Kirk Liddell — the Jefferson family's son-in-law, Jefferson's mouthpiece in Washington, a congressman from Virginia, and chairman of several committees — was a true power player within the Democratic Party.
He glanced toward Gerald, who sat in the party whip's seat, and said coldly:
"Is it really appropriate to discuss how to handle this matter when Valentino's lapdog is still in the room?"
Gerald might have lacked political tact, but when it came to verbal combat, few could match him. He immediately shot back with biting sarcasm:
"You call me a dog, but you didn't exactly turn down Valentino's campaign donations, did you?
Let's not forget — the Jefferson family's collaborations with Mr. Valentino in Virginia far outnumber any favors I've ever done for him.
If I'm a dog, then you and the Jeffersons behind you are an entire pack. No, you're worse — at least I know not to bite the hand that feeds me. You people take the benefits and then turn around to bite!
Mr. Valentino is a business titan that we, the Democratic Party, nurtured with great effort. He could have helped us all live better lives, better compete with those rising Republican corporations.
But now — you drove him away! You forced out the very man who helped us take the biggest gamble in our history — and win! The man who led us to victory, to control of both houses!
And why? Because of your greed. You've destroyed everything!"
Gerald's words hit their mark. Many congressmen began to glance toward Kirk Liddell with open hostility.
Liddell instinctively wanted to leave the room. He knew well that, despite their titles, American politicians were still very capable of settling disputes with their fists.
"Enough!"
A deep, commanding voice cut through the tension. It belonged to Sam Rayburn — the Democratic Party's second-in-command, just beneath Thomas. A political heavyweight, Rayburn had served over three years as a House representative and more than a decade as the Majority Leader.
As soon as the boss spoke, the room fell silent.
Seeing his authority restored, Sam Rayburn nodded slightly to himself. He realized he now commanded the same level of respect Thomas once had.
From a personal standpoint, Thomas's departure was a blessing for Rayburn — and for his allies. After all, Valentino's exit, as the party's most influential business ally, inevitably weakened Thomas's hold on politics.
For Rayburn's faction, this was a golden opportunity to move against Leo.
But looking deeper, the loss of Thomas and his people was a crippling blow to the Democratic Party's fighting strength.
As the party's only remaining heavyweight, if Rayburn couldn't contain the fallout, even his position would be in jeopardy.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
"We're here now — the question is how to move forward.
The best solution, of course, is to recruit a Republican heavyweight to our side. Whoever can make that happen will be a hero of the Democratic Party!"
Rayburn looked around the table.
Everyone shook their heads. Impossible. The Democrats were about to be under fire — who would defect to them now?
Of course, Rayburn had expected that. His question was just a formality — a veteran politician's habit. If someone miraculously did have such a contact, he could always claim credit later.
"Since that's off the table," he said, "we'll have to ride out this storm. Can our media assets contain the damage?"
The party's media strategist, Allard Stevenson, spoke up:
"We'll do our best."
"Do your best? How?" Rayburn snapped. "Everyone knows Valentino controls The World, The New Journal, and the largest TV network in the Southwest. Can you make them go silent?"
An awkward hush fell over the room. Everyone knew it was impossible to suppress the story — but for the sake of unity and Rayburn's pride, no one contradicted him.
Rayburn's frown deepened. Back when Thomas said such things, no one dared question him. This… this felt like a challenge.
Was it Gerald? Rayburn's eyes flicked toward him — but Gerald was just sipping water. The others' glances led Rayburn to the true provocateur.
His brow furrowed even tighter. He couldn't punish the man — not now. That man was Alfonso, the one who'd exposed this crisis and organized the meeting.
Alfonso wasn't some minor figure to be disciplined casually. Arguing with him here would only make Rayburn look weak. He decided to ignore it — for now. Everyone else still followed his lead, except Alfonso.
"I want everyone, once this meeting ends," Rayburn continued, "to immediately call your state Democratic leaders and hold briefings.
Tell them this is merely a normal political split over differing views.
Remind them we are still the ruling party, the president is still a Democrat, and our advantage remains.
Most importantly, reassure our donors and supporters: staying with us is still in their best interest. Don't let them defect."
The others nodded. It was routine crisis control, but in a storm like this, leadership — any leadership — was appreciated.
Then Alfonso spoke again, his tone cutting through the calm like a knife:
"That's your plan? To talk donors into staying? These are shrewd businessmen, Sam. Late-night calls will only make them think we're panicking — and they'll run faster."
Rayburn's face darkened with anger, but he quickly regained composure. "Do you have a problem with me, Alfonso?"
"No," Alfonso said coolly. "I have a problem with your leadership. A real leader offers solutions, not empty words.
If Thomas were here, he'd already have a better plan.
Let's be honest — we need good news to calm our financiers. Otherwise, you're unfit for the job."
The challenge was blatant. Alfonso was clearly eyeing Rayburn's position.
Caught off guard, Rayburn steadied himself and said confidently,
"This happened suddenly. I can't deliver good news overnight. Give me time, and I'll prove I'm a worthy leader of the Democratic Party."
