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Chapter 346: Sister-in-Law, You Wouldn’t Want Your Sister To...

After an urgent meeting, the Lothier family sprang into action.

Although they sensed that something was off—feeling as if they were being targeted in the Latin American crisis—when it came to Latin American debt, European and American banks, both large and small, were essentially in the same boat.

Take, for example, the Bank of New York Mellon.

Out of its $80 billion in cross-border loans to Latin American countries, at least $40 billion was lent to sovereign nations, while the rest went to government-backed commercial enterprises or private borrowers.

Institutions like the Bank of New York Mellon are known for their rigorous lending standards, serving as a benchmark in the banking industry.

For instance, if the Brazilian government needed a $5 billion loan, they would typically approach a major bank first. If the Bank of New York Mellon agreed to lend $1 billion or $2 billion, smaller banks that had been waiting on the sidelines would rush in to claim the remaining loan shares.

Naturally, the Bank of New York Mellon had a far stronger risk tolerance than these smaller banks. In the event of a crisis, Mellon might survive, but a wave of small and medium-sized banks would undoubtedly go bankrupt.

The collapse of these smaller banks would have severe consequences. Many of them offer significantly higher interest rates than large banks to attract local deposits.

Take regional banks like Chicago City Bank, Chicago Deke Bank, Houston Integrity Bank, or Houston Sixth Bank—these institutions rely on competitive interest rates to draw local residents’ savings.

So when these small and medium-sized banks go under, depositors' funds often vanish overnight. Yet, loans and debts owed to these banks still need to be repaid.

This vicious cycle—mass bankruptcies among smaller banks—can sometimes inflict even greater damage on a region than the failure of a single large institution. It shakes the very foundation of the banking system, triggering a broader financial crisis.

Even the Bank of New York Mellon wouldn’t escape unscathed. Given its massive loan exposure, it would be at the center of the storm.

The financial sector is full of sharp minds, and as the severity of the situation became evident, major players quickly mobilized.

Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan, U.S. Treasury Secretary Dexter Hans, the CEOs of the Bank of New York Mellon, Lehman Brothers, Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, and a slew of other financial titans held an emergency meeting to devise a response plan.

By the end of August 6, no definitive solution had been reached.

Meanwhile, the fallout from Brazil’s sovereign debt default continued to escalate.

While print media lagged behind, television networks worldwide had already begun reporting on the crisis.

Ordinary citizens across various countries grew increasingly anxious.

Despite government assurances that the situation would be handled appropriately, cautious individuals rushed to withdraw their savings, further straining the banks involved.

In the midst of a bullish U.S. stock market—driven by the Nasdaq rally and a strengthening dollar—American bank stocks nosedived against the trend.

Even banks with relatively low exposure to Latin American loans, like Bank of America, saw their stock prices plunge, let alone European banks like Deutsche Bank in Germany, BNP Paribas and Crédit Agricole in France, Santander in Spain, and Barclays in the UK.

But this was exactly what Milo had hoped for.

By the end of August 6, he had received performance reports from eight trading teams:

• Compass Team: $820 million in unrealized profits.

• Andre Team: $910 million.

• George Berkeley Team: $770 million.

• Ichiro Watanabe Team: $780 million.

• Nelson Team: $990 million.

• Peter Peterson Team: $380 million.

In total, these teams had amassed an astonishing $5.26 billion in unrealized gains!

Adding in the $700 million unrealized loss previously incurred by Paladin Investments, the firm had netted nearly $6 billion in a single day—an absolutely terrifying figure!

During a video call, Milo could feel the excitement radiating from each team.

Yet, he remained composed. After some words of encouragement, he reminded them to stay level-headed and focus on maximizing their gains.

Over the next few days, the situation deteriorated further. With global media outlets amplifying the crisis—thanks in no small part to Milo’s media empire—it became widely known across the world.

Behind the scenes, Morgan and Rockefeller were also fanning the flames. This time, they were willing to take some losses themselves if it meant toppling the Lothier family.

By August 7, Paladin Investments' total unrealized gains had reached $7.55 billion.

By August 8, the figure had climbed to $8.63 billion.

Then, on August 9, while banks and governments in the U.S. and Europe were still scrambling to find a solution to Brazil’s default, another country defied Western pressure and declared bankruptcy.

At 11 a.m., Argentina’s Finance Minister held a press conference.

With a look of deep regret, he announced that Argentina was unable to repay $93.6 billion in sovereign debt and interest. However, he assured everyone that the government would do everything possible to find a solution.

No one paid attention to the hollow reassurances that followed. Instead, chaos erupted among major banks across Europe and America, especially those heavily exposed to Argentina.

Argentina’s economy, already in turmoil, took a nosedive. Its stock market and currency collapsed entirely.

And once one country defaults, others follow.

Brazil was already one of Latin America’s economic leaders. While Argentina’s economy had been weak, it remained a major regional power.

With both nations now in default, their financial burdens had effectively been lifted—or at least shifted elsewhere.

The real losers? The U.S., Europe, and their banking institutions, which now faced unprecedented losses.

Watching this unfold, other Latin American nations—including Mexico, Colombia, and Peru—began to waver. Their governments were eyeing the situation carefully, contemplating whether to follow suit.

After all, no country lacks shrewd policymakers.

For years, Latin American governments had analyzed their economic conditions and the predatory nature of their debt obligations.

Burdened by unsustainable debt, their economies had been stuck in a death spiral, gradually drained by Western financial institutions. If they continued down this path, their financial markets would inevitably collapse anyway.

So why not collapse on their own terms?

At least by defaulting now, they retained a sliver of control, lessening the overall impact and, most importantly, shedding the crushing weight of debt.

Simply put, Latin America had had enough of being exploited—and they were flipping the table.

--

Who cares about debt? Let’s renegotiate everything from scratch. If we band together, who knows? We might even get half of our debt wiped out…

At this point, we’re already down to nothing but our last pair of ragged underwear. How much worse could things possibly get?

On August 11, as the Latin American sovereign debt crisis continued to spiral out of control, Mexico—the strongest economy in the region—decided it had had enough. Instead of suffering in silence, it made a bold move that only added fuel to the fire.

That morning, Mexico’s finance minister publicly announced that the country could no longer fulfill its sovereign debt obligations.

This was even more extreme than Brazil and Argentina. At least they made some effort to appear cooperative, without outright declaring they wouldn’t repay a single cent.

But Mexico? Mexico didn’t beat around the bush. When it finally spoke up, it basically said:

"That’s it. We’re done. We’re not paying."

With Mexico flat-out refusing to pay, banks in Europe and the U.S. immediately realized—this crisis was now completely irreversible.

