Chapter 323 - News

Silence descended upon the hearing room.

Felix had used brutal yet genuine frontline commercial logic to shred Brooks's moral grandstanding to pieces.

In the face of capital's pragmatism, the hypocrisy of politicians proved utterly fragile.

Senator Vance watched Brooks being rendered speechless, feeling a sudden surge of panic in his heart.

He knew that if they failed to pin Argyle down at this hearing today, then once they returned to New York, the liberals' days would truly be numbered.

"Mr. Chairman!"

Vance shot up to his feet, attempting to forcefully change the subject.

"We shouldn't listen to his sophistry! Coercing people into signing political compacts is a proven fact. Such interference in the general election must be investigated by the Department of Justice!"

Watching the exasperated Vance, the sneer on Felix's lips deepened.

"Senator Vance, you seem quite anxious?"

Felix picked up the walking stick from the table and gently twisted its silver handle.

"Since you care so much about the election and political integrity, let's discuss another matter that has a massive connection to this election."

"A matter ten times dirtier and a hundred times bloodier than any so-called commercial contract."

Senator Vance had no idea what he meant, but gazing into Felix's bottomless eyes, an ominous foreboding suddenly rose in his heart.

"What nonsense are you babbling about? We are questioning you today, not the other way around!" Vance shouted, struggling to project confidence.

"Finch."

Felix ignored Vance, turning his head to address the chief legal counsel behind him.

Gregory Finch stepped forward once more and opened his briefcase. This time, however, he did not pull out legal statutes, but a black, hardbound work log.

Finch presented the logbook with both hands to the chairman of the hearing committee.

"Mr. Chairman, these are the line maintenance records of the Western Union Telegraph Company over the past month and a half," Felix's voice continued echoing through the hearing room.

"Over the past month and more, from Chicago to St. Louis, and from Indiana to Ohio, our trunk telegraph lines have suffered twenty-seven separate incidents of professional sabotage."

The number Felix cited caused many Senators on the dais to furrow their brows.

"Those saboteurs didn't steal money, nor did they take copper wire. They did only one thing: cut the lines with heavy-duty wire cutters and smash the insulators. And when the repair crews I sent climbed the utility poles, what greeted them wasn't gratitude, but rifle bullets fired from the shadows."

Felix's gaze turned razor-sharp in an instant.

"Thirty-two of our finest line repairmen were killed. They were just earning a few dollars a week to feed their wives and children. Yet they were shot and had their lives stolen away by scum hiding in the brush."

Murmurs of shocked gasps rippled through the gallery.

Thirty-two human lives—even in Washington, this was hardly a minor public order incident.

After all, the East was not the Wild West.

The committee chairman rapped his gavel.

"Mr. Argyle, these are serious felonies. But what direct connection does this have to the railroad shutdowns or the election we are discussing today? You should refer this to local police departments."

"It has everything to do with it, Mr. Chairman."

Felix's eyes locked firmly onto Senator Vance, whose face was already beginning to pale.

"Severing telegraph lines requires specialized tools, fast horses, and sustained field logistics. This is by no means something a few drunken farmers could pull off; this is a professional sabotage unit fed with massive amounts of gold. Their objective is crystal clear: to sever communication between the Midwest and the East Coast at the most critical juncture of the election."

Felix began connecting all the dots.

"So, why did they want to cut communications?"

"Because only by severing communications could Washington and New York be kept in the dark about what was happening in the Midwest."

Saying this, he raised his walking stick and pointed it in Vance's direction.

"On the very day telegraph lines were severed on a massive scale, the Liberal Republican Party held its Cincinnati convention! And shortly after, in Ohio, hundreds of rioters incited by extremist preachers, armed with stones and torches, attacked Acting President Thomas Clark's train! They smashed the windows and drew the blood of the Acting President of the United States!"

"This was yet another assassination attempt, following those on President Lincoln and President Grant—three in a row!"

"Gentlemen!"

Felix's voice rose sharply, striking like a sledgehammer against the hearts of everyone present.

"First blinding the government's eyes and deafening its ears, and then inciting religious fanatics to assault the head of state's special train. Can this truly be a mere coincidence?"

"No! This is a long-premeditated armed insurrection against the incumbent administration! It is an assassination draped in the garments of politics!"

An uproar ensued—

Pandemonium broke loose in the hearing room.

Every reporter was scribbling furiously; this was nothing short of an explosive scoop.

Linking the severed telegraph lines to the attack on the acting president immediately transformed the nature of the entire event from a business dispute into treasonous terrorism aimed at subverting the nation.

President Lincoln had been targeted for assassination, President Grant had also been targeted for assassination—was the acting president currently running for office now plunging into that very same vortex of political violence?

Three consecutive generations of presidents had faced assassination attempts, and none had died yet.

It was practically one of the wonders of the world.

Beads of sweat the size of beans broke out across Senator Theodore Vance's forehead, his hands gripping his trouser legs tightly beneath the desk.

As a core figure among the liberals, he naturally knew what was going on.

On that rainy night in Cincinnati, Charles Adams had personally admitted that he had hired those men to cut the telegraph lines in order to stall Felix's intelligence network.

He knew even better that Adams had indeed instructed extremist churches to cause trouble for Argyle and Thomas.

But he had never anticipated that Argyle would be able to bind these two incidents together so tightly right here at a congressional hearing, slapping on the colossal label of "presidential assassination."

"Y-You're talking nonsense!"

Vance sprang to his feet, his voice warped by fear and fury.

"You have no evidence whatsoever! You are completely deflecting attention with groundless conspiracy theories! The broken telegraph lines are clearly due to your company's poor management, and the attack on the acting president is the result of deteriorating local security! None of this has anything to do with the Liberal Republican Party!"

"No evidence?"

Felix looked at the exasperated Vance; he had been waiting precisely for Vance to take the bait.

"Senator Vance, I knew that was what you'd say. In the eyes of you politicians, so long as you haven't placed your hand upon the Bible to swear an oath, you will never admit to the dirty deeds you've done."

Felix turned around and glanced toward the closed doors of the hearing room.

"And so, specifically for this hearing, I have prepared a small gift for all of you."

He turned his gaze back toward the dais.

"As I said earlier, the people sabotaging the telegraph lines were highly professional. But they forgot that the Argyle Family security team was also forged in blood out in the wilderness."

"Three days ago, out in the wilderness of Illinois, my security personnel disguised themselves as maintenance workers and laid a trap. Not only did they gun down four thugs who came to cause destruction..."

Felix stared straight into Vance's eyes, which were already brimming with terror.

"...they also had the good fortune of capturing three alive."

"Captured them alive?"

The Senators on the dais exchanged glances, while the journalists in the gallery stood up in excitement, their quills scratching furiously against their notebooks with harsh, rustling sounds.

If living captives really had been taken, the mastermind behind this nationwide sabotage would be exposed completely.

Senator Theodore Vance felt his legs go weak, quickly sinking back into his leather chair.

His heart thudded wildly in his chest.

He knew very well what kind of scum those mercenaries were.

They would do anything for money.

But by the same token, when confronted with death or torture, they would sell out their employer without the slightest hesitation.

If those killers truly spat out Adams's name, the entire liberal faction could be branded a treasonous cabal overnight.

No, he could not allow him to present any evidence here.

Absolutely not!

That simply could not happen...

"Mr. Chairman!"

Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, Vance jumped to his feet again with a violent start, loudly interrupting Felix.

"This is utterly preposterous! Not only does Alan Argyle monopolize commerce, but now he dares to deploy private armed forces on the territory of the United States to arbitrarily arrest and detain citizens!"

"This is illegal detention!"

Vance turned to look at the committee chairman and the other members, attempting to use legal procedure to gag Felix.

"I demand an immediate halt to this testimony! The subject of today's hearing is the railway shutdown and agricultural fraud. Argyle bringing up these so-called'survivors' is completely off-topic! This involves criminal matters that should be left to local police departments or state courts. This is Congress, not a police interrogation room!"

Vance's point was procedurally sound, as congressional hearings indeed had defined topical boundaries.

The committee chairman furrowed his brow.

He, too, felt that Felix's accusations were far too grave.

If this truly involved a political conspiracy to assassinate the acting president, the waters were far too deep—not something their modest special investigative committee could handle.

"Mr. Argyle."

The chairman rapped his gavel, sternly cutting through the commotion in the room.

"Senator Vance's objection is valid. Regardless of what damage your telegraph lines suffered, or whether any captives were taken, this falls under the purview of violent crime. Congress has no law enforcement authority; you should hand those suspects over to the local sheriff in Illinois."

"Hand them over to a local sheriff?"

Felix smiled, looking at the chairman as if looking at an idiot.

"Mr. Chairman. Not only did these men sever my wires in the wilderness, but they also used insidious means to coordinate an attack on the acting president's special train. Is that merely ordinary property damage?"

"As I said before, this is treason!"

"Specifically, a political assassination targeting the supreme head of the Federal Government! Under the laws of the United States, local sheriffs who barely know how to ride a horse have no jurisdiction over a case of this magnitude. Even ordinary federal marshals aren't qualified to meddle!"

Vance swallowed hard, forcing himself to maintain composure.

"Then what do you propose? Do you plan to set up your own court to try them? Who do you think you are? The Emperor of the United States?"

