Cleaning House in the Devenge Family (1)

Phew...

Man, this family is seriously next-level.

Henry couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he scanned the documents. A sigh slipped from his lips, but his eyes were devouring every line, each one practically glittering with dollar signs. The list of trust assets he'd inherited. The very first page was a glorious parade of real estate.

The world is wide, and there's plenty of land just waiting to be leased.

He nodded with deep satisfaction, cross-checking the map and list Bart had handed him that morning. As expected from a deep-rooted New York landlord clan, land, mansions, and buildings were the baseline. But what made Henry's pulse thunder hardest was something else: the ground leases in Manhattan.

He'd never owned so much as a square foot of dirt in his previous life—not even a plot in the sea off Incheon—but he understood the system perfectly. It had been a constant in all those American tycoon novels he'd devoured before, the very mechanism that let protagonists rake in fortunes or gave them endless migraines.

Separate landowner, separate building owner. This is the distilled essence of New York-style strategic property plays.

To the uninitiated it might sound like something out of China's real estate market, but the system existed here too. And the beating heart of it all—the Manhattan property market—ran on exactly this peculiar arrangement. In Korea they said a building owner sat above the Creator himself, but in New York the true sovereign was the landowner beneath the building. Pure capitalism: one man owned the structure, another owned the dirt it stood on.

This is the ultimate free lunch.

The landowner never sold. They simply granted permission to build and collected rent for ninety-nine years. When the lease expired? A building worth tens of millions simply fell into the landowner's lap. It wasn't just easy money—it was money that rolled in while you sat perfectly still.

Yet as Henry matched the listed addresses to the map, his eyebrows twitched.

Wait, what the hell were our ancestors thinking?

There were forty-nine ground leases in total. An impressive number on paper, but the locations were the problem. In 1979, these neighborhoods could only be described as lost causes.

Twelve in SoHo? That's nothing but abandoned factories, rats, and starving artists right now. Same with the Chelsea Hudson waterfront. Fifteen in the Upper West Side... isn't that basically a slum?

The real disaster was the ten leases embedded in Hell's Kitchen. The name said it all: "Hell's Kitchen." A lawless zone where even debt collectors risked their lives.

Three prime parcels on Fifth Avenue and Park Avenue pull in five million a year, but the other forty-six combined only bring in five hundred thousand?

Some were even operating at a loss, with taxes exceeding revenue. The previous patriarch had clung to them for the sake of "family honor" instead of selling. The result was this mess.

Our ancestors really were saints. Practically philanthropists.

Henry scratched the back of his head and shifted his gaze. The ground leases could be set aside for now; they'd turn to gold eventually. From a risk-management perspective, he'd mark them "keep."

Huh. Buildings stuck in Hell's Kitchen? Treat those as ghosts for the time being... Next up, hotels.

He turned the page with rising expectation, only to find the hotel list was even worse. These weren't businesses—they were hippos devouring the family fortune.

The Devenge Ridge at the entrance to Central Park was bleeding money on crumbling façade maintenance. The Old Port Inn in Lower Manhattan, supposedly the family's historic root, was in even worse shape.

The first-floor pub is just longshoremen and retired veterans drinking? All that "honor" costs us a clean hundred thousand dollars a year. Is this a hotel or a senior center?

The crown jewel of disaster was The Devenge Astor on Madison Avenue—a thousand-room behemoth occupying an entire block. Less than half the rooms were even operational. Last year alone, two million dollars had vanished into maintenance and payroll. Other properties existed, but their locations gave no confidence, and considering current inflation and next year's coming "hell," the outlook was bleak.

Prices are insane, oil is punching through the ceiling, and next year interest rates will rocket to twenty percent. The real spicy flavor of that Paul Volcker guy from the novels is about to hit! Who the hell is going to stay in hotels or buy houses during a recession like that? Real estate gets put on hold.

Henry flipped the page without regret. Next came the family's pride: the bond portfolio. It looked conservatively managed, but to Henry's eyes it was nothing but rotten ropes.

Forty million in thirty-year U.S. Treasury bonds purchased in the '50s and '60s. Thirty million in New York City fiscal crisis relief bonds. Ten million in blue-chip corporate bonds like General Industries. As he scanned the list, Henry's eyes sharpened.

These can't be liquidated immediately, can they?

Liquidity was the soul of bonds. But in this era of double-digit inflation with market rates above twelve percent, four-percent vintage Treasuries were basically wallpaper. Dumping them now would mean recovering less than half face value. The 9.5-percent New York relief bonds might fetch closer to par, but that created an even bigger problem.

As the name suggested, these were bonds issued when New York was on the brink of bankruptcy, begging for loans. Selling them would be interpreted as a signal that the seller didn't care whether the city lived or died.

The moment I sell, it'll be splashed across the front page of the New York Times: "Historic Devenge Family Bets Against New York!" Once branded a traitor to the city, business here is finished.

As a safety-first man, social suicide was not an option for Henry. If anything, as a prestigious family they should be seen buying more bonds to set an example. New York wasn't going to collapse anyway, and these bonds offered eleven-percent tax-free yields with quarterly payments—exempt from federal, state, and city taxes.

In the end the only things I can touch are the corporate bonds, and even those will take a twenty-percent loss if sold. Damn it. I thought I sat down at the table with a diamond spoon, but it's full of rusty copper chopsticks.

