306-307

Chapter 306: The Reluctant Rockefellers and Morgans

*Rockefeller Family Headquarters*

David Rockefeller mulled over his brother Lawrence’s question before answering. “It’s very likely,” the old man said. “This has that kid’s fingerprints all over it.”

Lawrence waved a hand dismissively and sank back into his armchair. “Well, there you go. It’s pretty obvious now. Edward Wilson might’ve been a piece he set up years ago. That’s how he got the Wilsons on board so fast.”

“We need to pick up the pace ourselves,” David said quietly. “We’ve been holding back, but now that the Wilsons have set the precedent, I say we go for it too.”

“Agreed.” Lawrence nodded with a grin. “And I bet we’re not the only ones thinking this. Everyone’s probably on the same page. The wounded tiger’s already lost a big chunk of flesh—those wolves out there must be itching to grab what’s left before it’s all gone.”

“Then let’s scramble for it while we can,” David replied. “As for Chevron Oil, once the dust settles, I’ll deal with that kid myself. One way or another, I’m taking back all of Standard Oil!”

It was his obsession—and, truth be told, Lawrence’s too.

“What if he says no?” Lawrence asked, raising an eyebrow.

David’s voice turned cold and confident. “Then we’ll see if he can handle the full force of the Rockefellers!”

Lawrence chuckled. “Well, here’s hoping your little Boston prodigy appreciates all the trouble you’re going through.”

---

*Chevron Oil Deal*

ConocoPhillips shelled out $14 billion to snag a 36.96% stake in Chevron Oil. The exact figure was $13.986 billion, but Milo didn’t sweat the extra few million—he rounded it up for simplicity.

After all, ConocoPhillips wasn’t just his baby. It was the Boston Consortium’s shiny new core enterprise, marking their first big leap into major energy players under Milo’s leadership. He held about a third of the shares himself, with the rest split among other Boston Consortium members, hidden behind layers of shell companies and proxies.

This move didn’t just score points with the Wilson family and other California Consortium players—it barely dented Milo’s own wallet. So, naturally, he was happy to play the generous guy.

The rest of the Boston Consortium was over the moon too. Expanding into California? That hadn’t happened in decades. What’s an extra $20 million when you’re making history?

The Wilsons weren’t complaining either. A few million mattered, especially with the family strapped for cash. Win-win-win. Everybody walked away happy.

Milo, leading the charge for the Boston Consortium, didn’t stop at Lytton Industries and Chevron Oil. Sure, the big banks had been pumping money into financial firms shorting oil, forex, and global stocks. But after old man Wilson fell ill, Milo shook things up. He had the Boston Consortium’s financial arms pivot—tapping outside banks for leveraged funding. Put up some margin, pay a bit of interest, and boom, you’re playing with other people’s money. No real collateral needed. Quick and easy.

The downside? You expose some of your moves and let those banks peek over your shoulder. But with the global financial chaos as cover, Milo figured it didn’t matter. No one was going to hate them for it, and the risk was low.

With that $14 billion—plus other cash inflows—the Wilsons suddenly had over $60 billion to play with. That lit a fire under them. Gone was the defensive crouch. Now they were swinging hard in the capital markets, gunning for stakes in Wells Fargo, Bank of America, and California Reinsurance. And they weren’t messing around—if a 30% premium didn’t cut it, they’d go 50%. If someone tried to outbid them, they’d double it. Whatever it took.

Shareholders couldn’t resist the cash tsunami. Who could? They were offering way too much.

At the same time, the Wilsons kept reloading, unloading assets left and right. Milo, with the Boston and Texas Consortiums in tow, swooped in to scoop them up like it was a fire sale.

- $1.12 billion for a 32.4% stake in Rite Aid, the famous U.S. drugstore chain that’d later become the country’s second biggest.

- $1.57 billion for 19.3% of Bergen Brunswig, a major California-based drug retail and health insurance outfit tied to the California Consortium.

- $1.4 billion for 42.8% of Mylan, a generics giant that went public in ’73 and would eventually rank second worldwide—though it was still just getting started.

- $1.39 billion for 14.2% of Hershey, North America’s chocolate and candy king.

- $3.2 billion for 36.1% of Heinz, a century-old titan in packaged foods, later bought out by Buffett and 3G Capital for $28 billion.

Then there were the industrial plays:

- 13.7% of Air Products and Chemicals (industrial gases and coatings).

- 16.3% of BBD Industries (specialty materials and glass fiber).

- 24.2% of Crown Holdings (packaging and equipment).

Total cost for those three? Another $11.9 billion, alongside smaller grabs like 12.2% of CPL (California Electric) and 11.7% of Wilson National Group in finance.

