When Leo said he was taking Grace shopping for a gown, he wasn't just being polite.
He spent a small fortune hiring Philadelphia's most renowned dress designer, Alice Jane, to custom-make a beautiful gown for Grace within 48 hours.
After Leo and Grace left the party, Jeff Mason cautiously approached Isaac and asked:
"Sir…which family does this Mr. Valentino belong to?"
Isaac had already resumed his air of aloof authority.
He ignored Jeff and instead turned to John B. Kelly—the man he'd barely looked at before. He said warmly:
"You've raised a wonderful daughter, Billy. Your family just saved itself decades of struggle."
Seeing the crowd's curiosity, Isaac deliberately raised his voice so everyone could hear:
"This Mr. Valentino isn't the heir of some old family. Don't be fooled by his youth.
He built everything himself, from scratch. In just over a year, he went from discharged soldier to president of the biggest real estate company in Virginia.
He's also an honorary president of the American Real Estate Association.
He has excellent personal relations with Virginia's Governor Harry.
He's a close friend of FBI Director Hoover.
And he's a young protégé personally admired by the President himself.
In fact, the President specially invited Mr. Valentino to this year's White House Christmas Ball.
Kelly—this ball allows a companion. And Mr. Valentino just made clear, that companion will be Grace."
Each time Isaac listed an accolade, the crowd's jaws dropped further.
But the detail that sent them into envious spasms was the mention of the White House Christmas Ball.
John Kelly himself looked dazed. Stammering, he asked:
"So…how much is Mr. Valentino actually worth?"
Isaac gave a look of unfeigned envy:
"From what I hear, closing in on 40 million."
The crowd went silent, then burst in amazed whispers.
Jeff Mason—who was the wealthiest among them—had perhaps $2 million to his name.
This Valentino was worth twenty times that.
In an instant, every eye turned to the Kelly family with naked envy, jealousy, even spite.
Who could have guessed John's "raising a noble flower" strategy would actually work?
Some in the crowd were already thinking about cornering John later to ask for tips on raising daughters.
In the Bentley
Even though Leo had warned him ahead of time, young Aldo still looked rattled.
What he'd just witnessed in that house was…eye-opening for a kid from the sticks.
Grace Kelly really wasn't an ordinary girl.
She didn't berate Leo for showing up late.
Instead, she met him with a fiery, passionate kiss that left no doubts about her joy.
Leo had to restrain her wandering hands.
If he hadn't, he'd have had to kick Aldo out of the car.
Alice the designer proved highly professional.
Her design pitch instantly captured Grace's girlish heart.
And it conveniently gave the young lovers plenty of alone time.
Grace even snuck a pair of white lace-trimmed thigh-high stockings out of Alice's shop.
In a Ritz-Carlton suite in Philadelphia
When Leo emerged from his shower, he found Grace standing before him in a brown overcoat, fragrant and radiant.
"It's so warm in here—why the coat?" Leo asked.
Grace's lips curled in a knowing smile.
She slowly opened the coat.
White.
Blindingly white.
Leo felt like he was back on the battlefield—blasted by a flashbang.
He pounced like a starving tiger.
His roaming hands brushed over silky skin until he felt something special.
He glanced down.
Long, slender legs encased in old-fashioned white lace stockings.
Pure seduction.
From that moment on, the king forgot all about ruling his kingdom.
The next morning
A phone call woke them.
Leo kissed the still-sleeping Grace before stepping into the living room to answer.
It was Desmond.
He informed Leo that the Corleone family had recalled the troops they'd been training in Lynchburg.
And as if on cue, just after hanging up with Desmond, another call came in.
It was Michael.
Leo picked up and heard that deep, heavy voice:
"Leo. My father has passed. Five days from now, I hope you'll come for his memorial."
Washington, D.C.
Christmas had arrived. The streets bustled with holiday cheer.
Even the White House was festooned with decorations for the annual ball.
America's elite politicians and wealthiest tycoons gathered around a massive Christmas tree in the grand hall, dancing and singing.
Grace looked a little nervous in these surroundings.
"When I spoke to the First Lady just now…I stammered so much. I must've embarrassed you."
She sounded genuinely embarrassed.
But Leo held her close as they swayed together on the dance floor.
"Nonsense. Having you here makes me the most envied man in the room."
As they whispered sweet nothings, Isaac Koenig approached.
He leaned in to murmur:
"Mr. Valentino, the President would like to see you."
Leo handed Grace off to Isaac and followed a White House aide into a discreet meeting room.
Inside the meeting room
There were quite a few men there.
Some Leo recognized, others he didn't.
They all sized him up—this young man stood out glaringly among these old power players.
Leo, however, had eyes only for the imposing figure at Truman's right hand.
Not out of any odd preference—but because Leo recognized him from history books and newspapers.
America's other five-star general: George Catlett Marshall.
"Sit down, Leo," Truman said casually. "I know it's Christmas.
But these gentlemen are concerned about the state of the nation.
Specifically, they're worried about the out-of-control real estate boom.
I just asked Austin from Tishman to speak. He argued real estate is a normal part of a market economy and shouldn't be restricted.
But Mr. Wallace here believes unchecked capitalism leads to bubbles and crashes—he wants the industry regulated, as it was before.
Clearly, Austin didn't persuade everyone.
Now I want to hear your view."
Truman was as blunt as ever.
He nodded to the man on his left—Henry Wallace, Roosevelt's old Vice President, the lone holdover in Truman's cabinet.
Leo instantly realized what was going on.
Truman favored a free-market real estate sector.
Wallace wanted regulation.
Time to be the mouthpiece.
Leo's mind raced.
Sure, Wallace was right in the abstract. The U.S. would see a housing crash in the 60s.
But what did that have to do with him?
Anyone trying to block his profits was an enemy.
Leo stood, cool and confident.
"Gentlemen, I'm from a small town.
In Lynchburg, between 1920 and 1940, they built fewer than 100 houses in 20 years.
When I got back from the war in '45, my neighbors were crammed ten or fifteen to a shack.
A rotting hovel that needed repairs still rented for $800 a year—almost an entire family's income.
You want honesty?
I had to make my houses so thin-walled you could hear everything.
My girl and I had our first time with the whole family listening.
No offense, Mr. Vice President—but that's the reality of government-managed housing in America.
Bureaucratic inefficiency killed the dream of new homes.
Sure—four million young farmers can stay homeless, who cares?
But these aren't farmers anymore.
These are four million veterans who know how to kill people.
For the sake of America's stability and prosperity—let the market build houses."
His crude self-deprecating jokes drew genuine laughter from some of the men.
But not from Vice President Wallace.
He had heard the real threat in Leo's words.
Leo wasn't just talking about four million veterans.
He was warning him: We—the real estate developers—are all killers.
Even a Vice President couldn't block their profits and expect to live.
This was America.
Here, people had shot Presidents for less.
What chance did a mere Vice President have if he stood in the way?