Henry rubbed his stiff neck. Wondering if the stocks would be the same, he flipped the page almost absentmindedly—then his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

The stock list was only a single page, yet its destructive power surpassed all the real estate combined.

"What? The Time? The Times? No, I need an explanation for this."

Henry immediately pressed the silver button on his desk to summon Bart, then fixed his gaze on the list that had shocked him to the core.

Insane. Anonymous bearer bonds worth three million were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cute compared to this. The scale is on another level.

Beyond mere wealth, the keys to a media empire capable of shaping public opinion were now in his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hands. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The following pages listed various titles and memberships: permanent director of the Old Guard Club, lifetime member of the Liberty Society, trustee of St. Mark's Hospital Foundation... Every one was an organization only those at the absolute peak of New York society could join.

Even in his previous life he'd heard the names of these social events. He knew how important they were in America, yet the thought of actually attending all of them felt overwhelming. So Henry's mental calculator spun coldly.

New wine belongs in new wineskins. I'll discuss it and cut out everything useless. Even keeping only the important honorary positions probably costs over ten million a year in upkeep. All these charity galas, auctions, hospital donations, party donations... They're basically just donation platforms wearing fancy clothes.

Although a safety-first man, Henry valued efficiency just as highly. Empty honors were nothing but expensive garbage to him. He had just resolved to keep only those that benefited the family's prestige and scrap the rest when a restrained knock sounded and Bart appeared carrying a silver tray.

"I thought you might want coffee, so I brought some. Is there anything else you require?"

"Ah, thank you. Have a seat, Bart. I was reviewing the assets and came across some parts I don't understand. When exactly did our family become media moguls?"

Bart's expression seemed to say you're only asking now? but he answered calmly.

"You were focused on your studies, so it's understandable you weren't aware. It was 1967. After Henry Lucas's death, the Lucas family had no will to manage operations. Acquiring The Time from them was an event that shook America. Madam wished to create a dual-class share structure like her maternal Selzberg family at the New York Times, making it the Devenge family's eternal enterprise. We've raised our stake to sixty-nine percent, but the Federal Reserve's rate hikes have forced us to pause for now."

Why don't I have any memory of this? This body really was a lunatic.

"I was too indifferent to the family. Then what about this pending acquisition of the British daily, the The Times Group?"

"That was also Madam's final wish. We reached a verbal agreement with the Toms family to acquire it for the symbolic price of one pound, on the condition that we assume the debt and union retirement obligations with the British government's cooperation. The due diligence team is currently on site, and final signatures will be needed soon."

Henry's brow furrowed. One pound? Nothing in this world was free. Behind that one-pound price tag undoubtedly lurked a black swamp of debt. Deciding he couldn't rely solely on this body's fragmented memories, Henry squeezed his eyes shut and chose to score an own goal. The moment he said this, paperwork would undoubtedly pile up like a mountain, but if he truly wanted to seize control of the family, there was no other way.

"I know nothing about the scale of the debt, the British government's guarantees, or the union issues. Bart, prepare a report immediately. I want to know everything—from the two magazines and newspaper down to the housemaids' salaries and every single tax notice. Oh, and how much debt do we carry?"

"I'll have it ready before lunch. Fortunately, the previous patriarch strictly limited borrowing in anticipation of high interest rates, so we have no direct financial liabilities. However, acquiring the British The Times means assuming their debt in exchange for exceptionally favorable low-interest financing from the British government."

Henry nodded. The fact that the worst risk—household debt—was absent earned a passing grade.

"Good. We'll talk again after I review the report. Starting tomorrow, I'll begin meetings. Set up a schedule beginning with the family advisors, then internal staff, and gradually moving outward to peripheral contacts. Once the interviews are finished, we'll hold a full family meeting, so prepare accordingly."

"Understood."

Only after Bart left did Henry take a sip of the prepared coffee and let out a long breath.

Whew. At least there's no debt.

He finally understood why the previous patriarch had been so extremely wary of interest rates, halting hotel investments and obsessing over bonds. Though the hotels were currently dilapidated headaches, in Henry's mind a dazzling future blueprint was already taking shape.

Once the cash flow is secured, I'll overhaul everything. Modernizing and turning them into a global hotel chain ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is only a matter of time. Hilton and Marriott will be lining up under me in about thirty years.

But before that, mountains of homework awaited. Having taken the patriarch's seat, he first needed to understand the people. Even as a mere section chief in his previous life, he had learned this basic principle the hard way: numbers on paper and voices from the field were always different.

Now that the owner has changed, I need to familiarize myself with everyone and hear the hidden stories that don't appear in reports. After that, I'll reshape the entire family operation to fit my style. Since Joshua's internal personnel investigation is finished, I should start by reading that confidential report.

Henry's gaze returned to the pending acquisition documents on his desk. Even searching his previous life's memories, all he knew about The Times was the fragmentary information that some character in a novel had acquired it and succeeded. But looking at the Devenge family's current portfolio, the answer was obvious.

The Time in America, The Times in Britain. And the maternal family is the New York Times holding clan...

This wasn't just heaven pushing him into the media business—it was heaven setting the entire table. At this moment on the cusp of 1980, controlling the public's eyes and ears was the surest path to the top while managing risk.

The medium with the greatest explosive power at this time...

Henry rested his chin on his hand, sketching out success plans in his head as he spent the remaining scraps of time.