Power did not always announce itself with gunfire or headlines.
Sometimes, it arrived quietly—wearing the robes of mercy.
The Vatican Bank was already collapsing.
They simply didn't know it yet.
Luke felt it the moment Michael returned to Rome—not through rumor, not through whispers, but through numbers. The System's Analytical Ability unfolded the ledgers in his mind like a living organism. Balances trembled. Transfers contradicted each other. Entire accounts existed only because no one had dared to ask why they did.
Then the truth surfaced.
A deficit of $769 million.
Not hidden.
Not stolen outright.
Displaced.
A hole so large that once discovered, it would tear through the Vatican like a confession spoken too loudly.
And when that happened, the blame would search for a body to cling to.
Michael Corleone was still the preferred sacrifice.
Unless—
Unless he arrived first.
Archbishop Gilday was praying when Michael requested the meeting.
That detail mattered.
Men who prayed before negotiations believed God was already on their side.
The room smelled of incense and old stone. Gilday turned slowly as Michael entered, his expression carefully neutral.
"You should be resting," the Archbishop said.
"I rest when my accounts are balanced," Michael replied calmly.
Gilday smiled thinly. "We are in turbulent times."
"Yes," Michael agreed. "That is why I came with calm."
Luke let the silence stretch—aura farming in its purest form.
Not intimidation.
Not fear.
Gravitas.
The kind that made a man question whether he was already behind.
"I know about the deficit," Michael said.
Gilday stiffened.
"What deficit?"
"The one you haven't found yet," Michael continued. "Seven hundred sixty-nine million dollars. Spread across correspondent banks, shell charities, and internal transfers that no longer reconcile."
Gilday's composure cracked.
"That's impossible," he said sharply.
Michael slid a folder across the table.
Inside were projections—not accusations, not threats—just inevitability.
Dates.
Triggers.
Consequences.
Luke watched the Archbishop read himself into ruin.
"This information," Gilday said slowly, "could destroy the Church."
Michael inclined his head. "Or save it."
Gilday looked up. "At what cost?"
Michael's voice remained even. "None. If you act before the storm."
Silence again.
Then the hook.
"I will inject liquidity," Michael said. "Enough to stabilize the accounts. Quietly. Temporarily."
Gilday's eyes widened. "Why would you—"
"Because," Michael said gently, "I am tired of being blamed for sins I did not commit."
This was aura farming at its peak.
Luke gave nothing emotional.
No desperation.
No anger.
Only the presence of a man who could walk away—but chose not to.
The Archbishop felt it.
Felt the imbalance.
Felt the shift.
"You would save us," Gilday said, "before we even ask."
"Yes."
"And what do you want in return?"
Michael met his gaze.
"Nothing public," he said. "And nothing written. Only that when the truth comes out—and it will—you remember who stood with you before God demanded it."
Gilday bowed his head.
Not in prayer.
In concession.
The funds moved that night.
Clean.
Silent.
Just enough.
By the time the Vatican auditors discovered the deficit weeks later, it was already shrinking—contained, managed, survivable.
There was no scandal.
No collapse.
No villain.
And Michael Corleone's name quietly vanished from every internal list of suspects.
As Michael left the Vatican, Luke felt the System respond—not with points, but with weight.
Influence increased.
Presence deepened.
Aura cultivated.
This was not fear-based authority.
This was moral leverage.
The most dangerous kind.
Behind closed doors, European power brokers whispered in disbelief.
The American hadn't fled.
Hadn't fought.
Hadn't accused.
He had rescued them.
And in doing so, he had placed the Church itself in his debt.
Luke understood the siege was over.
Immobiliare had not been conquered.
It had been redeemed—on Michael's terms.
And from this moment on, every room Michael Corleone entered would feel it:
The quiet gravity of a man who could have destroyed you—
But chose not to.