There is a scene in Goodfellas that is worth revisiting, not simply for its cinematic brilliance but for its inadvertent commentary on contemporary events and the mechanics of power. The beleaguered restaurant owner, hapless and outmatched, finds himself at the mercy of Tommy DeVito’s arbitrary cruelty. Knowing he cannot directly confront the problem, he seeks out Paulie Cicero, a man of influence and violent repute, and offers him a stake in his business. Paulie doesn’t cook, doesn’t serve, and contributes nothing to the running of the restaurant, but now that he has a stake in it, it is under his protection. And with that, the restaurant owner’s enemies suddenly think twice before interfering.
This, in essence, is Donald Trump’s proposition for Ukraine. After generations of foreign policy predicated mostly around American benevolence, foreign policy under Trump is not a charity operation, nor is it a solemn crusade for democracy. It is, in his own terms, a deal.
His argument, though often buried beneath his signature bombast, is straightforward: America has given Ukraine billions that we could be using for other priorities, yet what, precisely, have we received in return? Trump views military assistance as an asset to be leveraged, a point of pressure to extract something tangible — namely, economic benefit for the United States. Rare earth minerals, critical to the supply chain of modern technology, are his prize. And, if the United States were to have such business interests, we would obviously be more motivated to protect those interests, and along with them, Ukraine itself.
It is, to borrow from Goodfellas, a gangster’s bargain: “Now the guy’s got Paulie as a partner. Any problems, he goes to Paulie. Trouble with the bill? He can go to Paulie. Trouble with the cops? Deliveries? He can call Paulie.” Trouble with the Russians? Zelenskyy can go to Trump.
One might be tempted to dismiss this as cynical and grotesque. It is both. But it is also shrewd. The notion that Ukraine’s survival should be tied to American economic interests rather than high-minded rhetoric about democracy is, in fact, a time-tested principle of realpolitik. If Ukraine were restructured as a strategic economic partner, rather than an expendable client state receiving conditional charity, then its security would become a matter of American self-interest rather than intermittent goodwill.
And speaking of goodwill and famous mafia movies (there’s a combination for you!), there’s something else going on here, another dimension to Trump that Zelenskyy would do well to quickly learn. Enter now The Godfather. Recall its iconic opening scene, where Amerigo Bonasera, an undertaker, pleads for Don Vito Corleone’s help. His daughter has been attacked, and the law has failed him. But Corleone does not grant favors freely. “You don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even think to call me Godfather. Instead, you come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me to do murder for money.” Bonasera wants the Don’s power, but he has never shown loyalty, never offered anything in return. Only when he humbles himself and accepts the rules of the game does Corleone agree to help.
That was how Zelenskyy needed to approach Trump. The miscalculation Zelensky made in the Oval Office this past week was to see himself on equal footing with the U.S., if not the lead partner, the one doing the dirty work for the United States. “We are fighting Putin for you,” seemed to be the attitude. But he overestimates Trump’s, and America’s, interest in defeating Putin who, while an existential threat to Ukraine, is remote from American interests. So Trump sees Zelenskyy not as a heroic freedom fighter advancing American interests abroad, but as Bonasera, desperate and empty-handed, and not even thinking to call him Godfather, not even thinking to pledge his undying loyalty.
The nerve!
Trump’s stance is clear: You need me. I don’t need you. So if you want my help, we can do business together, but you get no handouts. This represents a seismic shift in conservative foreign policy, from Reagan-era idealism, where defending democracy was a moral duty, to Trumpian realism, where every alliance must be justified in dollars and deals, and sealed with an oath of allegiance, if not outright subservience.
The moral question is whether such a model turns Ukraine into a pawn, a desperate nation forced into a deal by the sheer weight of its circumstances. But this ignores a central fact of international politics: all aid is conditional, all alliances require sacrifice, and all are ultimately built on self-interest. The decades of American benevolence were an aberration to this otherwise firm fact, and that era is ending. What Trump proposes is simply a bolder, cruder version of this reentry into reality, removing the pretense and replacing it with a ledger.
One may argue, quite rightly, that Ukraine’s independence is reason enough for American support, that resisting Russian aggression is both a strategic and moral interest. I’ve argued several times in this space that America has an interest in defeating Putin’s aggression. Trump, ever the transactional thinker, finds such appeals quaint. Maybe they are. All interests have limits and costs, and Trump’s argument that America needs more than moral satisfaction for its efforts carries merit. Maybe this is just the way things are going to have to be for now.
And if Zelensky, or the Europeans, or anyone else doesn’t like it, if they recoil at the idea of desperately needed aid being conditional, if they are repulsed at the thought that the lives of millions of people are transactional, well, sorry my friends, global politics is ugly, but this is the business you’ve chosen.
