When the kidnappers grabbed him, they thought they’d hit the jackpot. They weren’t just taking a boy; they were taking a piece of the richest man in history. They sent a ransom note demanding $17 million. To them, it was a fortune. To J. Paul Getty, it was a rounding error.
J. Paul Getty died a few years later, surrounded by the finest things "all the money in the world" could buy, yet arguably owning nothing that truly mattered. He proved that while money can build a fortress, it often turns that fortress into a tomb. All the Money in the World
In his English manor, surrounded by priceless Renaissance art and Roman statues, the elder Getty sat by a payphone he’d installed for his guests. When the press swarmed him, asking what he would pay for his grandson’s life, he didn't blink. When the kidnappers grabbed him, they thought they’d
"I have fourteen other grandchildren," he said, his voice as cold as the marble in his hallway. "If I pay one penny now, I’ll have fourteen kidnapped grandchildren." To them, it was a fortune