Hearing the news, Milo could barely contain his excitement—he almost started dancing right there in his office.

Mexico’s defiant stance had just ensured that the Latin American debt crisis was now beyond saving.

For Milo, this meant two things:

• He had positioned himself perfectly to make a massive profit from the chaos.

• The crisis would deal a devastating blow to hundreds of small and mid-sized American banks, as well as countless European banks.

At this point, Milo wasn’t just suspecting anymore—he was certain.

This entire situation had been engineered.

Morgan and Rockefeller had set this up deliberately.

On one hand, it was a brutal trap for the European banking system, especially targeting the Rothschild-led financial empire.

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On the other hand, it was also designed to create a systemic banking crisis within the U.S.—but only for small and mid-sized banks.

The goal? To force these struggling institutions into bankruptcy, allowing well-prepared financial giants to swoop in and buy up their valuable assets for pennies on the dollar.

A massive wave of consolidation was coming.

As for collateral damage?

Let’s be real—if these financial titans were afraid of a little friendly fire, there wouldn’t be financial crises in the first place. There wouldn’t have been a 9/11 either.

Crisis and opportunity are two sides of the same coin.

Sure, they’d take some losses in the short term. But as long as they survived, they could recover everything—and then some.

Fivefold. Tenfold.

It was like executing a Seven Wounds Fist move.

Yes, you’d take damage yourself—but if you could completely destroy your opponent, the trade-off was worth it.

At the moment, European banks were in the worst shape. After them, a handful of large American banks were struggling too. But the hardest hit? The thousands of small and mid-sized banks across the U.S.

Looking at the latest report from the Blackburn Foundation, Milo saw that over a thousand American regional banks were in crisis.

If Blackburn Bank could swallow them all, it would instantly become the largest bank in America—maybe even the world.

But that was impossible.

Not even Morgan and Rockefeller working together could pull that off.

While many of these struggling banks had valuable assets, they were also drowning in toxic debt.

Swallowing them all might make you big, but it could also make you too big to survive.

The best approach? Selective mergers.

Pick the best ones. Take the cream of the crop. That’s what all the major players were doing.

"It’s been ten days."

After reviewing the latest reports, Milo walked over to his floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at Manhattan.

The Rothschilds were still holding back.

There was no way they hadn’t figured out the trap by now.

After all, this scheme had been in the works for nearly a decade—Morgan and Rockefeller had set it up ages ago.

If the Rothschilds still hadn’t realized they were being played, they didn’t deserve to lead European banking anymore.

And if they had figured it out but were still hesitating?

Then they deserved to fall.

Milo stared at the steel-and-glass jungle of Manhattan for a moment longer before returning to his desk.

He pressed a button to summon his secretary.

A moment later, a stunning young blonde woman strutted into the office.

"Mr. Blackburn?"

"What’s on my schedule this afternoon?"

The blonde secretary flipped open her notebook, quickly scanning her notes.

"In thirty minutes, you have a meeting with Ted Turner, CEO of Blackburn Media, to discuss the new headquarters for the Hudson Bay City Plaza project."

"At 3 PM, after your meeting with Mr. Turner, New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani has invited you to the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the same project."

"At 4:30 PM, Robert Morgenthau, the Manhattan District Attorney, has requested a private meeting with you, though he didn’t specify the topic."

"At 5:30 PM, you’ll be heading back to your estate on Long Island to prepare for an evening party. The event is being held at the Rockefeller estate in New Sleepy Hollow—it’s David Rockefeller’s birthday party."

Milo waved his hand dismissively.

"Cancel everything before 5:30. Just remind me to attend the Rockefeller party."

His secretary hesitated for a brief moment but nodded quickly.

She couldn’t help but wonder—why was Mr. Blackburn suddenly canceling meetings with Ted Turner, Morgenthau, and even Giuliani?

After all, while Ted Turner was technically his subordinate, the other two were major figures in New York.

One was the mayor, and the other was the district attorney.

For most people—hell, even for New York’s elite—getting a meeting with either of them would take countless favors, connections, and money.

But Mr. Blackburn?

He just canceled on them, as if they were nobodies.

Then again… compared to him, weren’t they?

She gave a polite smile.

"Understood. I’ll take care of it. Anything else, Mr. Blackburn?"

"No, just clean up the files and documents a bit. Thanks, Miss Harrison."

"Of course, sir. That’s my job."

She lowered her head respectfully as she spoke—while subtly adjusting her posture to emphasize her curves.

Milo smirked inwardly.

So, even his sister-in-law’s cousin was making moves on him, huh?

Lilly Harrison.

A Harvard graduate, only twenty-three years old. A rising star in high society.

More importantly? She was the great-great-granddaughter of Benjamin Harrison, the 23rd President of the United States.

A handpicked recommendation from the Boston financial elite.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

(End of Chapter.)

Chapter 347: The Pampered Heavenly Mother

At 3 p.m., Milo’s Cadillac convoy rolled back into Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The row of townhouses sat just across the street from Central Park.

A custom-built Cadillac Escalade Beast pulled up and stopped in front of the ornate cast-iron gates.

Security personnel from United Global were already stepping out from inside, coordinating with the rest of the convoy crew. They kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, blocking any curious glances that might come their way.

The August sun filtered through the courtyard, casting light onto the front porch. Tiny golden flecks danced off the cufflinks of Milo’s tailored suit as he stepped out.

“Sir, Miss Penny’s temperature has dropped to 37.8°C,” the housekeeper said, bending forward with a perfectly tied bow on her apron.

Milo nodded, pausing briefly on the enamel-inlaid marble steps before heading inside.

Like most Manhattan townhouses, the first floor served as a grand reception hall, complete with a spiral staircase and an elevator nook. The artsy types might toss in some bookshelves or cabinet decor. The trendy ones would splurge on so-called modern art pieces churned out by self-proclaimed artists. The straightforward folks? They’d just plop down a sculpture or a piano.

What’s the point of it all? Not much, really—just a way to flaunt the owner’s wealth and supposed good taste to visitors.

This house was no different. The walls were lined with cabinets stuffed with books, a piano sat in the wide-open center, and a few sculptures dotted the space. It was like someone had crammed every cliché Manhattan townhouse decoration into one spot.

When Milo first saw it after the renovations, he’d been pretty unimpressed. But what could he do? Could he really expect Liu Li—a woman born into an ordinary Chinese working-class family, who’d climbed the social ladder through dance and her stunning looks, then lucked into his affection and this lavish life—to have impeccable taste? That was asking too much.

