121-125

Chapter 121: The Weight of the Upper Three Flags

While two women discussed their alliance—

*New York, Manhattan, Wall Street*

Inside Paladin Investment Company, Milo surveyed the meeting room, now resembling a military command center. In front, a row of mobile whiteboards displayed an array of data charts.

The room was set with three rows of desks, each row seating five people. On each desk sat a telephone, a computer, a fax machine, and a printer. People moved in and out briskly, clutching files, their shirt sleeves rolled up, embodying the frenzy typical of Wall Street.

Wendy and Sabbatai stood at Milo's sides, while Paladin's general manager, Nelson, smiled and said:

“Boss, it’s thanks to your idea of sending data to the press that we’re leveraging their resources to obtain first-hand information. After all, reporters are best at uncovering news. The U.S. News & World Report certainly lives up to its reputation as one of the top three weeklies—their team is formidable.”

“They’re backed by Washington and can access firsthand information from the White House and Capitol Hill. Their instincts in this field often surpass Wall Street’s.”

“With their latest intel, we’ve even learned that Soros has been meeting people in Washington and on Capitol Hill.”

“Soros… Capitol Hill,” Milo muttered, frowning as he sensed there was more to this development.

Before his team, Milo closed his eyes.

Wendy, Sabbatai, and Nelson, who were frequently by his side along with a few guards, had grown accustomed to seeing Milo like this.

As they observed him, they unconsciously adopted expressions of reverence, expectation, and awe.

They held their breath, afraid of disturbing him.

They believed their boss was communicating with God.

Though Milo had claimed he was merely thinking, Wendy and the others weren’t convinced.

Especially when each decision Milo made after these moments of “thought” turned out to be as if he had received divine guidance.

Even high-ranking bishops had once said that Milo was favored by the Lord.

He was seen as a saint-like believer, attuned to God’s will.

In the West, where even Newton and Einstein had ventured into theology in their later years, belief in the divine was no trivial matter.

Otherwise, how could one explain how Milo, a man who hadn’t even properly graduated from college, and who had attended seminary, could suddenly undergo such a profound transformation?

From being a playboy to becoming a novelist, scriptwriter, director, and a force on Wall Street—one who made staggering sums of money.

In a country like the U.S., where such explanations defied logic, even Blackburn’s family privately agreed with Wendy and the others.

Perhaps Milo truly had received divine inspiration.

After about ten seconds, Milo opened his eyes and picked up a marker from the table. Under the watchful eyes of Nelson and the entire think tank, he walked to a blank whiteboard and wrote four words:

*Oil Prices, Nasdaq, Gold, Southeast Asian Forex*

Capping the marker, Milo turned and addressed the room, pointing at the four words with the pen.

“Oil prices: We’ve been shorting international crude for a month now. I’ve reviewed the data, and it looks promising. In just over a month, we’ve seen profits exceed $100 million. I believe oil prices will continue to decline for some time.”

“So, we’ll keep shorting international oil, following the same steps as before.”

He gestured to “Nasdaq.”

“Since 1991, we’ve seen the British pound crisis, the Deutsche Mark crisis, the Kosovo war, the South American debt crisis, and the Mexican peso devaluation. Global hot money is flocking to us. The U.S. stock market is on an upward trajectory, and Nasdaq will be the biggest pool for this influx. Investing in internet stocks over the next few years will be highly profitable.”

Then, moving to “Gold,” he tapped the word with the marker.

“I predict that next month, gold will experience a short-term surge. Start building positions now. Buy as much as you can under $250.”

Finally, Milo’s eyes glimmered as he pointed to “Southeast Asian Forex.”

The timeline had shifted.

What was originally set to unfold by mid-next year had moved up.

It was late March now, and the peak would likely come between October and November.

Their preparations had already begun, which explained Soros’s meetings in Washington.

Butterfly effect?

Possibly. His disruption of Morgan’s Silicon Valley strategy had certainly altered the course.

The Nasdaq bubble was forming faster than in his previous life.

It was logical that they would push the Southeast Asian crisis up by a few months to funnel all the capital into Nasdaq’s bubble.

And then—snap. Feast.

This was a banquet Milo couldn’t miss.

But caution was necessary; he didn’t want to end up like Soros—used as a scapegoat.

“As you all know, Southeast Asia has been the fastest-growing region economically over the past 20 years. However, rapid growth has exposed serious issues.”