"Of course I am no emperor; I am merely a law-abiding businessman."

Felix straightened his suit jacket, the corners of his lips curling into an expression that signaled everything was well in hand.

"Therefore... after my security team captured those three alive, I didn't bring them back to New York at all, nor would I ever resort to vigilantism."

Looking at Vance, Felix's eyes brimmed with mockery.

"Right away, I instructed my security team to transfer these three thugs, along with the bearer gold coins and several intriguing secret letters confiscated from them, completely untouched, to the only national agency in the United States with both the authority and the responsibility to investigate this matter."

Vance's face blanched instantly, his dry lips trembling slightly.

"Wh—Who did you hand them over to?"

Felix did not answer him, instead glancing down at his exquisite Swiss pocket watch.

"Judging by the time, unless Washington traffic is too terrible, they should be standing right outside the door by now."

Just as Felix's words faded,

the heavy, carved oak double doors of the hearing room were pushed open from the outside.

"Bang!"

The doors slammed against the walls, echoing loudly through the room.

Every gaze in the hearing room swung in unison toward the doorway.

Four cold-eyed men strode into the hall.

They wore no military uniforms, nor did they bear badges.

Yet the chilling aura radiating from them—the unmistakable presence of the state's apparatus of force—sent an inexplicable shiver through every politician present.

Leading the way was a lean, capable middle-aged man carrying a black leather briefcase.

Watching this man walk in, Felix's lips curved upward slightly.

This man was none other than the former chief of the Intelligence Department, whom Felix had later placed into the federal Secret Service—now Deputy Director of the Secret Service, Flynn.

Flynn came to a halt, drew a gleaming gold badge from the inner pocket of his overcoat, and held it up high.

"United States Secret Service, on official business."

Flynn's voice was devoid of emotion.

Ignoring the stunned stares from the hearing floor, he walked straight up to the dais and faced the committee chairman.

"Mr. Chairman, three days ago, the Secret Service took custody of three critical suspects. Following rigorous interrogation and investigation, we have obtained conclusive evidence. This sabotage targeting the Midwest telegraph lines and the violent assault on President Clark's special train are interconnected political conspiracies orchestrated by the same funding network behind the scenes."

Flynn raised the leather case in his hand.

"Inside are the confessions of the suspects, along with transaction vouchers tracing the flow of funds seized in Chicago. The Secret Service believes this evidence directly implicates persons involved in this congressional hearing. Under the supreme authority of the Secret Service, I demand immediate intervention in this hearing!"

When Flynn raised that black leather briefcase and announced his intervention in the hearing in his capacity as Deputy Director of the Secret Service...

The air throughout the entire rotunda seemed to be sucked dry.

One had to know that although the Federal Secret Service had not been established for very long, because it answered directly to the President and was originally created to combat rampant counterfeiting crimes, its authority among federal agencies was astonishingly vast.

Especially after Lincoln's assassination, the Secret Service of the Grant era took over the security duties for the head of state.

Er...

Even though Grant had still ended up getting assassinated anyway.

But that didn't matter!

Regardless, this agency representing the nation's highest security authority had now barged right through the doors of the Senate hearing room bearing evidence of a presidential assassination attempt.

Sitting on the dais, Senator Theodore Vance felt the world spinning around him. He stared fixedly at the black leather briefcase in Flynn's hand as if it were an artillery shell that could detonate at any second.

"You... You are interfering with congressional proceedings!"

Vance's voice had lost its conviction as he pointed at Flynn and shouted.

"The Secret Service has no authority to barge into a hearing without the committee's consent! This is illegal!"

Flynn lowered the hand holding up his badge, looking at Vance coldly.

Hmph. So this was the guy causing trouble for the boss.

"Senator Vance. The duty of the Secret Service is to protect the life of the President of the United States and investigate any conspiracy attempting to subvert the nation. According to the confessions in our possession, the suspects testified that the gold coins they received originated from several secret underground banks in Cincinnati."

Flynn took a step forward, exuding overwhelming pressure.

"And according to the Secret Service's financial audits, the money trail of these underground banks aligns perfectly with the funding sources used recently to mass-print and distribute inflammatory pamphlets across major northern cities, as well as to finance extremist churches!"

Flynn slammed the black briefcase down onto the long table, right next to Felix.

With a crisp snap, Flynn popped open the latches of the briefcase.

"Senator, if you believe this has nothing to do with Congress, I can read out the final list of where these funds went right now in front of all the reporters. Let us see who, exactly, has been using massive amounts of gold to hire thugs to sabotage the nation's communications and incite religious mobs to attack the President."

Flynn's hand was already resting on the briefcase lid.

"No! You cannot read it!"

Vance practically vaulted out of his chair.

If Flynn truly read out Charles Adams's name here, not only would the presidential election be doomed, but the entire Liberal Republican Party would also be immediately branded as traitors.

Tonight, Washington police would surround their homes. Inciting riots and attacking the President were more than enough to send them all to the gallows.

Trembling all over, Vance looked toward the committee chairman beside him as if pleading for salvation.

The committee chairman was also badly rattled by this sudden development. But as a seasoned establishment politician, he naturally knew what a terrifying political tsunami would erupt once such a thing was exposed publicly in Congress.

This was no longer just an issue of monopoly businessmen; this would completely tear apart the entire political ecosystem of Washington.

"Director Flynn, please wait a moment."

The chairman hurriedly rapped his gavel, his voice turning rather dry.

"A congressional hearing is a solemn occasion. Since the Secret Service has brought forward major classified evidence involving national security, based on confidentiality principles and national interests, I believe this evidence is not suitable for presentation in an open setting with the press present."

The chairman attempted to use procedure to cover up the impending explosion of scandal.

"I propose that the questioning of Mr. Argyle be temporarily suspended. We need to conduct a closed-door review of the evidence submitted by the Secret Service."

"I second the motion! Adjourn immediately for a closed-door review!" Vance chimed in loudly.

None of the other Senators, whether Liberal or establishment, raised any objections now.

The filth of politics could only be traded behind closed doors; once the dirty laundry was fully exposed to the public, it would benefit no one.

"Since there are no objections..."

The chairman let out a long breath.

*Bang!*

He brought the gavel down hard.

"This hearing of the Special Investigative Committee is officially adjourned!"

With the strike of that gavel, the reporters who had originally hoped to watch the Argyle Family make fools of themselves erupted into dissatisfied boos.

Yet faced with the chilling glares of Secret Service agents, they could only helplessly pack away their notebooks and be forcibly escorted out of the hall by Washington police.

The hearing room was quickly cleared, leaving only the Senators on the dais, alongside Felix and Flynn standing before the long table.

Felix picked up his walking stick from the table.

Looking at Senator Vance slumping in his chair and gasping for air, his dark eyes brimmed with mockery and disdain.

From the very beginning, this was never an inquiry about railroads and freight rates.

It was merely a web he had woven with his own hands.

As early as when he made the decision to halt train services, he had foreseen that the Liberals would make an issue out of the shutdown.

That was why he hadn't handed over the captives caught in the wilderness to his own security team, but directly turned them over to the Secret Service, which he had already infiltrated.

Flynn was his man.

The Secret Service was merely a branch of the Argyle Intelligence Department draped in legitimate attire.

What did those three captives actually confess to?

Were there truly transfer vouchers belonging to Charles Adams inside that black leather briefcase?

In truth, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that Felix had placed this briefcase on the table on Capitol Hill. It was like pressing a loaded revolver against the temple of the Liberals.

If the Liberals dared to continue investigating the Argyle Family...

Felix would not hesitate to open the briefcase and plunge them into the abyss.

This was political nuclear deterrence.

"Senator Vance."

Felix leaned on his walking stick and turned around, preparing to leave the hearing room.

"If I were you, I would run back to the hotel right now, pack my bags, buy a ticket for the earliest train, and scurry back to the Missouri countryside to farm."

Felix's tone was calm, yet it carried a chill that penetrated down to the bone.

"At this card table in Washington, not only do you have less capital than me, but your methods aren't ruthless enough either. And now, I can see every single card in your hand."

"What do you even have to play against me with?"

With that, he put on his demi-top hat.

"Director Flynn, please keep that case safe. If the committee has any further 'questions' during the closed-door session, you can give them a thorough reading of those confessions."

"Understood, Mr. Argyle."

Flynn bowed slightly, smoothly slipping back into character.

Nodding, Felix walked out of the Senate doors with measured steps, flanked by his legal team.

Outside Capitol Hill, the sunlight was still brilliant.

Standing atop the tall flight of steps, he looked down at the broad expanse of Washington Avenue in high spirits.

"What will you do now?"

Georgetown, Washington D.C.

On a late October evening, the sky was a deep shade of grayish blue. The gas lamps lining both sides of the street had already been lit by the lamplighter, casting a dim yellow glow through the thin mist.

The carriage's wooden wheels rolled over the gravel-paved street, producing a monotonous crunching sound.

Felix sat inside the bulletproof carriage, watching the streetscape recede past the window.

Soon, the carriage came to a halt in front of an estate with tall iron gates and an expansive lawn.

This was the private Washington residence of Acting President Thomas Clark. Although Thomas spent most of his time working at the White House, his daughter Anna Clark and grandson Caesar had always lived in this heavily guarded manor.