Her little head was now obsessed with having a son. Other than that, her greatest joy came from the endless fawning of New York’s elite Chinese wives. That was her peak happiness.

Liu Li hadn’t been told he was coming to visit.

As Milo climbed the stairs, light from a crystal chandelier poured down from the third floor, shimmering across the ivory-carved railings. When he reached the second floor, he spotted Liu Li in the living room, leaning against a gilded Louis XV-style tea table. Her silk robe draped over her pregnant belly, which looked like a perfect pearl.

She was holding an ultrasound scan, her face glowing with joy. When she turned and saw Milo, that happiness nearly spilled over. “Oh, honey, what are you doing here?”

She hurried to her feet and rushed over to him.

“Penny’s sick. I came to check on her,” Milo said.

It was a terrible thought, but Liu Li couldn’t help feeling a tiny spark of gratitude toward Penny’s illness. Without it, she might not have seen him for another two or three months.

“The doctor said it’s acute laryngitis,” she explained softly. “Probably from wandering around Central Park and breathing in some pollen. An allergic reaction turned into this.”

“Didn’t the housekeeper just say she’s still at 37-something degrees? That’s still a fever,” Milo noted.

“Yeah, but it’s way better now. Last night, it shot up to 41°C. I was terrified.”

“Kids get high fevers all the time. Their normal body temperature’s higher than ours anyway,” Milo reassured her. He’d been around enough kids—none of whom he had to personally care for—to know a thing or two. If he wanted to, he’d probably make a decent hands-on dad.

“Where’s Penny now? Is she asleep?”

“No, she’s probably up on the third floor. She slept all last night and this morning. After the fever broke at noon, she’s been much perkier,” Liu Li said with a smile, sidling closer to Milo. “She’s up there now with Anxi keeping her company.”

“Anxi? It’s not the weekend. Doesn’t she have school?”

“Penny’s been really sick with that high fever, and Anxi was so worried. She stayed up most of last night looking after her. Penny adores her big sister, and if Anxi tries to leave for school, Penny throws a fit. So Anxi took the day off to stay home and take care of her.”

“Oh, that’s tough on her,” Milo said with a nod.

“Not at all! She loves it. She’s crazy about Penny,” Liu Li replied, eager to boost her eldest daughter’s standing in Milo’s eyes—and, by extension, her own.

Just as they were about to head upstairs to see Penny, Anxi appeared at the third-floor staircase, cradling a messy-haired Penny in her arms. Her chic Gucci skirt brushed the gilded steps as she descended. The little mixed-race girl’s flushed cheeks pressed against her sister’s collarbone, her long lashes fluttering. When she spotted Liu Li and Milo below, her tiny hands waved excitedly. “Mommy! Mommy!”

Milo stepped forward and took Penny from Anxi’s arms. The little girl’s warm breath puffed against his collar, squirming a bit in the arms of this vaguely familiar stranger. He didn’t visit more than a handful of times a year, and she was too young to know he was her father.

“This is Daddy, sweetie. Daddy!” Liu Li cooed, worried Milo might get upset.

But Milo just waved Anxi over with a gentle gesture. The shy teen shuffled closer, timidly.

“Forgetting something when you see me?” he teased.

“No,” she mumbled, stepping up to him. She stretched onto her tiptoes, offering a soft peck. She wasn’t tall enough, though, even on tiptoes. Milo, still holding Penny in one arm, scooped Anxi up with the other, letting her reach him. Liu Li, watching from the side, felt a whirlwind of emotions.

Part of her was thrilled—Milo still adored her eldest daughter, just as always. But part of her ached. Sharing her lover with her own daughter… what mother wouldn’t feel a pang of bitterness?

The “family” wrapped up their staircase reunion and settled into the second-floor living room. Milo asked a few caring questions about Anxi’s studies and her acting lessons. She was set to head to London next year for a role in Harry Potter. Her big scenes wouldn’t come until the third film—way more than in the books—but she’d still pop up plenty in the first two. A different take from the original story and movies.

At her young age, her future was already mapped out.

“Just play yourself,” Milo advised. “The little wizards are students, after all.”

Then the doorbell rang, just as pigeons from Fifth Avenue’s clock tower flitted past the stained-glass windows. Guests had arrived.

The housekeeper came up to report that some visitors, who’d made plans with Mrs. Liu, were here to see Miss Penny.

“Oh! Right, I totally forgot!” Liu Li said, glancing at Milo. “It’s a few of my friends. They adore Penny and were so worried when they heard she was sick. They wanted to come check on her…” She trailed off, then interrupted herself. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll go tell them to come back another time.”

Milo shook his head. “They’re already at the door. Let your friends come up.”

United Global wasn’t just fighting wars in the Congo or raking in dirty money in Africa. It had a massive security division and even a commercial espionage arm. Around Milo’s women, beyond the bodyguards keeping them safe, there were also spies planted by the company.

Milo might be a generous lover, but he wasn’t about to let anyone make a fool of him. He didn’t have the patience for slow-burn romance or magical loyalty spells. Using divine powers to keep tabs on cheating? That’d be overkill.

So he’d set up a secret department within United Global instead. Its sole job? Monitoring the women in his life.

He’d skimmed reports on Liu Li’s daily routine a few times. She was tame—rarely left Manhattan, mostly dipping into New York’s elite socialite scene. She loved hosting and attending parties with Chinese and Asian high-society women. Over the past year, she’d made plenty of friends, mostly from similar backgrounds.

Oh, and she was pretty tight with the eldest daughter of the Xing family. Though Miss Li spent more time in Korea and LA. Liu Li also got along well with a Sumitomo heiress from Japan, plus a few Hong Kong ladies in San Francisco. Cliques and power plays were inevitable, even among his women.

Hearing Milo’s response, Liu Li hesitated, studying him. “So… I’ll let them up?”

“Yeah,” he said.

A moment later, the housekeeper ushered in four Chinese and Asian socialites, each sporting a luxury watch. Their servants trailed behind, arms stacked with Tiffany blue gift boxes like a mini monument.

Liu Li greeted them with a warm smile, but when they caught sight of the man kissing Penny’s forehead in the living room, their eyes widened in shock.

“Is… is that Mr. Blackborn?!” the oldest of the group gasped, clutching her pearl necklace as it swayed with her heavy breathing.

The younger one in a Chanel tweed suit nodded confidently. “It’s him, no doubt. His face is all over the papers and TV every day!”

Liu Li leaned on a gilded armrest, chuckling softly, her pregnant belly tracing a perfect curve under her Dior silk dress. “What a coincidence you all caught him here,” she said, her voice dripping with smug honey. “Penny’s dad is just so sweet. He heard she was sick and dropped everything—work and all—to come see her. It’s just a little thing, pollen allergies, that’s all.”