He planned to rely on his friends in the military-industrial complex — and on Wall Street allies who'd benefit from Leo's downfall.
Alfonso smirked. "I doubt Valentino and Thomas will give you that time, Rayburn. Only someone who can resolve this crisis deserves to lead us."
"Oh? You have a solution then?" Rayburn shot back, his pride flaring. Surely this upstart had nothing solid.
But when Alfonso stood up, walked toward him with that smug grin, Rayburn realized he might have miscalculated.
"If I do have one," Alfonso said, "then you're no longer our guide — and your seat will be mine."
Politicians are the most pragmatic creatures on earth. As soon as Alfonso spoke with such confidence, the room shifted.
Silence — the most powerful form of assent. None opposed him.
Rayburn realized, too late, that he'd walked right into Alfonso's trap. This whole crisis might have been orchestrated against him.
Still, he doubted Alfonso truly had a masterstroke. Maybe there'd be a flaw — or maybe his own allies would intervene soon.
"For the good of the party," Rayburn said stiffly, "if you really can save us, I'll step aside."
Alfonso smiled. "I said my source was reliable — because he attended the secret meeting that caused this split.
He's a former Democrat, a man who still loves this party deeply. He couldn't bear to see our thirty-year reign crumble, so he came straight to me with this news.
We all agree — to stabilize our base, we need good news.
And what better news than the return of a figure whose influence rivals Thomas's? Only he can steady the Democratic Party."
Gerald jumped in, playing the foil:
"And who is this mystery man?"
Alfonso smiled triumphantly.
"The former vice president — and once our presidential nominee — Mr. Henry Wallace."
"I disagree!"
Rayburn's face turned pale.
Wallace — the so-called "nice guy" of the Roosevelt era — was hardly a threat in Truman's eyes. But make no mistake: as a veteran statesman, a former vice president, and an independent candidate, his return could indeed stabilize the Democrats… at Rayburn's expense.
If Wallace came back, Rayburn wouldn't just lose leadership — Alfonso would take his spot too. All his scheming would have been for nothing.
"You disagree?" Alfonso sneered. "That's irrelevant. What matters is whether everyone else agrees."
The room fell silent. Forty core Democrats pondered their choice.
Gerald broke the silence, raising his hand:
"I agree. It's the best way to stabilize the party."
His faction followed immediately. Then Alfonso's supporters raised theirs. Soon, even the fence-sitters prepared to join them—
Until the doors burst open.
President Harry Truman stormed in, his voice booming:
"You idiots! Are you really voting on this? Can't you see it's Valentino's trap?
Wallace once opposed him, sure — but you've all heard the recent rumors about their families merging through marriage!
Where do you think Wallace's loyalties lie now? This is Valentino's conspiracy!
Bring Wallace back, and he'll be the new party leader — guaranteed!"
Truman caught his breath and pointed at Gerald:
"He's Valentino's man — our third-ranking official.
And Alfonso here? He's the one trying to push Rayburn out — our second.
So that makes one, two, three — all Valentino's people!
You want to hand the Democratic Party to Valentino and become his slaves?"
The room erupted in chaos. Truman had struck at the heart of what everyone had overlooked.
The former farmer from Missouri was no fool anymore. His fiery rhetoric left Alfonso speechless — and Alfonso lacked the authority to go toe-to-toe with the president.
But before Truman could press his advantage, another voice rang out — sharp, aged, and indignant.
"Harry, calling the man who lifted you to the presidency a 'slave master' — that's going too far.
If we're slaves, then what does that make you, who worked with him for years? His dog?"
It was Wallace, striding in right behind Truman.
"You're insulting me!" Truman snapped, his eyes cold.
"Insulting? Damn right I am!" Wallace thundered. "You're a clown who lucked into the presidency after Roosevelt's death!
You were supposed to be a lame-duck president with no real power, your policies stuck in the White House trash bin!
But thanks to Valentino, you became a real president. His support gave meaning to your so-called fair governance.
Because of him, America's crime rate plummeted.
Because of him, you gained respect in Europe.
Because of him, the same corporations and financiers who once mocked you now take you seriously.
Many here owe their Senate or House seats to Valentino's backing.
He's the reason our donors have multiplied — from billionaires to middle-class families contributing through his New Journal!
If you hadn't foolishly tried to control our greatest ally, teaming up with those who never respected you to attack him, we wouldn't even be in this mess!
So what gives you the right to question our loyalty to Valentino?
Yes, I stand with him — and I'm proud of it!
With him, our party rises. Without him, we fall.
So tell me, everyone — would you rather fight against him, or share in his success?"
Wallace, the seasoned statesman, had turned Truman's own logic against him. Without leaving room for rebuttal, he demanded an immediate vote.
Hands that had started to lower were raised again.
"You have no right to speak here!" Kirk Liddell shouted desperately. "You left the party — you quit!"
"No," Wallace said calmly, scanning the raised hands with a satisfied smile. "I have that right — because these people have just voted to welcome me back."
The closed-door meeting ended.
The victors rushed to contact the press, preparing to announce Henry Wallace's return to the Democratic Party.
The losers remained in the room — heads bowed in defeat.