Felix pushed the carriage door open and stepped down.

Several guards in dark coats immediately fanned out, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.

The main building of the estate was a three-story brick house with a white portico, and the front door was pushed open from the inside.

Anna stood by the doorway wearing a dark blue house dress, her hair loosely pinned behind her head. Seeing Felix walk up the steps, a natural smile appeared on her face as she stepped forward to take the trench coat and top hat he had taken off.

"Are things on Capitol Hill taken care of?"

Anna hung the coat on the wooden rack behind the door and asked as she turned around.

"All taken care of. That Senator Vance will probably need to down an entire bottle of whiskey to get a good night's sleep." Felix's tone was relaxed as he reached out and wrapped his arm around Anna's waist.

"Is Thomas back yet?"

"Father is still at the White House. He sent word saying he had to handle some documents regarding troop movements, and that he'd probably be back around eight o'clock for dinner."

Anna led Felix toward the spacious living room.

Prime firewood crackled in the living room's fireplace.

The room was pleasantly warm.

On the wool rug before the fireplace, two-year-old Caesar lay on his stomach, holding an exquisitely crafted wooden toy locomotive and pushing it back and forth across the carpet.

"Caesar, look who's here."

Anna called her son's name softly.

Little Caesar stopped what he was doing and looked up.

The moment he saw Felix, he abandoned the wooden train, scrambled up from the rug, and toddled over on somewhat unsteady steps.

"Da-dee~"

The little boy's voice was adorably childish.

Felix crouched down, scooped Caesar into his arms, and hoisted him into the air, drawing a clear, joyful giggle from the little boy.

Outside, he was the capitalist monster that struck terror into the business world and Capitol Hill, but in the living room of Clark Manor, he set aside his ruthless edge.

"You look like you've grown quite a bit. What did you do at home today?"

Felix carried his son over to the sofa and sat down, letting him perch on his lap.

"Da-dee~ I'm building a railroad."

Little Caesar pointed at the long tracks assembled from wooden blocks on the rug.

"My train is going far, far away. Mama said Da-dee built all those real tracks."

Felix laughed and ruffled his son's hair.

"Your mother's right. Those tracks and the trains running on them were all built by Daddy's people. In the future, you can go wherever you want."

Anna sat down on the armchair opposite them, gazing at the father and son with a profoundly tender look in her eyes.

"I hired an English tutor for him to teach him his letters and some simple arithmetic. Even though Caesar is only two, he's remarkably sensitive to numbers. Whenever I check the charity foundation's accounts, he always loves staring at all the zeros."

Anna picked up the black tea from the coffee table and took a small sip.

"With the blood of the Argyle Family, having an affinity for numbers is only natural."

Felix set little Caesar back down onto the rug, letting him go back to playing with his wooden train.

After all, as Old Hua and Old Qian—who loved revoking people's Chinese nationality and humanity—once said: what's this about Chinese people being good at math? Could anyone truly be so dumb they can't even do calculus?

Although he was Irish in this life, the soul in his mind wasn't.

So wouldn't it make total sense for his child to inherit his Chinese knack for mathematics?

Right?

He leaned back against the sofa and looked at Anna.

"Is the foundation running smoothly on this end? Catherine's baby bump is getting bigger, so she probably doesn't have much energy to deal with the detailed paperwork."

"Everything is going very well." Anna set down her teacup.

"There's plenty of space on the fifth floor of the building, and our orphanage project in the South is proceeding according to plan. However, the dye laboratory that Dr. Vogel built on the hill behind the university consumes a massive amount of coal every day. I allocated that budget directly from the Metropolitan Trading Company's accounts. Mr. Lawrence from Boston sent someone yesterday with our first dividend payout from the dye patents."

"Those old fogies in Boston certainly parted with their money fast enough," Felix snorted coldly.

"They wouldn't dare drag their feet."

Anna's tone took on a sharp, shrewd edge.

"Patriot Investment Company backed Calumet Mining Company into a corner. If they didn't cooperate with us, their textile mills in Boston wouldn't be able to dye a single bolt of cloth. Those old-money families tremble just seeing an envelope from the Argyle's Building now."

The firelight from the hearth danced across their faces.

This was casual domestic chatter within the inner sanctum of a top-tier capitalist dynasty, yet its contents dictated the livelihoods of tens of thousands.

The evening passed quickly.

A sumptuous dinner was already laid out on the long solid-wood dining table: sizzling steaks glistening with juice, mashed potatoes, and vegetables drizzled with gravy.

Quarter past eight in the evening.

The sound of neighing horses and rolling wheels came from outside the estate.

The front door swung open.

Acting President Thomas Clark walked in, bringing the outdoor chill with him. Some of the gauze on his cheek wound had already been removed, replaced with a small piece of medical tape.

"Felix. What you pulled on Capitol Hill today nearly caused the White House switchboards to blow up."

Thomas strode toward the dining room while handing his overcoat to a servant. There was no anger on his face; on the contrary, he wore a relaxed smile.

"Take a seat, Thomas. Dinner was just served," Felix said, gesturing to the chair across the table.

Thomas sat down, and a servant immediately poured him a glass of red wine.

"Cheers, Felix. To those liberal congressmen who practically wet themselves in the hearing room."

Thomas raised his glass, clinked it against Felix's, and downed half of his red wine.

"When Flynn from the Secret Service set that leather briefcase full of depositions on the table, I heard Vance's face went whiter than a corpse's." Thomas picked up his knife and fork, sliced off a piece of steak, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

"That was just one hole card shown to them."

Felix took a sip of water, his tone even.

"Since they wanted to escalate things and drag down our logistics and votes with congressional inquiries, I hung the noose of presidential assassination right around their necks. Now, the ball is in their court."

Thomas swallowed his beef, put down his cutlery, and his gaze turned serious.

"Let's head to the study after dinner; we need to talk through what comes next. While the Secret Service's evidence is lethal, playing this card requires meticulous calculation."

"The waters of Washington run far deeper than you imagine."

After dinner.

The private study on the second floor of Clark Manor.

The soundproofing here was exceptional.

In the center of the study stood a broad mahogany desk, surrounded by ceiling-high bookshelves filled with various law books and government documents.

Thomas Clark walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of neat bourbon whiskey, and handed one to Felix.

"Try this. An old friend from Kentucky sent it over. It's much stronger than the watered-down swill they sell in the taverns out there." Thomas sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and lit a cigar.

Felix carried his glass over to the fireplace.

He didn't smoke a cigar, merely swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"The confessions of those three men in the Secret Service have been completely locked down."

Felix took a sip of the whiskey, the spicy liquid sliding down his throat. He turned to look at Thomas, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes.

"The money trail is crystal clear—several private native banks in Cincinnati. As long as we follow their ledgers, I believe we'll quickly pin down Charles Francis Adams. He was definitely the one who funneled huge amounts of gold coins through those institutions to extremist churches in the Midwest and those mercenaries before the Cincinnati convention."

"Thomas, I plan to have Flynn take men directly to Boston to arrest Adams first. Then, through the News Media Company, we'll plaster all the confessions and transaction records across the front pages of newspapers in every major city. I want to crush the Adams family in one fell blow and turn the Liberals into an outright criminal syndicate in this election."

Hearing this, Thomas paused, his fingers holding the cigar frozen for a moment.

He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and slowly shook his head at Felix, who was standing by the fireplace.

"Felix, I know you're used to completely crushing your opponents in business, just like you did with Old Morgan or those mining companies in Boston. In commerce, you can drive them to bankruptcy and jump off buildings. But here in Washington, at the center of politics, you cannot play it that way."

Thomas spoke with earnest gravity.

"Crushing the Adams family in one fell swoop? That's fundamentally impossible. And if you actually do it, it will only bring you endless trouble."

This made Felix frown.

"There's clear evidence that he hired people to sabotage the national communication network, which indirectly led to the attack on your private train. Why can't we finish him off?"

"Sigh... It's not that I don't want to, but the forces behind Charles Francis Adams are formidable." Thomas sighed and rested his cigar on the rim of the ashtray.

"Listen to me, Felix. The Adams family isn't like those merchants you dealt with before who got rich off railroads or oil within a few years. They are one of this country's founding families."

Saying that, Thomas pointed to several portraits of America's past presidents hanging on the wall.

"His grandfather was John Adams, the second president of America. His father was John Quincy Adams, the sixth president. This family has been rooted in this country's political soil for nearly a century!"

"Do you think Adams is just an individual? Do you think he's merely the leader of the Liberals? You're wrong! His allies permeate every corner of the Federal Government. The Supreme Court has justices funded by their family; the War Department has veteran generals promoted by his father back in the day; and in Ivy League universities like Harvard and Yale, more than half of the professors and scholars share tangled academic and financial ties with the Adams family."

Thomas raised his glass and took a large gulp.

"If you really have the Secret Service arrest Adams with those confessions, I guarantee you, before the arrest warrant even reaches Boston, the Supreme Court will issue an emergency injunction on grounds of 'procedural illegality' or 'fabricated evidence.' Those veteran Republican Party Senators, even the establishment figures who previously supported us, would immediately turn against us."

Felix narrowed his eyes; it seemed the current Adams family hadn't yet declined to the state it would reach in later generations.