She played it cool, but inside, Liu Li swore this was the happiest day of her life—better even than the day she’d made it to America. Back then, sure, she’d arrived, but the future had felt uncertain. Now? Her life was stable, luxurious beyond reason. Two daughters, the eldest helping secure her place, and a son on the way. And these women from her own community got to see that, mistress or not, she was the favored one. Why else would he be here during work hours?

What? Because he dotes on Penny? Same difference—loving her daughter was the same as loving her. In that moment, her dopamine levels were through the roof. If she had a tail, it’d be wagging sky-high.

In the living room, Milo watched Liu Li keep her composure while subtly showing off. He wasn’t mad—just amused. He even played along, holding Penny in one arm and taking Anxi’s hand with the other as he walked over.

“Your friends are here, Xiao’an,” he said, giving Liu Li a quick kiss to flaunt their closeness and his affection.

Liu Li beamed even brighter.

“Yep! This is Mrs. Liu,” she said, starting introductions. “Her husband’s a New York City Council member—super respected in the Chinese community.”

It sounded impressive—NYC Council member, wow! But in reality, the council’s just 51 people, each representing about 157,000 residents. Elections every four years, districts redrawn after censuses in years divisible by 20—two-year terms, blah blah. The speaker’s a big deal, second only to the mayor. But a regular councilor? Not much power, especially in a city like New York. And a Chinese one at that? Influence mostly stayed within the community. Probably got the top billing because her last name matched Liu Li’s.

“Hello, Mrs. Liu, and the other ladies. Good afternoon,” Milo said politely, already losing interest in Liu Li’s flexing. He shifted Penny in his arms. “She’s still a little warm. I’m gonna put her down for a nap. Hope you all have a nice chat.”

He said it was for Penny’s nap, but he tugged Anxi along too. The socialites didn’t dare object, chiming in from below:

“Fathers as dedicated as you, Mr. Blackborn, are rare. Have a great afternoon!”

“Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Blackborn!”

“…”

Once Milo, Anxi, and Penny vanished to the third floor, Liu Li turned to her guests with a smile that screamed, “See? I’m this pampered, this awesome!” Their eyes brimmed with envy—okay, mostly jealousy. But they hid it well enough, settling into a chat with her in the living room.

As the last golden rays of sunset slipped through the third-floor nursery’s carousel bed, splintering into stardust on the Swarovski-crystal-decorated walls, the Cadillac convoy’s engines faded down Fifth Avenue. Maids began unpacking a mountain of gift boxes. At the bottom, in a Hermès orange box, lay a gold-embossed invitation—a charity gala next month hosted by the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, with Liu Li’s name proudly signed as chairwoman.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 348: Taking Advantage of Chaos

Wall Street, the paradise of all fate’s darlings.

In this era of rampant materialism, Wall Street is basically synonymous with money.

Every inch of this place reeks of the crude stench of cash, yet it’s laced with the scent of expensive cologne.

Wave after wave of ambitious young financial dreamers, like moths to a flame, throw themselves recklessly into the snowballing game of wealth.

Their eyes burn with passion, clutching dreams of overnight riches, as they hustle through the towering skyscrapers, their coat tails fluttering in the wind like a signal of their imminent rise.

It’s also a place synonymous with human greed. Accumulated wealth satisfies only a select few, but for Wall Streeters, there’s no upper limit to their goals—no such thing as “enough,” only “more.”

They sit in spacious, brightly lit offices, eyes glued to the flickering numbers on their screens, lips curling into greedy smirks, as if the world’s riches are about to fall into their pockets.

When the paychecks of Wall Street executives reach immoral heights, and companies respond to economic crises by laying off workers to cut losses, how can the American people not be furious?

Honestly, people all over the world would be pissed.

Those laid-off workers stand outside company gates, faces etched with worry, holding protest signs, their eyes brimming with anger and helplessness.

Meanwhile, Wall Street execs, still clad in crisp suits, swagger in and out of luxury venues, turning a blind eye to the public’s rage.

The hierarchy, the class divide—it’s so blatant, so stark.

The elites of America, and even the world, can see it plain as day.

So… if studying these numbers, mastering this money game, can grant such high social status and effortless access to the finest material pleasures, then the truly gifted, the brilliant minds, won’t bother slaving away at things like math, physics, or chemistry anymore.

Because that’s science—a lofty temple where only a rare few can reach the top.

Instead, the vast majority of Anglo elites, along with the parasitic “squid people” elites mooching off America, have flocked to this field—over 90% of them.

Sure, it’s made Wall Street stronger than ever, arguably the most dominant force in the history of financial games on this planet.

But at what cost?

The last generation of Cold War engineers and skilled workers are dying off, retiring, or just too worn out to keep going.

The empire’s collapse seems inevitable.

Finance might sit at the top of the pyramid, but it needs a foundation.

When that foundation crumbles, it can’t stay on top forever.

Every time Milo visits Wall Street, he gets the same vibe—

A blazing fire boiling oil, flowers in full bloom, and death lurking just around the corner.

Too bad there’s no way—or ability—to turn this order, these rules, upside down.

Hell, he’s one of the biggest beneficiaries of this system himself.

Right now, while banks worldwide and Latin American countries tremble in the face of a sovereign debt crisis, Milo’s holed up in his Long Island estate in New York, going through his daily routine.

“Heh, now that’s good news.” In his study, Milo’s lips curve into a faint smile. Phone in hand, he gazes out the window, eyes locked on Ivanna swimming in the pool downstairs in the courtyard.

Her graceful figure glides through the water like a fish, the splashes catching the sunlight and sparkling like crystals.

Chuckling, Milo speaks into the phone to an ecstatic Gisele Bündchen on the other end.

Britain’s men’s magazine FHM recently held its “Top 100 Sexiest Women in the World” poll, drawing nearly 10 million votes, making the results pretty legit.

Gisele shot up from 7th place in 1997 to number one, beating out a slew of supermodels and entertainment stars to claim the top spot.

The magazine’s editors raved about her, saying she’s got the looks, the body, and the brains, plus a boldness most women lack.

Gisele, cheeks flushed with excitement and eyes gleaming with joy, called Milo the second she heard, eager to share the news.

“Heh, I heard. Just focus on being a great mentor. We’ll catch up when I’m back in New York. Talk later—I’ve got a video meeting soon. Alright, bye.”

Milo’s smile lingers as he hangs up, shaking his head with a hint of exasperation.

Gisele’s been working in Miami lately, judging the third season of TBS’s America’s Next Top Model alongside a few other Victoria’s Secret supermodels.