All told, these deals sucked up $11.9 billion. Except for Brunswig, none were Wilson family crown jewels—just solid value investments. Maybe the Wilsons had plans to gobble up these companies later, but the crisis forced their hand. They ditched the long game, sold off the stakes, and turned it into cash to stop the bleeding.

The Wilsons’ ruthlessness—or maybe their “selling the farm without a care” attitude—stunned everyone. Even other California Consortium members were floored. They couldn’t believe how fast the Wilsons, the backbone of their group, were unloading assets. Before anyone else could stab them in the back, the Wilsons were already selling themselves out.

That pissed a lot of people off. By doing this, the Wilsons were basically dismantling the California Consortium—though, to be fair, it’d been more name than substance for a while.

The other California players weren’t just shocked—they were furious. And the circling consortiums, who’d hoped to pick off some scraps? They were even madder.

“Damn Boston bastards!”

“Damn Texans!”

“Damn Blackburn!”

John Chris Morgan was livid, shouting at his team in a full-on meltdown.

The scene they’d all imagined—Wilson rallying the rest of the California Consortium to fight back hard—never happened.

Instead, the Wilson family just casually sold off the very companies they’d been drooling over. And who ended up with them? Bostonians and Texans, of all people!

They’d gone through all that effort, even risking the Wilson family targeting them specifically for their takeover bids, only to hand Blackburn a golden opportunity on a silver platter.

How could John Chris Morgan and the others not be pissed?

Blackburn had basically slapped each of them square across the face.

“We’ve been turned into clowns. Right before I got here, David Rockefeller even called me up just to rub it in,” John Chris said, his face grim as he looked around at the Morgan Consortium members in the room.

Like the Rockefeller group, the Morgan Consortium revolved around just one core family: the Morgans.

But a single family couldn’t possibly run a massive consortium like that on its own. So, circling the Morgans were a bunch of peripheral families.

Take the Peabody family, for instance—descendants of George Peabody’s brothers and sisters, the guy who actually founded what became the Morgan Consortium. The tangled web of interests and bad blood between the Peabodys and Morgans could fill hundreds of books.

Here’s the short version:

The Morgan Consortium started out as the Peabody Company, founded by George Peabody—a man the British later dubbed the world’s number-one con artist.

How badass was George Peabody?

He’d already racked up debts worth tens of millions in the U.S.—back when tens of millions meant today’s tens of billions. And even with that hanging over him, he still managed to sweet-talk the Brits in London into coughing up another eight million bucks.

His pitch? “You’ve got to keep loaning America money if you want any hope of getting your old loans paid back.”

Half of that cash came from the Rothschilds, no less.

In the end, George Peabody, who never had kids, handed over his company and entire fortune to Junius Morgan, the founder of the Morgan family.

At least, that’s the official story the Morgans tell.

But here’s the kicker: while George Peabody didn’t have any heirs of his own, he had six siblings who were very much alive.

And those siblings? They had plenty of kids—kids who worked at the Peabody Company, some even holding shares.

By the traditions of that time—or even now in Europe and America—George could’ve adopted one of his nieces or nephews if he’d wanted to pass things down.

But he didn’t. By then, he was too old.

Junius Morgan took control of the Peabody Company, and George couldn’t push him out. Why? Because Junius had been right there with him, helping pull off those shady loans from the London crowd.

Then, out of nowhere, George Peabody dies suddenly, leaving a will that hands the Peabody Company and all his wealth to Junius Morgan.

Pretty suspicious, right?

Especially with so many of his living relatives still around.

In the end, Junius locked down the company and renamed it Junius Morgan & Co.—the birth of the Morgan Consortium.

The Peabodys didn’t just vanish, though. They stuck around, becoming part of the consortium alongside other supporting families.

“Things are looking rough,” said Kenneth Peabody, John Chris’s right-hand man, letting out a sigh. “The companies we had our eyes on? The Wilsons have already sold most of them off.”

“If we want to get anything out of this, we’ll have to shift our focus to the other players in the California Consortium.”

But from the start, both they and the Rockefellers had been laser-focused on the Wilsons. As the core of the California Consortium, they were obviously the juiciest target.

Who could’ve guessed Edward Wilson and Paul Wilson would chop everything up with a butcher’s cleaver like that?

From the moment Schneider got sick and couldn’t work, it’d been less than a month—and they’d already sold off almost everything.

Nobody else even had time to jump in.

“So, let’s figure out what to do next,” John Chris said, his face clouded with worry.

“Our targets are pretty much all gone. We don’t even know how much cash the Wilson family’s sitting on right now.”