"Wait, aren't they opposed to Adams?"

"Because of fear!" Thomas answered.

"Felix, those old establishment politicians are vested interests who have spent decades in this system, just like Adams. They can shout curses at one another over votes and uneven spoils, or even brawl on the congressional floor. But that's an internal game."

With that, Thomas looked at Felix.

"You, however, belong to the outside. More critically, you hold guns, capital, and your own private security forces. If you can use the Secret Service to uproot a founding family today, won't you use the same methods tomorrow to send other congressmen and families to prison or the gallows?"

Taking a deep breath, Thomas's tone turned earnest and advising.

"The moment you show the intent to destroy the Adams family, all the traditional political forces in Washington, all the old-money dynasties, and even the politicians currently taking your money to do your bidding, will unite out of sheer terror."

"They'll think that if even the Adams family can be destroyed by you, none of them will stand a chance. At that point, you'll face the full backlash of the entire state apparatus. Your trains and munitions factories might be forcibly requisitioned, and your banks and investment firms could be shut down by endless federal investigations."

"Even the thousands of security guards you maintain out west would be wiped out by the army!"

A prolonged silence descended upon the study.

Only the occasional gentle crackle of firewood in the fireplace broke the quiet.

Felix finished the whiskey in his glass and set the empty tumbler on the table.

He considered himself a rational man.

Though he had grown accustomed to crushing obstacles with brute force, he had to admit Thomas's analysis was spot-on.

It had only been a few years since the Civil War ended.

America at this stage had not yet reached the point where oligarchs could completely disregard the state apparatus.

Perhaps as his enterprises grew larger and wider, and especially after defeating Old Morgan and Barings Bank, life had been going too smoothly—much like the smug winners from his past life.

It had gradually bred arrogance within him.

These political dynasties, deeply entrenched for decades, were like a massive spiderweb. You could snap a few threads, but if you tried to burn the whole web down, you would catch fire from the sparks as well.

"So what's your proposal?" Felix pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Are we supposed to act like the men captured by the Secret Service don't exist? And just let Adams continue stumping for Horace Greeley out there?"

"Of course not."

Thomas also settled back into his seat, the shrewdness of a seasoned politician returning to his face.

"In politics, gaining lethal leverage over an opponent isn't meant to kill them. It's meant to force them to the negotiating table to compromise on our terms."

Thomas looked intently at Felix.

"We can have the establishment figures in Congress deliver a message to Adams, letting him know what the Secret Service has in hand. Adams is a clever old fox; he knows the weight of that confession better than anyone. To preserve the Adams family's reputation and political life, he will definitely yield."

"What are the terms, then?" Felix asked bluntly.

"First, an immediate halt to all congressional investigations targeting your railroad and trading companies. Senator Vance must shut his mouth right away," Thomas said, following Felix's train of thought.

"As for the second condition, the Liberals must abandon all offensive campaign activities in the general election. They can keep Greeley on the candidate list, but no more large rallies, and no more attacking the incumbent administration in the press. They can only watch us win next month's election."

"Not enough."

Felix frowned and added.

"If they orchestrated so many assassinations and sabotages behind the scenes, and we wrap it up without spilling a single drop of blood, outsiders will take you and me for pushovers who can be brushed off with a few talks."

"Since we can't touch Adams himself, they must hand over someone of substantial weight. That is my bottom line!"

"Without a sacrificial lamb, victory doesn't stand."

Late at night in Washington, the streets were virtually deserted.

A black carriage pulled up to the back door of a private club named the "Liberty Tree." The club served as a secret gathering place for Liberal Republicans in the capital.

The carriage door opened, and Senate Majority Whip Senator Elijah Thorne stepped down.

Tucking his heavy overcoat tightly around him, he walked briskly to the back door and knocked.

The door swung open promptly. After confirming Thorne's identity, the bodyguard let him inside.

Thorne didn't linger on the first floor, heading straight up the wooden staircase to a room at the far end of the second floor.

He pushed the door open.

No gas lamps were lit in the room; only a few candles flickered. Charles Francis Adams and Senator Theodore Vance were seated on the sofa.

Vance looked pale and grim, an empty brandy glass sitting beside his hand.

Seeing Thorne enter, Adams looked with mixed feelings at this messenger representing the interests of Thomas Clark and Argyle.

"Senator Thorne. What brings you here so late?"

Adams's voice sounded weary, yet he still maintained the dignity befitting a Founding Father's lineage.

Thorne pulled out a chair and sat down without invitation.

"Mr. Adams. It's late, so I won't waste words. I'm here on behalf of the White House, and also to convey the wishes of that man in New York."

"I presume Senator Vance has already made it crystal clear what took place in the hearing room this afternoon. Deputy Director Flynn of the Secret Service wasn't joking. That black leather briefcase truly does contain the confessions of those mercenaries, along with the paper trail of several fund transfers originating from Boston and Cincinnati."

At the mention of the "fund transfers," Adams's eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly.

Although William Vanderbilt had put up most of the money, to avoid suspicion, every transfer had been laundered through several local private banks controlled by the Adams family.

If the investigation pressed forward, the fire would inevitably engulf him.

"This is an utter frame-up by Argyle!"

Vance protested from the side, though his words sounded more like an attempt to bolster his own courage.

"Whether it's a frame-up or not, you and I both know the truth, Vance," Thorne cut him off bluntly.

"I didn't come here tonight to debate the case. After all, that's the Secret Service's business. I'm just here to deliver a proposal."

"President Clark and Mr. Argyle believe that the nation currently requires stability. With the election right around the corner, launching a treason investigation against a Founding family at this juncture would inflict irreparable harm on the overarching interests of the United States."

Hearing this, Adams felt the weight in his chest ease slightly.

A seasoned politician, he immediately caught Thorne's underlying meaning: the other side was willing not to drop all pretenses and stage a full-blown purge.

Unless, of course, he insisted on courting death.

"So, what are Mr. President's conditions?" Adams asked coldly.

"A truce," Thorne uttered two words.

"All accusations and inquiries in Congress targeting the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company and the Metropolitan Trading Company must be withdrawn completely by tomorrow morning. Those so-called farmers' contracts are to be treated as if they never existed."

Seeing no reaction, Thorne continued.

"Second, Mr. Horace Greeley's campaign must cease immediately. Of course, his name may remain on the ballot. But over the coming month, we do not wish to see a single article in any newspaper where he attacks the incumbent administration. The liberals must remain silent until the election concludes."

"Isn't that just demanding our unconditional surrender?!" Vance sprang to his feet.

"If Greeley halts his campaign, voters in the swing states will think we've caved! Thomas Clark will win reelection by a landslide!"

"Ha... You never had a chance of winning anyway, Vance." Thorne looked at him as though pitying a wretch.

"Between the archbishop's declaration and your people smashing the windows of the presidential train, your reputation among ordinary citizens is already in the gutter. Telling you to shut your mouths is merely saving everyone's time."

Adams sat on the sofa, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee.

Harsh as Thorne's terms were, they were well within his expectations.

Conceding the election to preserve the Adams family's reputation and the Liberal core—politically, this was an entirely acceptable bargain.

"Is that all?" Adams looked at Thorne.

"If that were all, it wouldn't be Argyle's style." Thorne chuckled, looking right into Adams's eyes as he laid down the final condition.

"Mr. Argyle said: his telegraph lines were cut, incurring financial and personnel losses, and most importantly, someone threw a stone at the President's head. This matter cannot simply be swept quietly under the rug."

"Therefore, the Secret Service cannot come away empty-handed. You must hand over a name. Someone of sufficient stature, holding a sufficiently high office. This individual must step forward and confess that, driven by a deep-seated hatred of industrial progress, he misappropriated funds behind the backs of Mr. Adams and Mr. Greeley to hire thugs to sever the wires and orchestrate the attack on the presidential train."

The air in the study froze.

Hand over a scapegoat.

And someone of considerable stature at that.

It was effectively asking Adams to sever his own arm with his bare hands and present it to Felix and Thomas to appease their wrath.

"So... you need an explicit culprit to close the case on the presidential attack, is that it?" Adams's voice turned raspy.

"You could put it that way. In any case, without an offering, the Secret Service's investigation will not stop. The evidence in that black leather briefcase could hit the press at any moment." Thorne stood up.

"Mr. Adams, time is running short. Before eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Deputy Director Flynn of the Secret Service will be waiting in his office for your call. Once you've settled on a name, call him. If that call doesn't come..."

Thorne didn't finish his sentence, merely offering a slight bow.

"I wish you gentlemen pleasant dreams tonight."

With that, Thorne turned and walked out of the room.

As the sound of the back door closing echoed, the second-floor room sank into dead silence.

Vance sat in his chair, trembling from head to foot.

Hand over someone of sufficient stature?

In this room, apart from Adams—the leader who could not possibly be touched—who held the most weight?

He was the Liberal faction's voice in the Senate!

"Mr. Adams..."

Vance's voice quivered with terror as he looked at Adams.

"You can't give me up... I've always been completely loyal to you..."

Adams didn't look at Vance, his eyes fixed instead on the pitch-black night outside.

"Rest easy, Vance. I won't give you up. We cannot afford to lose our only voice in Congress."

Adams closed his eyes, his mind racing.

He needed to find a scapegoat.