The show was Milo’s brainchild. The first season got a big push from Kemp, and the ratings have been decent—especially with its HB flair, which has hooked a loyal male audience.

His slender fingers slide across the phone screen, pulling up another number and dialing.

No way around it—too many women, too much hassle. Daily calls to keep them happy are a must.

Especially the ones he hasn’t seen in a while or the pregnant ones—they need extra sweet talk.

Take the five Hong Kong actresses still in San Francisco, for example. He’s been MIA for ages, and while they’re not thrilled, they’re not that mad either.

But pregnant heiresses like Paige Adams? Those spoiled rich girls aren’t so easy to placate.

Thinking about it now, Milo winces, a flicker of headache crossing his face.

Good thing he suggested Paige lean on Hailey for advice. With her cousin’s authority keeping her in check, the Adams girl—who got knocked up after just a few rounds with Milo—has stayed pretty obedient.

Daily check-ins done, Milo’s expression shifts to a mix of amusement and resignation.

He leans back in his chair, hands spread, thinking to himself: No way around it. If you want to enjoy all these different pleasures, you’ve got to deal with the headaches.

But then he remembers how he’s conquered all these goddesses one by one, and his chest puffs out a little, pride flashing across his face.

Lovers, mutual benefits, playthings—whatever you call it, they’re just the most dazzling highlights of his road to success, the shiniest gems in his crown. It’s the life he craves deep down, pure and instinctual.

As a winner, he’s earned the right and the means to enjoy more resources, live the life he loves, and revel in everything wealth brings him.

He stands, pacing slowly around the study, eyes brimming with confidence and satisfaction.

The luxury goods and rare collectibles scattered around the room feel like medals of his triumph.

This is why success in business is damn near everyone’s dream. Anyone who doesn’t chase it seems like a failure content with mediocrity.

Piles of money, elite status, fancy cars, gorgeous women, mansions—aren’t those the ultimate goals of the white-collar workers slaving away in offices or the laborers grinding it out on the front lines?

They cram into subways, staring at phones with ads for lavish villas and luxury cars, their eyes full of envy and yearning.

And Milo? He’s already standing at the peak of their dreams.

But once you hit that height, what’s next?

When all shackles and limits vanish, when wealth grants power above the law, when assets keep growing even as you party day and night without lifting a finger, Milo’s asked himself more than once: What now?

How do I keep riding this wave?

He walks to the window, gazing at the distant Manhattan skyline, its bustling cityscape stretching out before him, a trace of confusion in his eyes.

Work or slack off, his fortune grows the same. Discipline or indulgence, life’s just as short. No one can hold him back anymore—he can ignore every rule, do whatever he damn well pleases.

Unrestrained ego runs wild, and human nature lays itself bare in moments like these.

Should he live like those Wall Street tycoons who control 99% of America’s wealth—drowning in drugs, orgies, and excess?

Or go full reckless, fearless, with a devil-may-care attitude, burning through his time, money, and life like it’s a game?

He’s been lost before. Either way, he’s got the capital to pull it off. Even if he goes all out, his wealth keeps piling up silently while he’s busy with one woman after another.

But he’s a reborn soul, after all, and he’s already set his “Conquer the Five Continents” plan in motion.

What Milo craves now isn’t just wealth itself—it’s immortality.

Sure, he’s heard that mysterious voice, but he knows damn well there’s no supernatural power in this world.

If there were, someone at his level would’ve caught wind of it by now.

Reality is, aside from himself, he’s never heard of a second case.

So the immortality he’s after isn’t literal.

Milo knows even with the best health, he might hit a hundred, maybe a hundred twenty if he’s lucky.

What he wants is the immortality of his bloodline, his name, his legacy.

Kind of like the Chinese obsession with leaving a mark in history.

But his version is through a vast, exceptional brood of kids spread across the globe, proving he was here.

That way, long after he’s gone, people worldwide will still honor and remember him.

That’s the kind of immortality he’s chasing.

Why this idea? Milo figures it’s probably tied to the core of his soul.

He’s still a ways off from that “immortality” goal.

His oldest kids, Lily and Rose, aren’t even three yet.

He reckons he’s got at least thirty more years of effort ahead.

It’s the anchor he’s set for himself, keeping him from going off the rails like the other top-tier “dragon lords.”

Take those three old geezers who invited him golfing the other day.

Yesterday, they asked him to join them on a Caribbean island—said a batch of “new goods” had arrived.

Plenty of folks were already there having fun.

Milo’s no saint, but he still turned them down.

There’s a line—things you do, things you don’t. Sure, he plays hard, even grooming Anxi Liu now.

But compared to guys like David, Milo feels like he’s practically Paladin’s favorite little brother!

Bzzz bzzz ding— The video call notification snaps him out of his thoughts.

Milo strides to his desk, plops into the boss chair, grabs the mouse, and clicks to join the call.

It’s the latest video tech from ITK.

Clients can use it for remote meetings over the internet.

Basic version’s free, but the signal might leak. Want privacy with no risk?

Simple—pay up.

Other big companies aren’t bold enough to trust ITK’s service yet, but it’s Milo’s company. Every time he uses it for a meeting, Blackburn Foundation’s internet experts and top hackers are watching the backend—enterprise-grade security.

For Milo, it’s rock-solid.

Sitting up straight at his desk, he adjusts his collar, enlarges the video window, and the meeting kicks off.

On his screen, alongside the video feed, there’s a document.

It’s about the global non-ferrous metals market.

Last year, 1997, global copper production hit around 18 million tons, with a market value of just under $20 billion.

The top ten copper producers: Chile’s National Copper Corp, Mexico’s Copper Group, Anglo American, Newmont Mining (US), First Quantum (Canada), BHP (Australia), Southern Copper (US), Rio Tinto (UK), BHP again (Australia), and Chile’s Antofagasta Mining.

The top eleven copper-producing countries don’t align with the top ten companies. Why? Small nations lack clout—most of their copper comes from local branches of global mining giants, not state-backed firms.

Next up, aluminum.

Global production last year was about 12 million tons, with the US alone churning out 4.6 million—over a third. A true aluminum powerhouse, both in production and consumption.

The global aluminum market? A hefty $30 billion.

“…Obviously, for copper, our targets are Chile’s National Copper Corp, Mexico’s Copper Group, and Chile’s Antofagasta Mining,” says Szabótai, Blackburn Foundation’s chief strategist, speaking in the video call.

“While they’re tangled up in this sovereign debt crisis, it’s a prime chance to buy them out.