“This year, Siam’s current account deficit will exceed $20 billion, and Korea won’t fall far behind. Bank loans have been excessively lax, real estate investment overinflated, vacancy rates rising, and bad debts accumulating.”

“Do you see the pattern? It mirrors the 1994 Mexican peso crisis but on a larger scale.”

“I predict that the events we saw with the Mexican peso will soon play out across multiple countries in Southeast Asia and even beyond.”

The room fell silent as they absorbed Milo’s words, staring in awe at his handsome, youthful face.

The first three analyses were within the grasp of Wall Street elites.

But this last insight—that Southeast Asia would soon experience a crisis akin to the Mexican peso debacle—was beyond what most on Wall Street could foresee.

“I’ve said my piece. I trust you all know what to do next.”

“Let me be clear: this is an opportunity for me—and for you. Success means bonuses generous enough for you to pursue anything you want.”

The room erupted into applause and laughter, full of excitement.

Watching their expressions, Milo knew he had fueled their ambition.

Nothing motivates like the promise of cash.

He added, “What I just said, especially the last part, must be kept strictly confidential. If there’s a leak, I’ll be fine—I’m Blackburn, a Rockefeller son-in-law. But you? Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The room fell silent again as the team members promised not to speak a word.

Milo shrugged. He wasn’t too worried about them leaking information.

If someone did, he’d throw them to the wolves without hesitation.

After all, he had already given fair warning.

His upper-three-flag status offered him protection.

Consider this: the assassin who killed Kennedy was shot on the spot, and the case went unsolved. Everyone knew the truth.

Twenty years later, another assassin attempted to kill Reagan. That man, John Hinckley Jr., claimed he did it out of infatuation for an actress.

Not only did he survive despite the heavy security, but he also didn’t face prison time—just two decades in a psychiatric facility before being released. His family, influential in oil and political circles, had played a critical role in Milo’s grandfather’s presidential campaign.

If Reagan had succumbed to his injuries, Milo’s grandfather would have become president.

Being part of the upper three flags in America truly meant something.

It offered protections like Hinckley’s—even for attempted assassination of the president.

Another example was the case of Elizabeth Holmes, the “female Steve Jobs,” who defrauded investors of billions but ended up serving her sentence in a prison run by her fiancé’s family.

Milo’s ties to the Rockefellers provided an even stronger shield.

*Chapter 122: The Black Gloves*

In Milo's previous life, one of America's Big Three weekly magazines, Newsweek, eventually faced financial trouble and neared bankruptcy.

Due to its heavy debts, it drew little interest in the U.S.

Compounding this was the global financial crisis, which led to the magazine being publicly listed for sale at just one dollar.

A Chinese consortium, however, eagerly stepped forward.

They claimed they weren’t taking advantage and expressed their willingness to buy Newsweek—despite its over $300 million debt—for $500 million.

Yet, before the first round of bidding even started, the U.S. Department of Commerce kicked them out.

Hah! Not a chance outsiders would be allowed to touch one of the Big Three American weeklies, especially not Chinese investors.

Even someone like Rupert Murdoch, sharing Anglo-Saxon roots, spent over 30 years trying and still couldn't break through.

As for the Germanic descendants like Kimper, even with his rise to power and potential re-election, he could only barely make a mark.

Chinese investors? No way.

---

*Madison Avenue, New York City*

Outside the building housing the U.S. News & World Report headquarters, Milo stepped out of the elevator with his entourage, heading straight to the 38th floor.

The magazine's offices spanned the top five floors of the building, with the 38th floor being the pinnacle.

When the elevator doors opened, Milo was greeted by rows of staff standing solemnly on either side of the corridor, led by Chris Carey.

Three days ago, U.S. News & World Report had officially changed hands and was now under Milo’s control.

However, Milo had yet to make an appearance, entrusting his chief media advisor, Chris Carey, to handle the integration first.

Only after Carey had done the preliminary work did Milo decide to show up.

*Clap! Clap! Clap!*

Chris Carey initiated applause.

Milo smiled at the employees lined along the corridor. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond to Carey’s theatrics.

Remaining composed, Milo nodded at the staff, following Chris into the main office hall.

In the center of the hall, once all the employees had gathered, Milo raised his hand, signaling for the disorganized applause to cease.

Frankly, Milo knew Americans weren’t prone to applauding unless genuinely enthusiastic or excited. Forced clapping often led to half-hearted and awkward responses.