This person had to have sufficient motive, must have had direct contact with the campaign funds, and his downfall had to satisfy Thomas and Argyle.

Just then, the rapid clatter of hooves echoed in the alley behind the club.

A courier arrived carrying an urgent coded letter.

Adams took the letter and skimmed it quickly under the candlelight. It was sent from New York by William Henry Vanderbilt.

"Mr. Vanderbilt already knows about the Secret Service matter, and he is terrified too. He demands that we sever the Secret Service's trail on the money flows at all costs."

Adams held the letter over the candle flame, watching the paper turn to ashes.

"It seems we have no other choice. Someone must take the fall for all of this."

Adams turned to face Vance, a venomous glint flashing in his eyes.

"Notify Whitlock to come see me. Immediately."

Vance was shocked to hear the name.

Whitlock was the chief financial manager of Horace Greeley's campaign team.

All campaign fund disbursements and printing expenses for pamphlets passed through his hands. He was an ardent abolitionist, utterly loyal to Greeley.

Giving him up would not only explain the money's destination perfectly, but it would also deal a devastating blow to Greeley's already precarious campaign.

With his own finance manager hiring thugs to kill, Greeley would never be able to touch politics again for the rest of his life.

"Mr. Adams, if we give up Whitlock, Mr. Greeley will lose his mind," Vance swallowed hard.

"When survival is at stake, even a candidate is an acceptable price to sacrifice," Adams said coldly.

"Go fetch him. Tell him that for the future of the Liberals, and to safeguard Mr. Greeley's reputation, he must play the part of the heretic led astray by the devil."

At midnight, only Adams and the newly arrived Whitlock remained in the club room.

Whitlock was a middle-aged man in his forties wearing thick glasses. He looked thoroughly exhausted from rushing between swing states over the past few months to allocate campaign funds.

He had no idea what was in store for him, assuming Adams had summoned him in the dead of night merely to discuss how to deal with the setback at the Capitol Hill hearing.

"Mr. Adams, you wanted to see me?" Whitlock asked as he sat on the sofa, appearing somewhat uneasy.

Adams sat behind the desk without speaking right away. He silently looked at this finance manager who had devoted everything to the Liberals, letting out a deep sigh only after a long moment.

"Whitlock, the situation has reached an extremely dangerous precipice." Adams's voice sounded full of helplessness and sorrow.

"This afternoon, the Secret Service stormed into the hearing with a leather briefcase full of evidence. They caught the mercenaries who cut the telegraph lines in Illinois. Those men have already confessed."

Whitlock froze. He certainly knew about the mercenaries—it was an order issued personally by Adams, and the money had passed through his own hands.

"Then... what should we do? Will the Secret Service trace our ledgers?" Whitlock asked nervously.

"They already have." Adams stood up, walked over to Whitlock, and placed both hands heavily on his shoulders.

"The flow of funds is crystal clear. Deputy Director Flynn already has all the evidence of you withdrawing gold coins from a Cincinnati bank and handing them to intermediaries. Tomorrow morning, arrest warrants will be issued. Not just for you, but I'm on the list as well. Worse still, Alan Argyle forcibly tied the severed telegraph lines to the mob attack on the Acting President's special train."

Adams's tone grew grave.

"Once this hits the papers, it won't just be political campaign friction anymore. It will be treason. Mr. Greeley's reputation will be utterly destroyed, and the Liberals will be uprooted. All our years of effort will vanish into thin air."

Whitlock trembled all over, his eyes behind the thick glasses filled with sheer terror.

"Mr. Adams! You have to save me! I only followed your instructions! I never told them to attack the President's train!"

"I know that, of course." A trace of cruel pity flickered in Adams's eyes. "However, Alan Argyle doesn't need the truth; he only needs someone to take the fall."

Adams sat back in his chair, looking straight at Whitlock.

"Senator Thorne from the Establishment came by just now. He brought terms of compromise: as long as we hand over a 'mastermind' who takes full responsibility for this incident, the Secret Service's investigation will end right there. All leads will be severed. The Adams family, Mr. Vanderbilt's funds, and Mr. Greeley's reputation can all be preserved."

Staring at Adams's cold face, Whitlock finally understood the true purpose of summoning him in the middle of the night.

"You... you want to hand me over?" Whitlock's voice grew desperate.

"Whitlock, you are the finance manager. All the money passed through your hands. You are the only one who can perfectly close this chain of evidence."

Adams attempted to use the loftiest justification to mask the baseness of betraying his subordinate.

"This is to preserve the spark of the Liberals. If you take the fall alone—if you confess that out of deep hatred for industrial monopolies, you privately embezzled campaign funds and hired those men—then all of this becomes merely your personal extremist action. It will have nothing to do with our political platform."

"Then what will I face? The gallows?!" Whitlock stood up in an emotional breakdown, demanding loudly.

"No, it won't be hanging," Adams hurried to reassure him.

"I will mobilize all of the Adams family's connections in the Supreme Court and the Department of Justice. We will hire the best lawyers for you. Though you must plead guilty, we will limit the charges to 'destruction of public facilities' and 'misappropriation of funds.' As for the attack on the President's train, we will claim the mercenaries acted on their own initiative. Since it caused no serious casualties, you will receive at most five years in prison."

Adams stepped in front of Whitlock and laid out his final tangible bargaining chip.

"As long as you remain silent in court and implicate no one else, Mr. Vanderbilt has promised to establish an anonymous trust fund of two hundred thousand dollars for you in Europe. After serving two or three years in prison, once the heat dies down, we will arrange for your early parole. At that time, you can take that money to Europe and live a life of immense wealth. Your family will be properly taken care of starting tomorrow."

Whitlock collapsed onto the sofa.

On one hand, refusing meant facing treason charges, or even being silenced directly by hired killers in the shadows; on the other hand, taking the blame meant a few years in prison followed by an immense fortune he could never earn in a lifetime.

For a mere tool of politicians, there was essentially no choice.

"Do... do I need to write a confession?"

After a long silence, Whitlock forced out those words with great difficulty, his gaze already as lifeless as stagnant water.

Adams exhaled a long breath and gently patted him on the shoulder.

"Prepare paper and pen, and make it sound plausible. Remember, you are a fanatical idealist full of hatred toward monopolistic oligarchs. You did all this in pursuit of justice in your heart, even if through misguided means."

Dawn broke.

Pedestrians gradually appeared on the streets of Washington.

At 7:30 in the morning, a carriage stopped outside Secret Service headquarters.

Clutching the confession written overnight, Whitlock stumbled through the doors of the Secret Service under the "escort" of two Adams family bodyguards.

At eight o'clock sharp.

Inside the tenth-floor office of the Argyle's Building.

Felix was sitting at the table, eating a simple breakfast.

The intercom on the desk rang. Frost answered it, listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and looked at Felix.

"Boss, word from Washington. Deputy Director Flynn called. This morning, Horace Greeley's campaign finance manager, Whitlock, turned himself in. He submitted a full confession admitting that he embezzled funds to hire the thugs who cut the telegraph lines and orchestrated the attack on the President's train."

Felix set down his fork and wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

"Adams surrendered someone quite quickly. It seems he didn't get much sleep in the club over the past two days." Felix's tone was calm, as if hearing about something entirely ordinary.

"Flynn is asking how to handle things next," Frost requested instructions.

"Close the case." Felix took a sip of his coffee.

"Have the Secret Service issue an official statement to the major newspapers announcing that the case is solved. Let that fool Whitlock bear all the charges, and wipe Adams's name from the Secret Service's files."

"We're letting them off just like that?"

Frost was somewhat puzzled; his boss never struck him as such a generous man.

"Let it rest here for now. We've already gotten what we wanted anyway." Felix stood up and walked over to the huge floor-to-ceiling window.

"Whitlock is Greeley's chief steward. His confession is tantamount to a harsh slap in the face to the Liberals. Starting today, Greeley's campaign team will be completely crippled. No one will trust a candidate who can't even keep his own finance manager in check."

Felix looked out the window at Manhattan bathed in the morning light.

"Notify Fowler to have The Daily Truth run at full throttle. No need to attack Adams—just printing Whitlock's confession on the front page will be enough to dash all hope for the Liberals in next month's general election. As for Thomas's reelection, I believe there's no suspense left."

The temperature in New York dropped very quickly.

The wind blowing from the Hudson River was already laced with icy sleet, pattering softly against the bulletproof carriage windows.

Felix sat in the carriage. The series of nerve-wracking political battles in Washington and the Midwest had left him somewhat fatigued, but his black eyes remained sharp and alert.

The carriage followed its route across the bridge, heading toward an upscale, heavily guarded private estate in Brooklyn.

This was Isabella's new residence.

The carriage pulled up before the estate's wrought-iron gates, which the security team immediately swung open. It rolled along the gravel driveway and came to a stop in front of a three-story red-brick villa.

Felix pushed open the carriage door and stepped down.

A blast of cold wind swept past, and he pulled the collar of his dark gray overcoat tight.

"Boss."

The security captain stationed there immediately came forward to greet him, reporting in a low voice.

"Labor started an hour ago. The medical team from the hospital is fully in position."

Felix nodded without wasting words, striding up the steps and into the villa.

The moment he stepped through the door, a pungent odor hit him squarely.