But we’re not the only ones eyeing them—plenty of others want to swoop in and take advantage too.”

Today’s video meeting is Milo and his global financial network hashing out plans to snap up prime Latin American companies amid the chaos.

It’s practically a ritual for American and European firms after every regional financial crisis.

Take the Asian financial crisis two years back, followed by the Korean meltdown. One big hit, and now Korea’s chaebols are just Wall Street’s errand boys.

And now, Milo and his crew have their sights set on Latin America.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 349: Planning Ahead

When it comes to Latin America, the rest of the world tends to picture just a handful of things: samba dancing, the vast Argentine plains, skinny Chile, the Amazon rainforest, the world’s biggest mixed-race population, rich mineral deposits, terrifying drug cartels, and sprawling slums.

Notice a pattern? Aside from geography, pretty much everything ties back to the colonizers.

Truth is, apart from different demographics and landscapes, Latin America isn’t all that different from Africa. And in some ways, it’s actually worse off. Why? Because it’s too far from heaven and way too close to… the United States.

Take this latest national debt crisis, for example. It might’ve started with Morgan and Rockefeller quietly digging traps for them, while Rothschild waited in the wings, planning to cash in big on Latin America’s misfortune. But now? It’s spiraled into a mini financial crisis—mostly for Europe and U.S. banks. At the same time, it’s hammering Latin American countries, forcing their currencies to tank and sparking social unrest.

Sound familiar? Yep, because this is usually when the Americans swoop in.

Milo calling a meeting with his team to snatch up copper and aluminum mining companies in Latin America? That’s just a snapshot of what’s going down. But unlike most players, Milo’s not stopping at the big, globally critical minerals. He’s got his eye on stuff nobody cares about right now—lithium, nickel, cobalt, you name it.

Latin America holds 67% of the world’s lithium reserves, mostly in the “Lithium Triangle” where Bolivia, Argentina, and Chile meet. Nickel? That’s scattered across Brazil and Cuba. Down the road, nickel’s key for the cathode in ternary lithium batteries, while lithium powers the batteries themselves—think electric cars and renewable energy storage.

Milo’s game plan is crystal clear. He’s positioning himself for the future of global clean energy. The Atacama Salt Flat in Chile, the Hombre Muerto Salt Flat in Argentina—these are the world’s top lithium producers, and he wants them. Brazil’s Carajás nickel mine? That’s on his list too.

Sure, it’s 1998—way too early to bet on renewables, right? Wrong. A massive industry like clean energy doesn’t just pop up overnight and change the world. Giants like the U.S. and China started laying the groundwork back in the ‘90s. It’s like smartphones: GSM tech was born in labs in the ‘80s, and the planning began then. Big, profitable industries don’t come out of nowhere—they’re backed by nations or companies years in advance before they hit the mainstream.

Worst case, Milo stockpiles some minerals. If renewables don’t take off, these metals are still essentials—easy to sell. And he’s dead certain that even if the U.S. skips the clean energy train, China won’t. Why? Simple. If China wants to climb the industrial ladder, they’ll have to tackle the crown jewel of manufacturing: cars.

Easier said than done, though. The holy trinity of gas-powered cars—engine, transmission, and chassis—is a fortress. Chassis? That’s subjective; everyone’s got their own take on it. But engines and transmissions? Those are pure industrial wizardry, packed with high-tech patents and impenetrable barriers.

Japan, Germany, the U.S.—they’ve been stacking patents on engines and transmissions for decades, building walls that are tough, if not impossible, to dodge. For a latecomer nation aiming to crack the car industry, they’d need a miracle—like inventing a groundbreaking engine tech that sidesteps every existing patent. Can’t pull that off and still want a seat at the global table? Then you’re stuck paying licensing fees to Germany and Japan forever, with no shot at overtaking them.

So why not just skip cars altogether? Industry’s huge—why fixate on vehicles? Because cars are the priciest industrial product regular people can actually buy, and they’re tied to everyday life. In Japan and Germany, the auto industry props up millions of workers and their families—middle-class jobs, millions of roles, hundreds of thousands of well-paid researchers. What ambitious industrial nation wouldn’t drool over that? Or would they rather churn out billions of socks and shirts each year to trade for a few million imported cars?

With gas engines and transmissions locked behind patent walls, the U.S. can afford to dabble—they don’t have to push renewables. But China? If they’ve got any pride, they’re all in. They can’t dodge the patent maze and crave the auto industry’s riches, so their best move is to carve a new path: electric vehicles. Boom—Germany and Japan’s walls are irrelevant.

Even without Tesla, China would’ve gone for it. It’s a matter of national survival. Tesla just happened to seize the moment, playing the catfish that stirs the pond. And when the U.S. saw China pulling it off—dodging fees to Germany and Japan while their own car industry lagged—they had to jump in too, for strategy and profit.

Getting a decade-plus head start on nickel and lithium? Even if Milo doesn’t touch renewables himself, owning the raw materials means he’s still in the game—making money and calling shots. The video conference wrapped up with Milo’s bold ambitions for Latin America’s nickel and lithium locked in.

Meanwhile, that same afternoon, after the stock market closed, Evelyn Rothschild dragged his exhausted self back to the family estate. He marched straight to where Jacob Rothschild, Elro Rothschild, and the others were huddled.

The moment Evelyn walked in, their chatter stopped cold.

“Evelyn, how’s the bank holding up?” Lister Rothschild, who’d rushed over from Vienna, asked the second Evelyn took a sip of water.

All eyes were on him. Evelyn sighed, his voice heavy with bitterness. “It’s bad. Word’s out about our debt mess. Depositors and investors have zero faith in us. Our stabilization tricks? Useless. Every branch is swamped with people pulling their money out.”

“How much have we lost?” Harry Rothschild, fresh from Switzerland, jumped in.

“I’ve got the numbers—more concrete this way. Take a look,” Evelyn said, then paused mid-motion as he reached for his laptop. With so many people in the room, passing it around would take forever. “Actually, forget it. I’ll just read it out loud for everyone.”

They leaned in, focus sharp as knives.

Evelyn flipped open his laptop and started: “Right now, the bank’s total assets are £148 billion. Total deposits sit at £142.12 billion. Since August 6, we’ve lost £15.05 billion in savings. The company’s market value dropped from £13.5 billion nine days ago to £9.92 billion.”

“Our Latin American sovereign debt makes up 24.84% of total assets. Add in the $51.94 billion in loans to Latin American companies—now flagged as major risks—and risky assets account for 47.8% of the bank.”

“We’re now rated the highest-risk bank in the UK by tons of agencies…”

“As for liquidity…” Evelyn’s face darkened. This was the number he dreaded most: £12.31 billion.

