Pittsburgh, Saint Paul's Cathedral.
The cathedral was empty.
Leo sat in the front-row pew, holding a heavy Bible in his hands, his fingers lightly tracing the scripture-filled pages.
This was his way of waiting for the results.
In this chaotic world, only this place was quiet enough—quiet enough for him to hear the sound of the citadel of power in Harrisburg, hundreds of miles away, collapsing.
Leo was not a Catholic.
He had always maintained a utilitarian approach to such sacred buildings.
In his eyes, religious buildings offered a ready-made solemnity and a tranquility that could cool the mind, making them excellent places for contemplation.
As for faith, that was just a wrench in the toolbox—to be taken out when useful and tossed aside when not.
In a way, Leo's behavior was more like that of a typical Protestant.
"If Max Weber saw you now, he would definitely write you into one of his books."
Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo's mind.