It was the smell of high-concentration carbolic acid disinfectant.

Though most hospitals of this era were still as filthy as slaughterhouses, where the maternal mortality rate from puerperal fever was terrifyingly high,

this place was different. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals had mastered the most advanced aseptic techniques of the era. Doctors had thoroughly sprayed large amounts of antiseptic across the entire second-floor delivery room and hallways.

In the living room on the villa's first floor, the fireplace crackled warmly.

A gray-haired, relatively well-preserved older European gentleman was pacing back and forth across the Persian rug. He wore an elegant dark velvet smoking jacket and held an unlit cigar between his fingers.

This was Antoine d'Orléans, Duke of Montpensier.

He was the son of the former King of France, Louis Philippe I, and the father of Isabella, who was in labor upstairs.

Hearing the door open, Antoine froze immediately, turning to look at Felix as he walked in.

"Felix, you're finally here!"

Antoine's voice carried clear agitation as he spoke loudly in heavily French-accented English.

"Those people in white coats threw me off the second floor! They claimed my clothes were covered in bacteria. Good God, I am her father! In Europe, when royalty gives birth, there must at least be an archbishop and cabinet ministers standing by as witnesses!"

Felix took off his coat and handed it offhandedly to a nearby servant, then walked over to the fireplace to warm his hands.

"Duke, this is America. It is not your royal palace in Paris or Madrid."

"Here, we trust doctors and disinfectants, not an archbishop's prayers. Those white coats are the finest surgical and obstetric specialists from Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. They will guarantee Isabella and the child's absolute safety. That is enough."

Stumped by Felix's blunt pragmatism, Antoine let out a sigh and sank heavily onto the sofa.

Over the past few months, Antoine had been living an exceedingly wealthy "retirement" life in America.

Felix had provided him with a luxurious mansion and plenty of US dollars.

Yet the royal European pride and thirst for power woven into his bones made him weary of living such an idle, purposeless existence.

From upstairs came a flurry of hurried footsteps, accompanied by Isabella's stifled cries of pain.

Felix raised his head and glanced at the ceiling.

He sat down on the adjacent armchair, pulled a briefing regarding copper exploration in Montana from his pocket, and began leafing through it under the gaslight.

Antoine stared at this young man who could calmly review commercial documents while a woman was in labor, utterly bewildered.

"Aren't you worried at all, Felix? That's your child! What's more, if it's a boy, he will carry the purest blue blood of both the House of Bourbon and the House of Orléans!" Antoine tried to use royal bloodlines to draw Felix's concern.

"He will carry the blood of Argyle, which is his only passport on this continent."

Felix turned a page without looking up.

"As for Europe's blue blood... Duke, your obsolete aristocratic notions carry no weight with me. How much steel and gold one commands is the only true measure of personal worth."

Felix was nothing like the descendants of exiled colonists who fawned over Old World nobles, eager to obtain aristocratic titles to elevate themselves and their families.

Minutes ticked by, one by one.

The snowfall outside the villa grew heavier, coating the windowpanes in a film of white frost.

The cries of pain on the second floor continued for about three hours.

Suddenly, a loud, energetic infant's wail pierced through the heavy floorboards and into the living room.

Antoine sprang up from the sofa, so agitated that he crushed the cigar in his hand to powder.

Felix closed the briefing, placed it on the coffee table, stood up, and looked toward the stairs leading up to the second floor.

A few minutes later, a doctor wearing a white isolation gown and a face mask hurried down the stairs. He stopped several paces away from Felix, removed his mask, and offered a relieved smile.

"Mr. Argyle, Your Grace. Everything went very smoothly," the doctor reported respectfully.

"It is a very healthy boy, weighing eight pounds and two ounces. Miss Isabella has an excellent constitution, there was no severe bleeding, and she has now fallen asleep from exhaustion."

"A boy! God bless him! The ancestral kings of France and Spain are watching over us!" Antoine made the sign of the cross over his chest in excitement.

Ignoring Antoine's religious performance, Felix looked at the doctor.

"Can I go up and see them?"

"Of course, Boss. But please put on a sterilized gown outside the door." The doctor led the way.

Felix went up to the second floor.

The smell of carbolic acid in the corridor was even stronger.

He put on a long white gown and walked into the spacious bedroom.

Two fireplaces burned inside the bedroom, making it very warm.

Isabella lay on a wide brass bed, her long blonde hair damp with sweat and plastered to her pale cheeks.

She was sound asleep.

In the delicate oak cradle beside the bed lay thick, soft cotton blankets.

Felix walked over to the cradle.

This was his third son.

The little one's skin was still reddish; his eyes were closed, and his tiny hands were balled into tight fists. He had a high nose bridge with distinct European features.

"Boss, this child is very robust,"

the nurse beside him murmured softly.

Felix reached out a finger and gently brushed the baby's clenched fist. The infant seemed to sense something; though his eyes remained closed, his little hand moved instinctively.

Just then, Isabella slowly opened her eyes.

As the anesthetic wore off, she felt weak, but seeing Felix standing beside the cradle, her eyes reflected maternal pride as well as the relief of having secured her standing in the Argyle Family.

"Felix..."

Isabella's voice was very faint.

Felix walked to the bedside and pulled the quilt up for her.

"You worked hard. The doctor said you and the baby are doing well."

Felix's tone was gentler than usual.

Toward the women who bore his bloodline, he always showed due respect.

"He looks like you, Felix. His eyes are dark."

Isabella looked at her son and managed a weak smile.

"Have you thought of a name for him?"

Felix fell silent for a moment.

He thought of Finn on Long Island in New York, his eldest son and future heir. Then there was Caesar in Washington. Now, this was the third.

"Philip."

"Let's name him Philippe Argyle."

Standing by the bedroom doorway, Antoine shuddered slightly upon hearing that name.

Philip—this was an immensely important name in their House of Orléans.

His father was Louis Philippe I.

Felix giving the child this name, even affixed with the surname Argyle, felt to Antoine like a gesture of recognition.

"Philip... That is a wonderful name."

Isabella closed her eyes, drifting back into slumber with a satisfied smile on her face.

Felix stayed in the bedroom for a dozen minutes, and once he confirmed everything was fine, he removed his white isolation gown and stepped outside.

When he walked down the stairs back to the living room on the first floor,

Antoine had already had a servant pour two glasses of expensive French brandy. He stood by the coffee table, the anxiety in his eyes gone and replaced by long-suppressed fanaticism.

"Have a drink, Felix. To Philip's birth."

Antoine handed one of the glasses to Felix.

Felix took the glass and looked into Antoine's eyes.

He was all too familiar with that look—it was the gaze of a gambler itching to shove all his chips into the pot.

"Duke, it seems you are pleased about more than just having a grandson." Felix gently swirled the glass, in no rush to drink.

"Of course. I am glad because this child is not merely a Argyle. He carries the blood of Bourbon and Orléans; he is a bridge."

Holding his glass, Antoine stepped toward the fireplace and gazed into the leaping flames.

"Felix, during these months in America, I've read many newspapers. I saw how you trampled underfoot the politicians who dared oppose you, and how you shut down your railways, driving hundreds of thousands of farmers into desperation. You possess the most terrifying wealth I have ever seen in my life."

Antoine turned his head to stare intently at Felix.

"However... no matter how mighty you are on this New World, in the eyes of Europe's true old-money dynasties, you are merely an American parvenu lacking pedigree. They will band together to freeze you out, just like Barings Bank in London did."

Antoine strode right up to Felix.

"Now that Philip is born, you possess the key to open the doors of Europe's most ancient royalty. Felix, I think we must have a serious talk."

The fireplace in the living room made a faint crackling sound of burning wood.

Felix walked over to the sofa holding his glass of brandy and sat down, crossing his slender legs, and looked calmly at Antoine standing opposite him.

"Duke, everyday in the manor you either fish or drink red wine. I thought you had already grown accustomed to this kind of retirement life where you don't need to scheme against others. It seems I still underestimated the ambition of those who have lost their crowns."

There was a hint of mockery in his voice.

Antoine's face flushed slightly.

He downed the brandy in his hand in one gulp, and the irritation of the alcohol made his voice somewhat rough and heavy.

"Retirement? Felix, how can you expect me to retire?"

Antoine placed the empty glass heavily on the coffee table and began pacing back and forth in front of Felix.

"Every morning when I wake up, what I hold in my hand are expired newspapers sent from London and Paris! I watch France turn into the Third Republic, watching those civilian politicians who pop up from nowhere shouting and screaming in the Palace of Versailles! I watch my family's properties in Paris being sold off by them!"

Antoine turned around, pressing both hands on the edge of the coffee table in front of Felix.

"Even more, I see that on the other side of the Pyrenees, Spain, my wife's country, is now plunged into an extremely absurd chaos!"

In 1872, the situation in Spain was indeed a complete mess.

The true Queen of Spain, Queen Isabella II (Antoine's sister-in-law), had long been driven from power by a coup four years ago.

Sitting on the throne of Madrid now was Amadeo I of the House of Savoy, borrowed from Italy.

"That Amadeo from Italy simply cannot control the situation in Spain!"

The flames were reflected in Antoine's eyes. He treated Europe's political map like a tabletop map, desperately showing it to Felix.