“There’s no way we can snag Wells Fargo stock now—the Wilsons are fighting tooth and nail for it, no matter the cost.”

“They’ve already got a huge edge, and now with all that money, we don’t stand a chance.”

“Heck, they’re even making moves on Bank of America.”

For someone at John Chris Morgan’s level, failure wasn’t something he tasted often.

And man, did it suck.

“Maybe we should just let it go,” Kent Eaton piped up, ripping the Band-Aid off and urging everyone to face reality. “We’ve already lost on the Wilson front.”

The Eatons were another Morgan Consortium family—one of the supporting players. Their ancestor, Sam Eaton, was the guy who helped John Pierpont Morgan turn J.P. Morgan into America’s biggest financial heavyweight back in the day, bringing in a major U.S. insurance giant as one of the first to join up.

“With all that cash, the Wilsons are on the attack now. They’ve tightened their focus, consolidated their strength—we can’t hold them off,” Kent added.

“Plus, they’ve got Blackburn out there backing them up. If we keep pushing, we’re the ones who’ll end up in trouble.”

That was the vibe from everyone else in the room too.

The California Consortium was massive, and it was about to split apart—or maybe it already had. You could even say it was dead in all but name.

There were still plenty of targets out there, and sure, the Wilsons were the fattest prize.

But now? The Boston crew had swooped in and grabbed them first—well, more like the Wilsons chose to cozy up to the Bostonians, with the Texans cheering from the sidelines.

Going after the Wilsons now meant taking on Boston and Texas at the same time.

Even powerhouses like Morgan and Rockefeller couldn’t easily take them down, especially with the other side holding the home-field advantage.

Worse, if they got bogged down too long, the Wilsons might end up snatching all the other California Consortium targets right out from under them.

Then they’d be left with nothing but a big fat loss.

It stung like hell to admit it, but John Chris knew Peabody and Eaton were making sense.

He’d been thinking along the same lines himself—he just couldn’t say it out loud as the leader.

Now that those two had laid it out, they’d given him an out.

John Chris Morgan took it without missing a beat.

“Alright, then. Let’s drop the Wilsons for now. Time to turn our attention to the other Californians.”

(End of chapter)

Chapter 307: Lobbying

*Nightfall Over San Francisco’s Elite District*

The mansion-lined streets glowed with warm lights as the Bay House hosted a dazzling affair. Crystal chandeliers cast a shimmering glow over guests draped in designer outfits. The dining table brimmed with top-tier cuisine and rare wines, the air thick with rich aromas.

A gentle sea breeze wafted in, offering a stunning view of San Francisco’s skyline—neon-lit skyscrapers twinkling, streets bustling like rivers of light. Outside, waves lapped softly against the shore, their ripples catching the glow of yachts bobbing under the stars. It was a scene of pure extravagance, straight out of a dream.

Lee Jae-yong, though, wasn’t exactly in a partying mood. Sure, he’d fantasized about crashing a bash like this back in the day—events even his father, Lee Kun-hee, rarely got invited to. But now that he was here, he couldn’t muster much joy.

Because just a few feet away, his sister Lee Boo-jin was chatting and laughing with a gaggle of American socialites. These weren’t just any women—their husbands or brothers were the kind of heavyweights Jae-yong couldn’t afford to cross, and even his dad would have to kiss up to them.

He let out a quiet sigh. His sister had clearly climbed the ladder—straight to the top, phoenix-style. And with that came a gnawing sense of urgency for Jae-yong. Worry. Fear, even.

He was terrified that with American backing, Boo-jin might head back to Korea and challenge him for control of Samsung. Worse, he dreaded that their father—always fonder of her growing up—might ditch him entirely and hand her the reins instead. The thought of losing the sprawling Samsung empire, his birthright, twisted his gut. How could he possibly be cheerful?

Then there was the cautionary tale of the Chung family, still fresh in his mind. Out of nowhere, Chung Mong-koo’s brother “accidentally” fell from the top of Hyundai’s headquarters. Hilarious, right? A chaebol heir, basically locked in as the next in line, slipping off his own company’s roof? Who’d buy that?

Apparently, the Korean police did. The famously tough prosecutors bought it too. A guy Jae-yong knew personally—a friend, even—gone, just like that. Then Mong-koo, the underdog, swooped in, sent their dad to the hospital in a rage, and took over Hyundai.

With that precedent looming, Jae-yong couldn’t look at Boo-jin’s carefree smile without feeling uneasy. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured Chung Mong-hun’s gruesome end. Even here, surrounded by the elite, the image made him shiver.

“Darling? You okay?” His new wife, Lim Se-ryung, noticed the tremor and leaned in, concerned.