The room tensed. Frowns deepened. Sure, £12 billion sounds like a lot—how many entities worldwide even have that kind of cash flow? But context is everything. For an individual or a single company, it’s a fortune. For the Rothschilds’ main UK branch, though? During a banking crisis hitting Europe and the U.S.? It’s peanuts.

Per Evelyn’s numbers, their UK banks have £148 billion in assets, but only £12.31 billion in liquid cash—that’s less than 8%. Dangerously low. For big Western banks, liquidity should hover between 10% and 15%, depending on the outfit. Commercial banks live by three golden rules:

First, keep cash at a sensible level—not too much, not too little—just enough to cover liquidity needs without wasting potential profits.

Second, tweak cash reserves on the fly to match business ebbs and flows, plugging any shortfalls.

Third, prioritize safety. Cash comes from central bank reserves, interbank deposits, and physical cash at branches. That cash on hand? It’s the lifeblood of daily operations, spread across every outlet. Security’s non-negotiable.

In short: maximize funds while keeping the bank safe. Too much cash at year-end, with sky-high savings rates, jacks up costs—safe, sure, but one slip and you’re in the red. The Rothschilds, banking pros for centuries, thrive on high turnover and fat margins. With their sprawling empire, they can usually shuffle funds easily, so keeping liquidity under 10% wasn’t a big deal—normally. Their name alone could move mountains of money.

But now? With cash bleeding out and other banks stuck in their own messes, no one’s lending to Rothschild UK. Their other lifeline, the French Rothschilds, took a massive hit two years ago betting big on Russia. French bankers, riding a superiority high, went wild on Russian currency and bonds. Then Russia just… shrugged. “Don’t like it? Come get it with missiles.” France got burned worst—they’d bet the most. The French Rothschilds are still licking their wounds, too weak to prop up the UK branch.

They’re down to two options: sell off liquid assets and call in loans to claw back cash, or pool the family’s and consortium’s cash to shore up the UK banks before depositors drain them dry. That’s why Jacob summoned every branch head—except the U.S. crew—for this powwow. Teamwork to survive.

Seeing their grim faces, Jacob finally spoke from the head of the table. “You’ve heard it. We’re at a breaking point. The UK is our core—we have to save it.”

“In the past nine days, we’ve only lost about £10 billion. It’s a lot, but let’s be real—that’s better than it could’ve been. Evelyn’s busted his ass keeping the big clients calm.”

“Eighty percent of what’s gone is from regular depositors. That’s why it’s not worse.”

“But here’s the bad news: Latin America’s sovereign debt crisis just blew up today. Starting now, this mess is about to get a whole lot uglier.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 350: The Eldest Sister-in-Law’s Kids Reign Supreme

In a castle estate on the outskirts of London, England, the Rothschild family gathers.

Today, the heads of the Rothschild branches from across the globe—well, mostly Europe—have all shown up.

This time, it’s serious. The banks under the Rothschilds’ control or influence, along with some of Europe’s biggest financial giants, are caught up in a mess.

The terrifying shadow of a banking crisis looms over everyone’s heads.

They’re all scrambling to save themselves.

The Rothschilds are no exception.

In the grand hall, after Jacob Rothschild finishes his speech, everyone nods in agreement.

Evelyn Rothschild can’t help but chime in, “Jacob’s right. Since yesterday, our cash outflow has doubled compared to before. On the 12th, we lost 555 million pounds. On the 13th, it jumped to 620 million. Today’s not even over, and we’re already down 680 million pounds.

“At this rate, I’ll walk into the bank tomorrow and hear someone tell me we’ve lost over 800 million pounds in a single day! If we let this keep going, with the liquidity we’ve got left, we won’t last a week before the funds dry up completely.”

Edward Rothschild, the oldest in the room, immediately objects, “Selling off assets isn’t the answer. Countless eyes are on us right now. If we start dumping assets in a panic, it’ll confirm the rumors that our cash flow’s busted. That’ll spark a massive run on the bank. We won’t be able to sell fast enough to keep up with the withdrawals.

“The best move is to tackle this at the root—calm the depositors down.”

Hearing this, Henry Rothschild—son of Leopold Rothschild, the head of the American branch, who’s here to listen in—suddenly speaks up, “I think I’ve got an idea worth trying.”

All eyes turn to him.

Jacob Rothschild nods at him, “Go ahead, Henry. Tell us your plan.”

“Maybe we could stack up a small mountain of cash in each of our major banks,” Henry says. “Doesn’t need to be a ton—three or four hundred million pounds, plus some clever angles, and it’ll look impressive.

“Most of the people rushing to withdraw are regular folks, the kind who just follow the crowd. They’re panicking, that’s why they’re pulling their money out. But if they see our banks looking this solid—with these cash mountains as proof—it might ease some of their fears.

“We could also call up our media buddies and have them splash it everywhere. Let the public know, boost their confidence in us, and cut down on the panic. Even if it doesn’t fix everything, it could at least slow the withdrawals.”

“Not bad,” Jacob Rothschild says. “Pretty clever idea.”

“It’s worth a shot, but I wouldn’t bet on it working miracles,” Edward Rothschild adds. “There are two issues, though. First, doing this puts a ton of pressure on security. That much cash sitting in banks? London’s not exactly a crime-free paradise. If some robbers hit us, it could make things even worse.

“Second, in a situation like this, how many media outlets can we actually count on? Don’t forget, we might be in this mess because of those two traitors from the States stirring things up. They’ll counter any move we make to save ourselves. And when it comes to media control, no one beats the Americans—unless you’re one of them.”

Edward’s seasoned take gets nods all around.

Jacob Rothschild sighs, “We can give it a try, but don’t get your hopes up. The real key right now is cash. How much can you all pull together in the next week?”

With Jacob setting the tone, the room quiets down. Everyone starts mentally tallying what they can bring to the table.

They all know unity’s critical—no one’s about to slack off or hide their resources. The family’s survival depends on going all in.

After a brief silence, David Rothschild speaks up, “Jacob, France is still reeling. Liquidity’s tight. If this were that Russia fiasco, I could’ve pulled 10 billion pounds. But right now? I can only manage about 1.5 billion, tops.”

David kicks things off, and the others follow.

Elro Rothschild says, “Germany’s in better shape. I can get 3 to 4 billion pounds in a week, but after that, it’s up in the air.”

Sidney Rothschild adds, “Italy can cough up 2.5 billion pounds in cash within the week.”

Harry Rothschild chimes in, “Switzerland can manage 4 billion pounds.”