"Let me introduce myself. I’m Milo Blackburn, your new boss—and the last owner of U.S. News & World Report. Even if the magazine were to lose its market relevance and fade away one day, I would rather let it die slowly than sell it again!”

“Of course, I know many of you still fondly remember Mortimer Zuckerman. He wasn’t just a businessman; he was an outstanding journalist and news expert. It was under his leadership that this magazine became one of America’s Big Three. He was an exceptional manager.”

“But nostalgia won’t bring him back. Mortimer couldn’t hold onto his beloved magazine. All I had to do was tell my grandfather, ‘Grandpa, I want U.S. News & World Report,’ and Mortimer Zuckerman had no choice but to sell it to me.”

“You might dislike me for this, and that’s fine—I’m not here to earn your respect. What matters is that working for me will earn you more money than you did under Mortimer Zuckerman.”

“For example, starting next month, each of you will receive an extra month’s salary as a bonus.”

“Why? No particular reason. It pleases me. Milo Blackburn doesn’t lack money.”

Milo’s blunt and impactful speech ended.

For a moment, the hall fell silent. Then came cheers, applause, whistles, and shouts of “Long live the boss!”

As one of America’s Big Three weeklies, even interns earned between $4,000 and $5,000 per month.

The bonus meant a substantial windfall for the middle and lower-level employees.

Just for getting a new boss, they’d now receive an extra month’s pay. Naturally, no one complained.

If future salaries were as generous as Milo promised, Mortimer Zuckerman would quickly become a distant memory.

“Mortimer who? Never heard of him! Long live Blackburn!”

Even Chris Carey, though clapping along, couldn’t help but scoff inwardly, These jerks! I worked for three days with minimal results. The boss comes in and mentions a pay raise, and they’re all wagging their tails like puppies.  

Milo, however, was pleased. Money truly speaks.  

---

After meeting department heads and addressing concerns, Milo spent the day stabilizing the team.

Despite being the least successful of the Big Three, U.S. News & World Report was in far better shape financially than the struggling Newsweek. The magazine still had profitable years ahead before the inevitable decline of print media hit.

Satisfied, Milo left the office, heading home to his Upper West Side apartment.

---

On the way, stuck in Manhattan’s infamous traffic, Milo spoke with his aide, Wendy.

“...So Giuliani has started targeting the Mafia and street gangs in New York. But he’s being selective—only going after those who don’t align with him?”

“Yes,” Wendy confirmed. “Giuliani comes from a Sicilian family. His grandfather was once the most infamous bandit in Sicily and had close ties to the Mafia's second-generation godfather, Don Vizzini.”

“Now, ironically, Giuliani positions himself as the Mafia’s greatest adversary.”

Milo nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. Find me an expert on these matters—I want more intel on the underground networks.”

“Understood,” Wendy replied, though he sighed inwardly at the challenge. Still, with Milo’s resources and influence, it wasn’t impossible.

The black gloves of New York were about to face an intriguing new player.

(Chapter Ends)  

Chapter 123: Taking Pills and Prison

New York City, Manhattan.

251 West 91st Street, Upper West Side.

In the afternoon.

Jennifer Connelly and Nicole Kidman were brought here.

Both were immediately drawn to this prime Upper West Side location.

The place was luxuriously decorated and exuded importance, complete with a terrace offering panoramic views of Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

It looked like the kind of place high-society figures from Hollywood movies and TV shows would live in.

However, just as the two were about to take a look around the room, a strikingly beautiful woman approached them.

She wore a perfectly tailored office outfit that highlighted her graceful figure, exuding both elegance and understated sensuality.

Her refined makeup accentuated a face that was both delicate and captivating. Every step she took toward them radiated confidence and poise.

“Hello, ladies. Please take these.”

She extended a hand toward Jennifer Connelly and Nicole Kidman.

On her pristine palm was a line of pills.

Jennifer Connelly: “???”

“Monica, good afternoon,” Nicole greeted the woman with a smile, clearly familiar with her.

Nicole then introduced her to Jennifer Connelly:

“Monica Bellucci, she’s Milo’s personal assistant.”

Upon hearing that the woman was Milo’s assistant, Jennifer Connelly quickly smiled back at Monica. “Ah, Miss Bellucci, it’s a pleasure to meet you. This is…?”