“N-Nothing,” Jae-yong stammered, snapping his eyes open to hide his nerves. “Just chilly. Might’ve caught a cold last night.”

Se-ryung blinked. “A cold?” San Francisco’s Bay Area had some of the best weather on the planet—perfect for humans, especially in July and August. Most nights, you didn’t even need AC or a fan. She’d slept like a baby last night. A cold? Really?

She caught his gaze drifting toward Boo-jin and put it together. As his wife and a player in Korea’s upper crust, she knew what was eating him.

“She wouldn’t do that,” Se-ryung whispered. “You’re siblings. You’ve always looked out for her, and she respects you.”

Jae-yong paused, then let out a bitter chuckle. “Yeah? Chung Mong-koo and Mong-hun were brothers too. Look how that turned out.”

Her eyes widened as the penny dropped. That’s what he was afraid of.

“It wouldn’t go that far,” she said hesitantly.

“Not until it does,” he shot back, taking a deep breath. “Once it happens, it’s too late to do anything.”

Se-ryung fell quiet. She wanted to argue that Boo-jin wasn’t the type, but then she thought of Mong-koo. Was he inherently ruthless? Even if Boo-jin didn’t want it, what about the people around her? The ones backing her? Sometimes power gets thrust on you, whether you like it or not.

“We can’t just sit here,” Jae-yong said suddenly, his voice low. “Se-ryung, we’re in this together. We’re married. You don’t want me to crash and burn, right?”

Her mind raced. Sure, we’re married. But if you go down, I’ve still got my family to fall back on. This was a chaebol marriage—convenience, not love. Still, she wasn’t about to say that out loud.

She nodded softly. “Of course we’re together. I’ll help you, Jae-yong.”

“Good.” He exhaled, glancing at Boo-jin again. “Go over there. Keep tabs on who she’s talking to, what’s going on around her. Report it all back to me.”

A spy gig? Se-ryung hesitated but agreed. What else could she do?

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“You’re tight with her,” he pressed. “Right now, you’re the only one who can help me.”

“I’ll do it,” she assured him.

---

*The Bigger Picture*

The Lee family drama wasn’t the only thing brewing at this shindig. Beyond Jae-yong and Boo-jin, the guest list was packed with big shots from outside the California Consortium—Boston folks, and even…

George Herbert Bush, the current Texas governor, gearing up for his reelection run. “Oh, I love the L.A. Dodgers—big part of the league! But if we’re talking the best team in America, aside from the Rangers, it’s gotta be the Houston Astros!”

Milo’s uncle was holding court with some California political heavyweights—Pelosis, Newsoms—chatting baseball. Before becoming governor, George had managed the Texas Rangers, turning the faded franchise back into a contender. That gig won him a ton of votes—every baseball-loving Texan checked his box at the polls. And as a true-blue Texan, he genuinely loved the game.

Right now, he was debating Paul Pelosi over whether the Dodgers or Texas teams reigned supreme. Since the Rangers weren’t exactly killing it, he pivoted to the Astros for the win.

So why was a Texas governor hobnobbing in California? Not because he was eyeing the Golden State’s top job. Nope—he was laying groundwork for the big election two years out. Not campaigning yet, just borrowing some of his nephew Milo’s clout to mingle with the elite. If even a few of these folks backed him later, it’d be worth it.

Plus, he wasn’t the only Texan crashing the party. With the California Consortium’s mess spilling over, the Lone Star State had sent a whole posse.

If it weren’t for Herbert’s special status, he’d probably have shown up himself! But since Herbert didn’t come, George and his third brother did instead.

As they chatted, George suddenly pointed toward the west lawn, where Wilson and a few California Consortium members were talking with some folks.

“Hey, Paul,” George said, “I’ve noticed you haven’t gone over there since you arrived. You wanna head over and say hi?”

In George’s mind, the Pelosis and Newsoms were California’s political royalty. Naturally, he figured they’d be tight with the California Consortium, just like he was with the Texas Consortium.

But…

Paul Pelosi shook his head. “Nah, I’m not going over.”

He added, “I don’t really know them.”

George: “???”

A California political dynasty saying they’re not familiar with the state’s big-shot financial families? That’s wild.

But honestly, it’s a perfect example of how scattered the California Consortium really is.

Among America’s major financial groups, the California Consortium is easily the least down-to-earth. These war hawks are all about building aircraft carriers, warships, missiles, planes, cannons, tanks—you name it. Their roster’s packed with military giants like Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman, Lytton Industries, and Sikorsky Helicopters.

The top brass of this arms-dealing crew isn’t short on connections—they’ve got people in the White House, Congress, the military, and intelligence agencies. What they’re missing is control over the middle and lower tiers.