One by one, they report their numbers. Henry Rothschild scribbles it all down, finally totaling it up to a staggering figure:

18.01 billion pounds!

That’s the amount they can guarantee in a week. It’s a testament to the Rothschilds’ clout in Europe.

Not all of it’s their money, of course—some’s just deposits from outsiders sitting in their banks. But in a pinch like this, being able to tap it is what counts. That’s where their skill shines. Survival first, details later.

As for how they’ll inject the funds, most of their banks are publicly listed, not fully owned by the family, so it won’t be direct investment—more like deposits or loans.

Minor logistics, though. Doesn’t change the big picture.

Evelyn Rothschild’s tense face softens a bit, a faint smile breaking through.

“Factoring in today’s withdrawals, plus what everyone can chip in, we’re looking at a baseline of about 30 billion pounds for the week. And over the next few days, we’ll sell off some liquid assets and call in some loans—should bring in at least another 10 billion.

“For the next two weeks, we’re in the clear!”

Jacob Rothschild nods slightly, “Temporary safety buys us time to handle this properly. The next step is coordinating with other banks, hammering out a solid debt repayment plan that Latin America and others will accept, while keeping our losses as low as possible. Evelyn and I will take that on.”

Everyone nods, no objections.

As people start filing out to raise funds or tackle the crisis, Jacob Rothschild calls out, asking someone to fetch Henry Rothschild—Leopold’s son from the American branch.

When Henry arrives, Jacob doesn’t hold back, “Kid, your idea’s damn good. Really clever. You nailed how regular people think. I’m impressed—you’re sharp, and I’m sure you’ll be a rock-solid pillar for the Rothschilds in America down the line.”

The praise, plus the not-so-subtle hint about Henry taking over the U.S. branch someday, lights him up.

“I’m glad you think so, Jacob,” Henry beams. “My idea’s just a small piece of the puzzle, but if it helps the family—if it helps you—I’d be thrilled!”

“It’s definitely a help. Didn’t everyone agree to it?” Jacob chuckles, then drops the polite tone. Time to get real with the young guy.

“Henry, you’re American. You live there, grew up there…”

“No, Jacob—I’m a Rothschild. Always will be!” Henry cuts in, misreading him and jumping to defend himself.

Jacob waves it off with a laugh, “Relax, kid. I know you’re a Rothschild through and through, no matter your passport. I’m just saying you’re our guy in America, that’s all.”

After calming Henry down, Jacob gets to the point.

“So, as one of the Rothschilds who knows America best—tell me, how’s your relationship, or your dad’s, with Milo Blackburn?”

That’s why Jacob pulled him aside.

“Uh, Jacob, you mean…?”

“Your idea’s solid, but I’m worried Morgan and Rockefeller might block it. Sure, most of the big U.S. media’s run by our ‘squid people,’ but they’re terrified of Morgan and Rockefeller.

“When we need media muscle, those bastards—who act all chummy with us normally—might flake when it counts. I don’t trust them, squid people or not. You know how it is: profit doesn’t care about borders or blood.”

“So you want to reach out to Milo Blackburn?” Henry catches on.

“Exactly. Out of all the players who can sway the media in the U.S., he’s the only one who doesn’t sweat Morgan, Rockefeller, or any other syndicate. He’s the only one from a major consortium who directly controls media himself.”

Henry gets it now. Jacob likes his plan and thinks it’s smart, but he’s worried it’ll flop without media backing—especially if others sabotage it.

Worse, if robbers strike and non-Rothschild media spins it against them, it could backfire hard.

So Jacob wants to use the plan but needs a heavy hitter like Milo Blackburn, from the Boston consortium, to make it work.

Problem is…

Sure, there was that ice-breaking trip last year, and the American Rothschilds occasionally rub elbows with the Blackburns now. But are they tight? Not really.

Milo’s got another layer—he’s Rockefeller’s son-in-law.

Yeah, their relationship’s lukewarm at best, thanks to clashing interests between the Boston and Rockefeller groups. But even with the tension, they’re still family through marriage—way closer than the Rothschilds are to Blackburn.

Henry’s in a bind. He wants to help the family, but getting Milo Blackburn to step in? The American Rothschilds don’t have that kind of pull.

“Jacob, my dad plays golf with Blackburn now and then,” Henry says carefully. “But for something like this? I doubt he’d bite. He’s American too—he’s probably in on this game already.”

“I know that,” Jacob replies. “Hell, I even know his team’s gunning for us right now. Well, not just us—every bank in Europe and the U.S. caught up in this crisis.”

“Then what’s your play?”

“My play…” Jacob pauses, then sighs. “Forget it. I’ll head to the States myself. Henry, let your dad know I’m flying out tonight. I’d like him to set up a meeting with Blackburn tomorrow.”

“Got it,” Henry nods quickly. “I’ll tell my dad now, and I’ll head back with you tonight.”

“Thanks, Henry. Appreciate it.”

“No trouble at all, Jacob. It’s all for the Rothschilds.”

“Well said! Everything’s for the family—for its legacy!”

“For the legacy!”

Meanwhile, as the Rothschilds hustle to face the crisis, over in New York…

After wrapping up his video meeting and a slew of work, Milo heads to the Upper East Side of Manhattan in the evening. He’s visiting a swanky apartment across from Central Park, home to the Liu mother-daughter duo.

They’ve legally changed their names now—even their driver’s licenses, the de facto U.S. ID, list them as Blackburns.

But Milo still calls them by their original surname, Liu.

It’s got Lily Liu wondering if she should switch it back. Sure, being a Blackburn gives her a sense of belonging and a confidence boost when dealing with other high-society Chinese.

But if Milo prefers Liu? Maybe reverting’s the way to go. That extra bit of his affection outweighs any pride or swagger a name could bring.

This time, though, Milo’s not alone.

Lately, Prosecutor Hailey’s been tied up with a California government delegation visiting Europe. It’s a month-long gig—Europe first, then Asia—for state-level talks.

Not exactly a family-friendly trip.

Hailey was set to ship her son and daughter off to Washington to stay with their grandma, Robin.

But when Milo heard, he told her to send Little Paladin and Little Robin to New York to hang with him instead.

Yep, Hailey’s second kid’s a girl—named straight after her grandma.

In traditional Western families, it’s common for kids to share names with elders.

And in a clan like the Blackburns, swimming with illegitimate kids, Hailey’s two—Paladin and Robin—stand out.

Her status? Rock-solid. One look and you can tell.

Only if Arianna pops out a Little Milo someday might those siblings get some competition.

Today, Milo’s brought Little Paladin and Little Robin along to Lily Liu’s place.

(End of Chapter)