"The people of Spain do not want a foreigner as king, and the generals in the army pay lip service to him while defying him behind his back. Those extremely conservative Carlists in the north have already started armed rebellions, wanting to push their senile prince onto the throne. The entire Spain is now a powder keg, filled everywhere with strikes, assassinations, and guerrillas!"

Antoine panted heavily, looking at Felix.

"Amadeo won't last long. He will soon endure no longer the days of sitting on a volcano, and will definitely pack up and run back to Italy. By then, the throne of Madrid will be completely vacant!"

Felix took a sip of brandy and leaned his body against the back of the chair.

"What does this have to do with us, Duke? That should be Queen Isabella II's business. Spain turning into a complete mess is their affair. My merchant ships in Cuba can still export cigars and sugarcane just fine, which doesn't affect my making money."

"How could this not have anything to do with us!" Antoine shouted anxiously.

"Your Cuba industries are safe right now only because the Spanish government currently lacks the energy to manage overseas affairs. Once extremists like the Carlists come to power, or Spain turns into a republic ruled by those commoners, their very first thing to do will be to confiscate all foreign capital properties in Cuba and the Philippines!"

Antoine hit right on Felix's point of interest.

He knew that talking purely about feelings with this American financial tycoon was useless, so he had to add business and risks into the mix.

"Felix, you must listen to me. My wife, Louisa Fernanda, is truly the youngest daughter of the former King of Spain, Ferdinand VII, and also the biological younger sister of Queen Isabella II. In Spain, among those old ministers and generals loyal to the Bourbon Dynasty, she still commands prestige. Especially that old father-in-law of mine..."

Antoine paused here.

Ferdinand VII had long been dead, but he knew he had to borrow this name to increase his chips.

"Although my father-in-law Ferdinand VII has already gone to see God, those royalist remnants he left behind back then, including her adoptive father The Old Count and those aristocrats who value lineage, will absolutely not be reconciled to letting the throne of Spain fall into the hands of the Carlists or Republicans. They need an orthodox Bourbon bloodline to return and take charge!"

Antoine's eyes stared fixedly in the direction of the second floor, which was the room where little Philip had just been born.

"The republicans' power in France is currently too great, so we have no hope there for now. But Spain is different. As long as there is sufficient financial support, as long as there is an armed force capable of suppressing those Carlist rebels, those generals sitting on the fence in Madrid will immediately lean toward our side."

Felix looked at Antoine's gesticulating appearance and found it somewhat ridiculous.

"Duke. Do you mean you want me to provide money and guns to send you onto the throne of Madrid? To make you the king of Spain?"

"Ahem... Not entirely like that."

Antoine walked over to the opposite sofa and sat down, crossing his hands together, trying to make himself look like a rational chip holder at the negotiating table.

"I know I am French, and I am old. The Spaniards might not be too willing to accept an old Frenchman as their monarch. However, I am Louisa Fernanda's husband, and my family can serve as the regents or transitioners of power in Spain."

Although his bargain father-in-law The Old Count had once said that the royal families of Spain and France could not hold the other's throne,

but now the Orléanists haven't become kings in France anyway, so why couldn't one compete for the king of Spain?

Besides, his wife was a former member of the Spanish royal family, so he was completely qualified.

Antoine put forward the conditions he thought would most touch Felix.

"Felix, let's make a deal. A deal a hundred times bigger than the shares of the Suez Canal."

"You put up the money, use your arsenal called Vanguard Arms, and provide me with the most advanced rifles and cannons. You can even dispatch that private army that fought in South America. Help me rally the army in Spain and suppress the Carlist rebellion."

Antoine's gaze became sharp.

"As long as I can successfully control Madrid. I assure you, the future throne of Spain will be passed down to Isabella through legal procedures!"

Hearing these words, Felix's movements finally paused for a moment. He toyed with the empty glass in his hand, and his gaze underwent a subtle change for the first time this evening.

"Passed down to Isabella? She is a woman." Felix said flatly.

"What does that matter, Spain already has the tradition of females inheriting the throne. Isn't Queen Isabella II a queen?" Antoine rebutted excitedly.

"Isabella is my daughter, and she possesses absolute orthodox right of succession! If she becomes the Queen of Spain..."

Antoine swallowed a mouthful of saliva, his voice beginning to tremble with excitement.

"Then, that boy named Philip born on the second floor tonight. He, an American boy bearing the Argyle surname, will in the future become the legitimate king ruling over the entirety of Spain, Cuba, and the Philippines!"

The room fell into silence, with only the sound of charcoal in the fireplace burning through and falling.

To let the bloodline of the Argyle Family wear the crown of an old European empire.

This was not only a crazy political conception, but also the ultimate temptation sufficient to make any American capitalist lose their mind.

"Using the steel and gold of America to buy a throne in Europe." Felix looked at Antoine, the corners of his mouth suddenly curling into a smile.

"Duke, your appetite is much larger than I imagined."

The air in the villa's living room was somewhat heavy. Felix placed his empty wine glass on the coffee table.

He did not respond to Antoine's highly inflammatory proposal, instead pulling a sterling silver cigarette case from his pocket, drawing out a cigar, and leisurely clipping off its cap.

Antoine watched him nervously.

He had already played the biggest trump card in his hand.

If this proposal were rejected, he might truly be reduced to living as a wealthy prisoner on this New World until he died of old age.

"Click."

Felix struck a match and lit the cigar.

Holding the smoke in his mouth, he subsequently exhaled a thick plume of smoke.

This scent of tobacco temporarily suppressed the smell of disinfectant drifting down from the second floor in the living room.

"Mr. Duke."

Felix leaned back against the sofa, looking at Antoine through the smoke.

"What you say is very pleasant to the ear—making Philip the future King of Spain. This sounds like a best-selling European chivalric novel. But in my office, everything must be built upon precise financial calculations."

Felix held up two fingers.

"First, let us settle old accounts. You just said this is a transaction. But you seem to have forgotten that a few months ago, when your family was cornered in Paris, driven by the Republicans and those people to the point of jumping into the Seine River, who was it that brought you out?"

Felix's voice carried no warmth whatsoever.

"It was me. Not only did I protect your life, but I also helped you clear off the bad debts of those European bankers. Including those sugarcane plantations of the House of Bourbon in Cuba that were destroyed by local rebels—it was also the Metropolitan Trading Company that sent people to take over and get them running again."

Felix stared fixedly at Antoine.

"Commercially, I have already paid a sufficient price. What else do you members of the House of Bourbon hold in your hands now that is worth me taking real gold, silver, and weapons to risk it once more in Europe?"

Antoine's self-esteem was stung by Felix's realistic words. He wanted to flare up, yet he also knew he possessed no capital to do so.

"Felix. Precisely because you have taken the shares of the Suez Canal and the properties in Cuba, you should all the more help me!" Antoine suppressed his anger, attempting to explain through a binding of interests.

"Do you think those Englishmen will stand idly by and watch an American take away control of the canal? Do you think those rebels in Cuba will honestly grow sugarcane for you?"

Antoine leaned his upper body forward, forcefully slapping his knees with both hands.

"The current Spanish government is weak and incompetent. If Amadeo abdicates, no matter who comes to power, they will liquidate foreign capital in order to pander to domestic extreme nationalists. Those estates of yours in Cuba—they will only need to casually find a tax collection excuse to confiscate all of them! The Englishmen might even secretly instigate the Madrid government to deny your legal rights and interests in the Suez Canal!"

What Antoine said was not alarmist talk.

In that era, the security of overseas assets completely depended on the attitude of the host country's government.

Without the protection of guns and cannons, capital was merely a piece of juicy meat.

"Only when someone of our own people sits upon the throne of Madrid can these vast overseas interests of yours receive absolute protection!" Antoine said loudly.

"The logic is quite obvious, Mr. Duke."

Felix exhaled a smoke ring, not denying Antoine's logic.

"Controlling a country's supreme power is indeed the best moat for protecting commercial interests. Just like what I did to Thomas in Washington."

Changing the subject, Felix's gaze grew profound.

"However. Helping Thomas run his campaign only required me to spend a few million dollars buying votes, printing a few newspapers, and dealing with a few disobedient politicians. But in Spain..."

"What you are asking me to face is not those farmers holding ballots, but tens of thousands of Carlists rebels equipped with firearms! Those Spanish generals in Madrid who hold military power and could defect at any moment!"

"Furthermore, if I transport large quantities of weaponry and mercenaries to Europe, I might even face interception on the high seas by the Royal Navy and the French fleet!"

Felix held the cigar between his fingers, looking at Antoine with the gaze of scrutinizing an idiot.

"Fighting a war spanning half the globe. Supporting an exiled French duke to be the King of Spain. Do you know how much money this requires? This would require mobilizing at least half a year's production capacity of Vanguard Arms! It would require the Metropolitan Trading Company to convert all of its ocean-going freighters into troop transport ships! If the war falls into a quagmire, this would completely drain the current cash flow of the Argyle Family!"

Felix stood up and walked over to the fireplace, flicking the ash of the cigar in his hand into the fire.

"It seems the risks and rewards are completely disproportionate, Mr. Duke. Even if I used cannons to send you into Madrid, how many gold coins are left in the Spanish treasury right now that can be used to repay my military expenses? The money they use to pay soldiers' salaries is even borrowed from European banks."