They don’t have the grassroots grip of, say, the Mormons in Utah, who lock down public opinion and votes with their community vibe. They don’t have the Texas Consortium’s unique cowboy culture that ties everyone together, top to bottom.

It’s not that the California Consortium doesn’t do charity—they just can’t take it seriously when they’re bombing folks overseas one minute and handing out candy to kids the next. Crocodile tears, you know? So they’ve given up trying, isolating themselves from the middle and lower classes. They run secretive outfits like the Skunk Works, keeping everything hush-hush.

Forget the Mormons for a sec. Even Texas, which also peddles arms alongside its energy game, is in way better shape than California’s crew.

The California Consortium looks at Utah’s Mormons and Texas’s old-school landowners with envy. Those guys are either running polygamy rackets or riling up tough dudes to grab guns and mess with the feds. They’re the wildest bunch, yet somehow these backwoods types get zero flak and tons of love from their local folks.

Why? Because they’re grounded.

The Mormons are pros at winning people over—collecting their tithing and building huge temples and universities. Brigham Young’s network of schools is the biggest private university system in the world. They’ve got communal warehouses, too, using tithes and church assets to help struggling members. That’s why the middle and lower classes adore them—they’ve got loyal followers ready to go berserk for the cause.

Texas, meanwhile, is redneck central, a biker gang haven. When Utah Mormons and Texas rednecks get riled up, even the feds scratch their heads.

Point is, Utah and Texas’s local powerhouses can rally the masses, band together, and throw tantrums at Capitol Hill.

California? Total mess.

The California Consortium’s flashy lineup of arms companies might seem impressive, but they’re not living as comfortably as, say, a food giant like Bunge or a chemical titan like DuPont. Without that grassroots connection, they can’t sway many votes.

No votes, no leverage to tie themselves to local political heavyweights like the Pelosis or Newsoms.

The result? Total fragmentation.

Plenty of American elites get this, but George? Calling him average is generous.

He only landed the governor gig because his wife’s a force of nature—and because Clinton owed his dad big time.

Lucky for him, Paul Pelosi’s no genius either—just a spoiled playboy whose dad gave up on him long ago.

Instead, Paul’s old man shifted his hopes to Paul’s wife, Nancy Patricia, an East Coast Italian with roots in a godfather-style family. With help from the Newsoms and Pelosis, Nancy’s been killing it—doing just as well as George, if not better.

So when George faces off with Paul Pelosi, he doesn’t look like a total fool. They’re cut from the same cloth—two dim bulbs in a room. Their little chat’s not worth digging into.

Back to Milo.

He’s standing there with a smile, chatting quietly with Ed, Claude, Arthur, and some guests from Texas.

“This… this might be tough, right? Will they even go for it?” John Elkins asked, holding a glass of red wine and looking at Milo in surprise.

The Elkins, Brown Hunts, Richardsons, and McKissons are the core families of the Texas Consortium.

“There’s a ton of tough stuff in this world,” Milo said, sipping his whiskey with a grin. “How do you know unless you try? If it works, we won’t have to worry about the Rockefellers or Morgans ever again.”

John Elkins glanced at the others after hearing that. Whether it was the Boston crew or the Texans, everyone’s eyes were practically sparkling with interest.

“Who’s taking the lead?” Liam H.L. Hunt asked softly.

Milo just smiled, staying quiet. Arthur Adams, standing next to him, jumped in naturally, like it was obvious:

“The best person should lead. It’s like a wolf pack—the alpha’s always the strongest.”

Ed Lowell chimed in right on cue: “So, who’s that gonna be?”

Every eye—Texan and Bostonian alike—turned to Milo.

Milo didn’t hesitate. Looking at everyone, he said, “I think I’m the guy for it. I’m the only one who can get us all in the same room. This party today? It’s the best proof there is.”

The Richardsons and the rest went quiet.

But the Texans had to admit it: without Milo, they wouldn’t be here.

They wouldn’t be in on the action, carving up the soon-to-split California Consortium’s goodies.

For years, they’d managed to keep the eastern giants like Morgan, Rockefeller, and Mellon from encroaching on their turf. But they couldn’t break out themselves—stuck in Texas with no way to expand.

They’d finally pushed Herbert forward, but Herbert? His heart’s on the East Coast, not in Texas. Plus, his success tied back to his New England roots and cozy ties with the Rockefellers.

Now they’re trying to prop up George, but they can’t do it alone. They still need Herbert’s old New England connections, the Bush family’s network, and the Rockefellers’ pull.

Without that, Texas just doesn’t have the juice.

(End of chapter)