“Birth control,” Monica said matter-of-factly, her eyes scanning the two women. “It’s an experimental product from Harvard Medical School. Almost no side effects, but it’s very expensive, so it hasn’t been mass-produced yet and isn’t available on the market. Take it unless you want to become pregnant. If that’s the case, you’ll need prior approval from Mr. Blackburn.”

Her tone was brisk and clear, making her seem efficient and professional.

Jennifer Connelly felt a mix of embarrassment and annoyance.

“I was just about to ask you to get me some,” Nicole said with a chuckle as she took the pills from Monica’s hand. She glanced at them and added, “He went a bit overboard last night, and I’m in my risky period… Is there any water?”

Monica gestured, and a maid appeared, carrying two glasses of water.

Nicole took one with a smile, drinking and swallowing the pills without hesitation.

Both Monica and Nicole turned to look at Jennifer Connelly.

Jennifer wanted to say that she was in a safe period, with minimal chance of anything happening.

But then she remembered that he hadn’t exactly been sparing last night.

There had been a lot.

Under these circumstances, she realized even a ‘safe period’ wasn’t foolproof.

While she wanted to be Milo’s mistress, she had no intention of having his child. At least not now.

Despite her slight irritation, Jennifer took the pills and washed them down with water.

After confirming they had both taken their pills and swallowed them, Monica resumed her businesslike tone:

“Mr. Blackburn is caught in traffic and said he might not be back until late tonight. You can either leave now or choose to stay here.”

“I’ll stay and wait for him,” Nicole immediately responded.

Jennifer Connelly hesitated for a moment before also saying, “Me too!”

Leaving now would feel like a wasted effort.

They had been through a lot last night, and she had woken up sore and exhausted that morning.

It had been a shared night with Nicole.

Walking away now with nothing would be foolish, Jennifer thought.

“Alright, we’ll let you know when dinner is ready. In the meantime, feel free to relax. If you wish to go out, please inform us in advance so I can arrange a car and driver for you,” Monica said before pointing at the maid. “If you need anything, Marlene can assist you. If she can’t handle it, she’ll contact me.”

Without waiting for Nicole or Jennifer to respond, Monica swayed away gracefully and left.

At the same time,

While Manhattan was being swept by gusty winds,

far away in Illinois, a full-blown tornado was raging.

This Midwestern prairie state has one of the highest frequencies of tornadoes in the U.S.

The weather was severe.

But Peter Gotti had still traveled a long way from New York to get there.

After arriving at Chicago O’Hare International Airport,

Peter Gotti got into a Chevrolet SUV headed for the state capital, Springfield.

The trip was silent, taking about an hour.

The convoy finally parked in the lot of Springfield Prison, located on the outskirts of the city.

Springfield Prison had a notorious reputation. Situated between Springfield and Chicago, it sprawled across roughly 400 acres and had the capacity to hold around 10,000 inmates.

Like many prisons across the United States, Springfield was rife with corruption.

Murderers or drug dealers with enough money could bribe their way to a life of comfort behind bars.

Peter Gotti wasn’t there to sample that kind of luxury, though.

Despite facing charges himself, which could lead him to this very place,

he had no intention of starting that lifestyle early.

Following prior arrangements, he and his nephew, John Gotti Jr., took about half an hour.

Accompanied by guard Jess, Peter and John Jr. finally reached a spot they had visited months ago.

A special cell deep within Springfield Prison.

“Things are tight up top lately, and you’re here secretly. Keep it brief and don’t make it hard for Mr. Smith,” said Jess, one of the warden’s trusted aides, before opening the door.

John Gotti Jr. smiled softly. “Hey, Jess, we know the drill. Don’t worry.”

As he spoke, he discreetly slipped a check into Jess’s pocket where it wouldn’t be seen by the cameras.

Jess finally smiled, opened the cell door, and gestured for them to enter.

“Ten grand for this? Man, these guys charge faster than we sell coke,” John Gotti Jr. muttered under his breath, annoyed.

Peter Gotti shrugged without replying.

The cell they entered looked nothing like a typical prison cell.

In fact, it resembled a presidential suite at the Intercontinental Hotel in Chicago.

And indeed, it was modeled after such a suite.

Springfield Prison had ten such cells, designed as replicas of luxury hotel suites.

For enough money, inmates could enjoy every service the Chicago Intercontinental had to offer.

Five-star amenities, luxurious and comprehensive—if you could pay for it.

