burst in with a copy of Le Monde.
The front page featured the same story — with Leo's name implied between the lines.
John's fist came down hard on the desk.
Of course. Only Leo would dare.
The realization chilled him — his entire South American portfolio would suffer.
Even though Leo's media outlets were considered "untrustworthy," no investor would risk funds after such headlines.
South America wasn't just profitable — it was strategically vital, a bridgehead for influence, trade, and mining rights.
Leo's move had been surgical — economic and psychological warfare rolled into one.
But the bad news wasn't over.
As John reached for the phone to call Samuel for a strategy meeting, the line lit up — once, twice, three, four times. Each call brought new disasters.
By the last one, John slumped into his chair, white as paper.
Every major project he had been building for over a year — gone.
Seized by two banks: Bank of America and Wells Fargo — both under Leo's control.
It wasn't just competition. It was annihilation.
Citibank's only profitable region — Latin America — had just been cut off.
And John knew what that meant: no profits, no leadership.
He couldn't go to Samuel now. His value had evaporated.
In his world, a useless man didn't live long.
He needed to prove his worth — fast.
"Call Harold," he snapped at his secretary. "Tell him if he keeps wasting time chasing women, he'll never come back to America."
The secretary didn't dare use John's office line, so she returned to her own to make the call.
John sat in silence, thinking through his options. Who else could increase his leverage?
Besides Harold, there was only one: the Far East connection — MacArthur and Maxim.
He frowned. Both men were opportunists; if Samuel reached them first, they'd sell him out in a heartbeat.
Still, it was all he had.
Minutes passed. The secretary hadn't returned. Impatient, John went to her office.
She stood frozen, pale as chalk.
"Well? What did Harold say?"
Her voice quivered. "We can't reach him. And… the Cotton family — all of them — have vanished."
John froze. Then, like ice creeping through his veins, realization dawned.
"Vanished" meant dead.
Leo had made his next move.
He called Robert, who had just returned from Britain, and said grimly:
"You people have always wanted to find Leo's hidden armed force, right? I can tell you where it is."
Robert's tone was skeptical. "You must be desperate. What's your price?"
"Protection," John said flatly. "Ensure my safety — and Citibank will cooperate with the defense industry in the future."
That got Robert's attention. The military-industrial bloc needed financial partners. DuPont would approve.
"Fine," said Robert. "Meet me in person. If your intel checks out, you'll get your protection."
At John's townhouse, Robert arrived, examined the address John handed over, and smirked.
"Impressive hiding spot. Where'd you get this?"
"Remember those two who jumped off my building?" John said calmly. "One of them — Hubert — was Leo's financial manager. He tracked three recurring fund transfers leading to these locations.
He told the information to Leo's old rival, Governor Jesse of Virginia — and Jesse told me."
Robert raised his eyebrows. If the source was Jesse, the information was solid. Everyone knew Jesse's hatred for Leo bordered on obsession.
Robert twirled the paper in his hand. "What made you give up such a valuable secret just to save your skin?"
John gave a weary smile. "You'll understand soon."
He was right.
Within days, The New Times, Le Monde, and all of Leo's media outlets ran extensive exposés on Citibank's South American collapse.
Hollywood joined in — several studios launched films dramatizing the crisis.
The result was devastating. Citibank's image was in ruins.
At the shareholders' meeting, Samuel addressed the room with a cold expression:
"We underestimated The New Times' influence. Even the illiterate masses read it for its page-three girls — and now every investor believes our projects are doomed."
All shareholders were present — except John Stillman.
One of Samuel's allies added bluntly:
"Citibank was once glorious. Under the Stillman family, we've lost the Far East, Europe, and now South America. For the good of us all, perhaps it's time for new leadership."
"I agree."
"So do I."
The room echoed with assent — a show of unity that left no doubt.
Someone finally asked:
"But will the Stillmans give up power willingly? John will fight to the end to keep his chairmanship."
It was less a question, more a test — whether Samuel had already arranged for John's removal.
Everyone in that room had skeletons buried with Citibank's help. If John lived, he could expose them.
Samuel's voice was calm but decisive:
"I'll handle it."
The room remained silent until Will, the Jewish syndicate's enforcer, spoke up:
"I'll take care of it personally."
That was enough. When Will made a promise, someone usually didn't survive it.
After the meeting, Samuel turned to Will. "Have you found John?"
"No," Will replied. "He never showed."
Just then, a secretary rushed in. "Sir, a call from Mr. DuPont."
Samuel took it, listened, and returned with a grim expression.
"John Stillman has defected to DuPont. We may have lost Citibank."
Will frowned. "DuPonts don't move without profit. What did John offer them?"
Samuel's eyes darkened. "Get Jesse here. I have questions for him. He needs to understand — it was me, not John, who saved his life."
Indeed, DuPont's call had weight. Their private militia had confirmed John's intel — Leo's armed forces existed, and the locations were real.
DuPont, cautious but intrigued, decided not to rush.
"We'll monitor for now," Robert advised. "If Leo has more than four private armies, acting too soon could be fatal. But now that we have leads, tracking them will be easy."
DuPont nodded. "And let Leo keep his forces — they'll help us eliminate our competitors."
As Robert prepared to leave, DuPont stopped him.
"One more thing. Our Southern Republican congressmen are plotting something big. Find out what it is."
"Understood," said Robert.
Meanwhile, at the Valentino Hot Springs Resort near Washington, D.C., in its most secluded meeting hall, a secret gathering was underway.
Present were power brokers from both parties — the Taft family, Eisenhower, California's Governor Earl, former New York Governor Dewey, Democrat leader Thomas, and independent presidential candidate Wallace.
The air was heavy. Whatever they were planning… would shake America.