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Chapter 386 The Pledge of Allegiance

"So you want me to support you?" Ernst's voice was devoid of any emotion.

"That's right." The old hag nodded, the pearl around her neck trembling slightly. "I have no other way out."

Her tone was unusually calm, as if she were stating a fact unrelated to herself; only her tightly clenched knuckles betrayed the turmoil within her.

"Within the West Coast gang circle, the Pelosi family doesn't have much say. In terms of political connections, they are not as good as the Brown and Newsom families, and in terms of financial resources, they are even less comparable to the Getty and Fisher families."

"The Pelosi family's current status and the respect they receive in this circle are entirely due to their deep ties with the Newsom and Getty families."

Ernst acknowledged this, saying, "But why should I support you? Support someone so deeply intertwined with the Getty and Newsom families, practically a vassal of them? Wouldn't it be better if I just cooperated directly with them, like we are now?"

The old hag didn't answer, but when Ernst looked up, he caught a glint of cold light in her eyes—the ferocity of a cornered beast fighting for its life, and the resolute determination of burning one's boats.

"Because I don't have Pelosi family blood in my body."

Ernst raised an eyebrow slightly, signaling her to continue.

"This incident has made me see my true place." Her tone was icy, and every word was filled with resentment. "To the West Coast gangs, I'm just a pawn that can be discarded at any time, and to the Pelosi family, I'm nothing more than a tool to bring influence to the family."

"If this seat originally belonged to Paul: even if you propose a change of candidate, the Pelosi family will use all their resources to negotiate. They will even fight for it at any cost, just like John Pelosi did when he married Barbara Newsom."

She suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with self-mockery and sorrow, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening with the intensity of the expression. "But what about me? Not a single person stood up for me. My useless husband, Paul, didn't dare utter a single word, except to advise me to give up."

Ernst placed the coffee cup back on the coaster with a soft click. He could understand the despair of being abandoned by one's family. In the game of power, blood ties are not the strongest bond, let alone when she is a daughter-in-law.

But what does this have to do with him?

In politics, sympathy is always the cheapest emotion.

"Do you think I would support you because of these complaints?" His tone carried a hint of sarcasm.

"But if I take over, I can bring you value that neither the Getty nor the Newsom families can provide." The old hag's voice suddenly became firm, as if she were grasping at the last straw.

Ernst took another sip of coffee, tilted his head, and said, "This time, I can finally taste something different from this cup of coffee."

The old witch understood instantly, stood up immediately, and without saying anything more, turned around and walked out of the room again.

He knew the other party had gone to collect a pledge of loyalty. In the exchange of power, value is never expressed through words. Without handing over some leverage, who can believe your sincerity?

When the door opened again, Ernst didn't turn around, but when the other person appeared in front of him, he almost spat out the coffee in his mouth.

He knew the old hag's possession all too well, because he used it frequently.

A small video camera plus... an electric toy, that's the high-class package!

"I don't have anything to offer that will satisfy you. The most valuable thing I have is a list of West Coast gang members and their assets, but I don't think that's enough."

After saying that, the other party turned on the video recorder and pointed it at the sofa opposite Ernst.

Without any preamble, she began to unbutton her suit jacket, her movements far from elegant, even bordering on crude and reckless.

Her coat slipped down, revealing a black silk shirt underneath. As she moved, the shirt buttons were undone one by one, revealing her no longer firm skin.

Then Ernst watched a toy tester inspect the product.

Right in front of him, the other person tested all the toys on the table.

Ernst didn't find this strange at all; women with power often have far more fun than men, and their private lives are far more chaotic.

In order to climb the social ladder, Truss of Britain became the mistress of a high-ranking member of parliament for 12 years after her marriage. Her lover rose from a member of parliament to the vice president, and she was also the shortest-lived of all the such men.

The Polish female boss not only frequented nightclubs and kept male models as mistresses, but she also held uncensored parties and indulged in drug use and revelry.

So what if she's the wife of today's American tycoon, Richard Robinson? Her husband couldn't control his groin, so how good do you think she is?

Having affairs with congressmen, preying on minors, and arranging for Hollywood male stars to serve her when she came to California—these are all open secrets in the top circles.

The old hag probably knew she was too old to catch his eye, otherwise she wouldn't have used props and would have gone straight to real combat.

Throughout Western high society, the French tradition of mistress culture has been perpetuated.

From Louis XIV's Palace of Versailles to Napoleon's Fontainebleau, mistresses have always been an indispensable part of the power structure.

The artistic giants who have survived to this day—Van Gogh, Nietzsche, Mozart, Schopenhauer, and even Beethoven—were rumored to have had their deafness linked to syphilis, which became a symbol of status in the aristocratic circles of the time.

Not to mention the powerful and wealthy, who almost wiped out the European nobility through their debauchery.

This tradition of binding lust with power spread to the United States with the wave of colonization, evolving into the unspoken rule in today's upper class that marriage is a political union while each person goes their own way in private.

Didn't J. Paul Getty, the founder of the Getty family, once publicly declare that love is a luxury and mistresses are a necessity?

"Your expression is spot on; it's a shame you're not making movies." Ernst's voice broke the eeriness in the room as the other person let out a suppressed gasp. His tone was devoid of any emotion, as if he were commenting on an ordinary theatrical performance.

However, the other party's next move once again surprised him.

The old hag stood up and placed the video camera in his hand, then walked straight to him and slowly knelt down.

He knelt before Ernst and took off his shoes and socks.

Ernst's pupils contracted sharply, and his fingers gripping the coffee cup tightened involuntarily.

He watched as she reached out and took off his leather shoes, then his cotton socks, and Ernst couldn't help but let out a soft moan the moment her lips touched his toes.

A strange sense of accomplishment spread down my spine. Is this the pleasure that power brings?

I was just enjoying watching it, and I unconsciously started shaking my leg. That's really not what I meant.

"Have you ever done this to your husband Paul?" His voice held a hint of amusement as he looked down at her.

"He doesn't deserve it." The old hag's voice was muffled, but her lips continued to move.

"There's a story behind this." Ernst chuckled. The other party's level of proficiency wasn't something that could be easily achieved through practice.

The other person wiped the sweat from their brow and uttered a name that didn't surprise Ernst: "Does Newson III count?"

"That's it?"

"If you're referring to this technique, then it can only be him. This old guy was injured when he was young and couldn't keep his skills up until he was almost forty, so he really likes these kinds of tricks. Besides this, he also likes..."

Ernst said that his strange knowledge had increased, but he could at least find a woman to test it out.

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