“Peter, Condi?”

Inside the room, a frail-looking man expressed surprise at seeing them.

“Father!” John Gotti Jr. called out, quickly moving forward to hold the older man’s hand.

“Brother,” Peter Gotti greeted softly as he approached.

“Why are you here?” John Gotti asked.

John Gotti, the current ‘Godfather’ of the Gambino family.

Despite his weakened appearance in prison,

before his arrest, he had been as charismatic as any Hollywood star.

Back then, John Gotti often wore $2,000 suits, sported pink diamond rings, and smoked $100 cigars, frequenting New York’s top clubs, hotels, and restaurants.

Time magazine had even featured Gotti on its cover, and some New Yorkers saw him as a symbol of the city.

Of course, that mainly applied to those on the fringes—the Italian, Irish, Black, and Latino communities.

It would be laughable to think Wall Street types idolized him.

In any case, John Gotti had once been at the peak of his power, until his downfall three years ago, betrayed by his second-in-command.

Sentenced to life without parole, he had been in Springfield Prison for three years now.

The two visiting him were his son, John Gotti Jr., and his brother, Peter Gotti.

*Chapter 124: Becoming the Shadow Boss of New York's Underworld*

New York, Manhattan.

38th floor, headquarters of U.S. News & World Report.

Milo sat lazily in the boss's chair, feet propped on the desk, leaning back so far the chair’s frame groaned under the weight. The phone cord stretched taut as he held the receiver, smiling patiently while listening.

“All right, Grandpa, I get it. So it’s valuable, but I need to be mindful of the implications. Yes, I understand. I’ll tread carefully.”

“No need to worry. In America, being a politician is easier than being a dog. As long as I hold real power, plenty of people will happily serve as my proxies.”

“Eric Adams? Doesn’t ring a bell—wait, is he that Adams?”

“Oh, I don’t know his last name. I only remember his name’s Roger; Paladin mentioned it.”

“Do you think this Eric might hold a grudge? After all, I did cripple his brother.”

“Okay, okay. Got it. I’ll try to arrange a meeting in a couple of days.”

After hanging up, Milo placed the receiver back and stood, stretching with a relaxed smile. He strolled to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking most of Manhattan below.

He had just spent a long time on the phone with his grandfather, seeking advice.

The Gambino family—yes, that Gambino family, the mafia clan that inspired The Godfather—was now cornered in New York and looking for a lifeline.

They hoped to align themselves under Milo, who was at odds with Giuliani.

Milo had already sent someone to negotiate with them yesterday. His grandfather had just given the green light over the phone.

The Gambino family controlled nearly all dock and fishing workers in New York City, a stronghold they’d built since the first Don rose to power by helping laborers.

The Ocean Workers’ Union in New York State boasted around 65,000 members, encompassing dock workers, fishermen, captains, and sailors—not just in NYC but throughout the state.

Giuliani’s crusade against the Gambino and other Italian families likely had little to do with mafia justice. According to old Blackburn, a former Republican whip who later had his son defect to the Democrats, Giuliani and his backers likely targeted the unions behind these families.

- The Gambinos influenced the Ocean Workers’ Union.

- The Bonannos controlled garment workers, cheesemakers, and farm laborers.

- The Columbos, though weaker, had the greatest sway in the entertainment industry.

- The Genoveses commanded the allegiance of construction workers in New York and New Jersey.

If Milo could get these Italian families under his thumb, he could indirectly control 200,000–300,000 votes in New York State—a significant bloc in a city of just seven million.

*It was a deal worth pursuing.*

That morning, Manhattan had been overcast. By noon, the sky darkened ominously, readying for a torrential downpour.

Standing by the window, Milo took in the oppressive atmosphere at such a height—it was a first for him.

“Boss, lunch is ready,” Monica’s soft voice broke through his musings, grounding him back to reality.

Milo turned and nodded, following her to the conference area. A large table awaited with two sets of tableware placed side by side, offering an elegant spread of bread, steak, soup, seafood, and foil-wrapped lamb chops.

As he dined, he glanced at Monica, who ate with a poised elegance.

Milo couldn’t help but marvel at how environments could shape people.

When they first met, Monica was a budding Hollywood actress, cautious and reserved, barely landing bit parts. But after six months as his secretary, she had transformed into a confident, graceful woman, far removed from the timidity of her early days.

“Those two doing okay?” he asked casually.