Hearing this, Antoine became so anxious that he stood up.

He walked behind Felix, a trace of entreaty carrying into his tone.

"Felix! Spain's treasury is empty, but Spain's colonies still have plenty of profits to be squeezed! The Philippines! Puerto Rico! As long as I grasp power, I can mortgage the mineral exploitation rights and customs tax revenues of these places entirely to the Argyle Imperial Bank!"

Antoine completely cast aside the former bottom line of royalty; right now, he was just like a middleman peddling national sovereignty in despair.

"Furthermore, I do not need you to send tens of thousands of people. Although the Carlists are clamoring fiercely, their equipment is very poor. The regular army of Spain has also long grown tired of the Civil War. You only need to provide me with ten thousand of those newest repeating rifles, fifty breech-loading cannons, and dozens of those machine guns that can spin their barrels to unleash a metallic storm."

In Antoine's eyes flickered a yearning for the industrial killing machine; he had read reports in newspapers about that massacre in South America.

"As long as there is this absolute generational gap in firepower, those generals sitting on the fence in Madrid—the moment they see we can easily tear apart the rebels, they will immediately bring their troops to swear allegiance to me!"

"This doesn't need to be fought for years; it might only take a few months of winning a few key battles to be enough!"

Felix turned around, looking at Antoine's excited face.

He had to admit that although Antoine's proposal was crazy, it possessed feasibility on a tactical level.

Although at present, following the Franco-Prussian War, European powers have begun gradually developing their own new-style firearms and artillery, most armies in Europe are still using old-style single-shot breech-loaders, or even muzzle-loaders.

Weapons like the gatling gun and advanced breech-loading steel cannons have not yet been used on a large scale across European battlefields.

If an elite force equipped with absolutely generation-gapped weapons were suddenly thrown into a place of internal turmoil like Spain, it could indeed produce a devastating deterrent effect.

Moreover, if Philip could truly become the King of Spain—

Then the Argyle Family's deployment in Europe would complete a class leap.

Transforming from American capitalists into the behind-the-scenes masters capable of swaying the political map of old European empires.

This was not merely a matter of money; this was a political lever capable of contending with those centuries-old old money families in London and Paris.

"It sounds like you have already calculated your general friends in Spain quite clearly." Felix sat back down on the sofa, not immediately refusing.

"However, trust requires a foundation. How am I to know whether you will renege on the debt once you are securely seated upon the throne? After all, the tradition of betrayal among you European royal families is much older than your bloodlines."

The atmosphere in the drawing room was less than ideal.

Antoine stood frozen where he was.

As a former royal, being accused to his face of a tradition of betrayal by an Irish American merchant would have once been an unforgivable insult.

But now, he had no choice but to swallow it down.

Because he knew full well that Felix spoke the truth.

In the face of power, a piece of paper counted for nothing.

"I can provide any hostages and collateral," Antoine gritted his teeth, making the greatest concession he could think of.

"Isabella and Philip will remain in New York until things stabilize, while Louisa and I return to Europe. Until the situation in Spain is thoroughly settled and Isabella's status as crown princess is formally established by parliament, they won't take a single step outside America. Is that not enough?"

Antoine looked straight into Felix's eyes.

"Felix, remember that Philip is your son. If I were to betray you, do you really think you would tolerate me sitting on that throne? If you have the power to put me there, you can just as easily blow me down with your cannons."

"I understand this better than anyone. I have no reason to deceive you."

Such a promise—relying entirely on the other man's martial deterrence to guarantee his own life and power—could only be described as abject.

Felix looked at Antoine's somewhat clouded yet defiant eyes and did not immediately make a decision.

After all, Isabella and the child were going to stay in America anyway, and Antoine's scheme wasn't completely off the table as a gamble.

His mind raced rapidly.

Backing Antoine's bid for power was indeed a massive gamble.

It was an even larger gamble than previously supporting the House of Bourbon's bid for the French throne. Back then, they had merely swapped Suez Canal shares for funds and a consignment of weapons;

that couldn't truly be considered stepping into the ring, only a transaction.

But supporting his cheap father-in-law to cause an upheaval in Spain this time would definitely require his own men to accompany him, preventing any reneging after the fact.

Yet if it failed...

The Argyle Family would not only lose massive amounts of weaponry, equipment, and capital, but could also completely alienate Britain and France, the two established empires on the international stage.

They would never tolerate the emergence of a Spain controlled by American capital.

When that happened, the merchant ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company might know no peace on the high seas.

Though France had worked with Felix before, the Third Republic was now gradually cementing its hold on power, and they would not be so agreeable in the future.

But if it succeeded...

The returns would be staggering.

The sugar plantations in Cuba would be firmly secured, Umbrella Pharmaceuticals could legitimately take over the quinine and tropical medicinal resources in the Philippines, and Cygnus Mining's prospecting teams could advance unimpeded into Spanish-controlled overseas territories.

More importantly, Argyle Imperial Bank could establish a "super central bank" in Madrid, entirely free from the interference of old-money European families.

Like a leech, Felix could continuously siphon Spain's remaining national wealth and customs tariffs back to Wall Street.

And his son, Philippe Argyle, would wear the crown that symbolized power in the Old World.

For the established European financial consortia, that would be a crushing psychological blow.

"Your idea is not bad, Duke."

After a long pause, Felix finally broke the silence.

He stubbed out his cigar in the sterling silver ashtray and stood up.

"Using my money and my guns to realize your pathetic political restoration, and then using my son's future to silence me."

Felix walked up to Antoine, standing half a head taller and casting an imposing shadow.

"In business, what I hate most is pie-in-the-sky talk. You claim to have loyalists in Spain, that those generals will turn to your side. But all of that is nothing more than a fantasy in your head. I'm not going to throw millions of dollars worth of arms across the Atlantic Ocean down the drain just for your few daydreams."

Antoine's heart sank sharply; he thought Felix was about to refuse.

"Then what will it take for you to believe me?"

Antoine's voice sounded somewhat dry.

"I need to see tangible bargaining chips."

"At the very least, a detailed roster. It must clearly outline how many active officers in the Spanish military ranked colonel or above explicitly support your Orléans faction, how many troops they command, and which key ports and fortresses they hold."

"Secondly, perhaps you can use Louisa's connections to make secret contact with the Carlists rebels entrenched in northern Spain. I don't care how deep your mutual hatred runs; in politics, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I want to know whether, if supplied with funds, they can pin down Amadeo I's government forces in the north for at least six months, giving us the opportunity to land at the southern ports."

"Lastly..."

Felix's gaze turned as sharp as a blade.

"You must open a joint account known only to the two of us in an underground bank in Switzerland or London as soon as possible. Deposit all the remaining antiques, jewelry, and undeclared assets the Orléans still holds across Europe that haven't been seized. That will be your down payment for this war; I'm not footing the entire bill for your ambition."

"Even if the ultimate beneficiary is my son."

Listening to the terms Felix laid out, Antoine felt his back grow completely drenched with cold sweat.

This young man was not only cold-blooded, but ruthless in his professionalism.

Not only did he demand fifth columnists inside Spain, but he also wanted to use the rebels to bleed the government forces dry—and on top of that, wring out the very last bit of Antoine's private nest egg.

Damn it, was he really just an Irish commoner who had fled to America?

"Th-this will take time," Antoine swallowed hard. "Contacting those former subordinates requires covert channels. If Amadeo's secret police find out, those generals will be hauled before a court-martial."

"That's your problem, not mine," Felix interrupted him.

"I've already told you, I don't make deals at a loss. If you don't even have the ability to gather intelligence and turn people from within, what makes you think you can sit securely on the throne in Madrid? Just because you spent a few months reading newspapers in a villa?"

Felix straightened his suit jacket.

"The election will be over soon. Once Thomas secures his seat in Washington, I will have more than enough bandwidth to deal with overseas affairs."

Felix walked to the entrance of the foyer and picked up his overcoat and top hat.

He turned his head, glancing at Antoine, who was still standing dazed in the drawing room.

"While your grandson is still in his cradle, hurry up and contact those friends of yours lurking in the shadowy corners of Madrid. Get the roster and collateral funds I asked for ready."

Outside, Brooklyn's first snowfall was growing heavier, the freezing wind sweeping flakes of snow into the drawing room.

"As for whether we will actually fight our way back to Europe..."

Standing in the wind and snow, Felix had a look in his eyes so profound it was impossible to fathom.

"I need to give it some thought. Until then, play your part well as a grandfather, and don't make trouble for me outside."

With that, Felix strode down the steps and got into the black bulletproof carriage.

The carriage carved two deep ruts into the snow and vanished into the night.

Antoine stood alone in the foyer, watching the door sway gently in the wind.

His heart was tangled in conflicting emotions.

There was the humiliation of feeling thoroughly exploited, but also an unprecedented sense of hope.

It felt far more hopeful than during the bid in France.

Because he knew that when a man like Felix said "give it some thought," it meant that monstrous war machine had already begun quietly warming up in the shadows.

Meanwhile, up on the second floor in the warm bedroom smelling of carbolic acid,

little Philip was still sleeping peacefully in his cradle.

The infant, born only hours ago, had no inkling that his arrival into the world had already become a high-stakes gamble spanning both sides of the Pacific Ocean.