“No issues,” Monica replied knowingly.

Two Hollywood actresses were currently staying at an apartment Milo owned on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Busy with work, Milo had tasked Monica with monitoring them.

“They’ve been staying inside, except for occasional shopping trips,” Monica added. “Jennifer Connelly did ask me how you plan to arrange things for her.”

“I gave Nicole Kidman a film deal, didn’t I?”

“Yes, she’s starring in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, a collaboration between Paladin Films and 20th Century Fox.”

“And Columbia Pictures bought a script from us, right?”

Monica nodded. “Yes, a rom-com script. But Columbia insists on co-producing with Paladin Films.”

Paladin Films, Milo’s production company, had been riding high. Its collaboration with Fox and the success of Shakespeare in Love, which grossed $21.5 million on opening day, had made Milo’s name a magnet in Hollywood.

“Let’s cast Jennifer Connelly as the lead in Hitch,” Milo decided offhandedly.

Just as he spoke, thunder rumbled outside, followed by a flash of lightning slicing through the darkened sky. Moments later, the rain began to pour, drumming against the windows.

Milo wiped his mouth, stood, and returned to the window. Watching the downpour, he remarked, “Perfect weather for a nap…”

He turned to Monica with a teasing smile, his words trailing off.

Monica blushed, her expression both shy and knowing.

---

By 2 PM, Milo emerged from the lounge, tucking his white shirt into his pants and drying his hair with a towel.

Through the partially open door, Monica could be seen sleeping peacefully under a blanket. Scattered on the floor were her white chiffon blouse and black skirt.

*He really needed to hire more assistants like Megan—competent and unremarkable in looks.*

If all his secretaries were as stunning as Monica, none of them would get any work done!

Milo returned to his desk, summoned Chris Carey, the temporary editor-in-chief of U.S. News & World Report, and discussed the timing for publishing a scandal about the Pulitzer family.

Milo’s ambitions extended beyond news empires—he wanted a seat on Columbia University’s Board of Trustees, a prize he wasn’t willing to leave to chance.

For now, the rain outside continued unabated, painting Manhattan in shades of gray, but Milo’s future was anything but gloomy.

*Chapter 125: Proper Hollywood Relationships*

The overcast sky continued to envelope the city in its gloomy embrace.

No one in a bustling metropolis like Manhattan would enjoy such dreary, rainy days—it pressed down on people, making it hard to breathe.

The rain had lightened significantly, but even as night fell, it continued to drizzle, shrouding the evening in a mysterious veil.

Milo reclined in the modified Cadillac Escalade SUV, its first-class airline-like rear executive seat tilted for optimal comfort. Adjusting the leg rest, he ensured his seat was tailored to his needs.

Earlier, the sound of raindrops hitting the car windows was faintly audible. Now, the cacophony of honking cars filled the air.

Traffic jam.

Sitting beside him, Monica glanced at Milo lying with his eyes closed, his relaxed demeanor drawing a soft smile from her lips. She turned her attention back to the congested street outside, observing hurried pedestrians with umbrellas darting along the sidewalks.

“Get me a drink,” Milo’s voice broke the silence, pulling Monica out of her reverie.

“Ice wine, perhaps?” she offered gently, turning to him.

Without opening his eyes, Milo gave a subtle nod. Monica leaned forward, opened the vehicle's built-in refrigerator, and retrieved a chilled bottle of ice wine.

Pressing a button, she opened a compartment revealing two slender, elegantly curved crystal glasses, which she placed into cup holders.

Milo opened his eyes, poured himself a glass, and took a sip. His gaze lingered on the rainy night and the surrounding sea of car lights and neon signs from nearby buildings. Squinting slightly, he remarked, “You need to work on your flexibility.”

“Cough… cough…”

Monica’s fair complexion flushed crimson as she nearly choked on her sip of wine. She patted her chest in embarrassment and replied, half-shy and half-teasing, “I’ll enroll in a yoga class.”

The memory of Milo’s “techniques” from earlier that day made her fidget in her seat.

“And find a more upscale spa for full-body care,” Milo added with a sly smile, fully aware Monica understood his meaning.

“Yes…” she murmured, her blush deepening. Milo had always commented on her smooth skin during their intimate moments.

He had also shared his opinions on the differences between Western and Eastern beauty standards. While Westerners often had fair skin, it tended to be coarse, with pronounced sweat glands and a heavier scent. More importantly, their youthful prime was shorter, aging more quickly than their Eastern counterparts.

Monica, being of Southern European descent, had some advantages over her Northern and Western European peers but still had to take extra care. Milo had even introduced her to health practices, including avoiding cold water, ice cream, or cold baths during her period.

Truthfully, Milo still couldn’t adapt to the American habit of drinking water straight from the tap. Thirty years of habit meant he preferred boiled, hot water.

When Milo finally arrived at his Upper West Side residence at 251 West 91st Street, it was past 7 PM.

The drive had taken over two hours.

“Darling, you should really consider getting a helicopter,” Arianna teased over the phone.

“Many people who work in Manhattan commute by helicopter. They live out on Long Island and can reach Manhattan in just 30 minutes.”

“Even the safest helicopters have higher risks than ground transportation,” Milo replied, recalling that Arianna’s grandfather and father rarely opted for helicopters due to the dangers.

“A helicopter might be worth considering, but I’ll need to thoroughly investigate its safety first,” Milo said, entering his apartment.

Arianna’s suggestion wasn’t without merit. Many Wall Street executives relied on helicopters for commuting. However, safety concerns kept many of America’s wealthiest from adopting this mode of travel.

But Milo thought differently.

“I can determine whether the helicopter I’m boarding is safe,” he mused.

“I’ve also been in talks with Gulfstream, Boeing, and Bombardier about private jets. I could arrange for Bell or Sikorsky to visit at the same time,” he casually mentioned to Arianna.

“Alright, I’m home. It’s still raining in New York—so damp, it’s downright depressing.”

“Love you. Let’s talk later.”

Hanging up, Milo turned a corner to see two stunning women waiting on the living room sofa.

Nicole Kidman lounged gracefully, her golden-red hair cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders, highlighting her porcelain skin. Draped in a red loungewear set, she exuded a languid charm mixed with a hint of allure.

Beside her sat Jennifer Connelly, her jet-black hair falling in silky waves that framed her delicate features. Dressed in a white silk nightgown, she seemed ethereal, her skin glowing softly under the light, reminiscent of her iconic leap in Once Upon a Time in America.  

Milo’s expression remained composed as he approached with a smile, pulling both women into his arms. He greeted Jennifer with a deep kiss before turning to Nicole, passing Jennifer’s taste to her lips.

Behind him, Monica watched with a conflicted gaze.

This was the same man who had spent hours with her earlier, then called his fiancée for a long, tender conversation.

Now, he openly flirted with two other women.

Sometimes, Monica felt an urge to leave, to break free.

But she couldn’t.

The luxurious lifestyle, the respect from Hollywood executives, the admiration of wealthy elites—and, of course, the unparalleled physical intimacy—were all too intoxicating to abandon.

The more she cared, the more she feared losing it.

Since stepping onto American soil and meeting Milo, her life had revolved entirely around him. Dependency was the best word to describe it.

As Milo teased and fondled the two women on the couch while watching TV, Monica emotionlessly turned to discuss dinner plans with the head maid. It was her duty as Milo’s personal assistant.

Milo occasionally chuckled at the tabloid news on TV, which speculated about his relationships with various actresses like Catherine Zeta-Jones.

“Hey, Nicole, Jennifer—if it’s not raining tomorrow, how about a Fifth Avenue photoshoot? The publicity should boost your profiles,” he suggested.

Jennifer lit up, clearly delighted by the idea.

“Only if you don’t mind the media exposure,” she replied playfully.

Nicole, however, hesitated.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate…” she muttered.

Still married to Tom Cruise, she and Tom were maintaining a carefully crafted image of a golden couple for the media. A scandal at this time could tarnish her reputation and harm her career.

“That’s fine; there will be other opportunities,” Milo reassured her, turning his attention back to the television.

Jennifer suddenly broke the silence. “Milo, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think of us? I mean, me and Nicole. Or even… others, like Catherine,” she asked cautiously.

Milo immediately grasped her meaning.

Both women wanted clarity: Were they in a long-term, meaningful relationship, or was this just another fleeting Hollywood fling?

Smiling softly, Milo replied cryptically, “I’ve got some shares in John Hancock and Massachusetts Mutual Life Insurance companies.”

The women exchanged puzzled glances as he continued, “I’ve purchased policies for you both. Sign tomorrow, and they’ll take effect.”

In his answer lay his commitment.

(Chapter ends)