Victor stood at his office window, watching dust swirl under the streetlights in the wind.
The AC was cranked, but he could still feel the summer heat sneaking through the cracks; like the city itself, always pressing in.
"Victor, this week's financials."
Fiona stepped in, holding a stack of papers.
She wore a sharp charcoal suit, hair pulled back tight; nothing like the broken woman who'd shown up at his door a month ago.
Victor took the reports and scanned the numbers.
$23,000 net profit; up 7% from last week.
A small smile tugged at his lips, then vanished.
Small wins didn't hype him up anymore. This was just one step in the plan.
"Not bad."
He set the papers on his new mahogany desk; $200 last month, pocket change for SHW now.
"Zhao called. Don't forget tonight's meet-up."
Fiona's voice had a slight edge. She still wasn't comfortable around the gym crowd; felt like they looked down on her, rough, loud, pushy.
Victor nodded, glanced at his watch; a simple Timex, a thank-you gift from Max after his first paycheck and cut.
"Tell Old Zhao I'll be on time."
He turned back to the window. An SHW food truck rolled by, bright red logo popping against the night.
Back in late March, nobody cared that he'd won the Golden Gloves. Lowell couldn't even land sponsors; who'd bet on a "chink" making it?
Now? Fifty trucks. Nearly 130 employees. Two-buck meals. Tens of thousands of takeout boxes daily; each stamped with a cartoon tiger version of Victor.
Waiting for him to light up the ring.
"Oh, the new batch of trucks is retrofitted. Ready to roll tomorrow."
Fiona added, fingers fidgeting with the folder edge.
Since Victor took her in, she'd been busting her ass to prove herself; like work could erase the past. Who'd have thought the girl who walked off with six figures would get robbed blind by her own countrymen in America?
Victor turned, eyes sharp.
"You checked the mods yourself? Last batch had insulation issues."
"Three times," she fired back. "Had the mechanics run full tests. It's solid."
He gave a short nod.
He trusted Fiona; not because of feelings (Max had drilled that out of him), but because she was damn good, and right now, she needed this job more than anyone.
"Get the docs ready for tonight. Bring Jimmy. We're giving these old dogs an offer they can't refuse."
Fiona nodded and slipped out, closing the door softly.
Victor looked out again. That smart, tough woman had taught him plenty; not just boxing or business, but how to stay human in a cutthroat world. Same age, college-educated; different breed.
He slipped a photo back in his pocket, grabbed his brick phone, and dialed.
"Ethan, new equipment quotes in?"
"...Good. Push for 10% off. Their rigs are cheap anyway."
"...Tell 'em we'll prepay half in cash. Yeah, do it."
He hung up, opened a drawer, and pulled out a stock transfer agreement.
His next move: sell 15% of SHW for $180K. Cash was nice, but binding Chicago's most powerful players to him? Priceless.
That night, Victor pulled up to a nondescript joint in the South Side in his black Benz.
Two big Asian guys at the door nodded respectfully; Zhao's Bajiquan crew.
"Victor! Right on time!"
Master Zhao's voice boomed from the back. The sixty-something gym owner was a heavyweight in the Azure Dragon triad; not rich, but influential. Bajiquan hits hard and fast; perfect for enforcers.
Also Victor's first coach.
The back room was packed; seventeen, eighteen gym bosses. Cigarette smoke and Pu-erh tea thick in the air.
Victor shook every hand; respectful, but not bowing.
"Honored elders,"
He raised his glass after the food came. "Thanks for making time for a kid like me."
"Cut the crap, Victor. You're stealing our business!"
A scarred-up guy cut in. "Zhao says you've got a money-making pitch?"
"I've never stepped foot in Chinatown. Never pushed product to our people. You all know that. I cleared cops and IRS so I could make money off the white folks."
Victor sipped his tea, calm.
"But Zhao's right; I'm one of you. SHW's pulling over $60K net a month; and growing."
He let that sink in.
"But I'm a fighter first, businessman second. Everything I do is for the ring. So I'm offering 15% of the company for $180,000."
Murmurs rippled.
Victor waited. These old-school players needed time.
"Why us?" a woman gym owner challenged. "You're cozy with the white boys. Banks are cheaper."
Victor smiled like he'd been waiting for it.
"Maria, we both know what bankers are. I'd rather partner with people who get the streets; who know real Chicago."
He scanned the room. "Plus, it's good for everyone; clean income, legit jobs for the gym kids."
Master Zhao chuckled, dropped a line in Mandarin. A few guys smirked.
"Victor, you get 'guanxi' better than most ABCs. Half the new immigrants think America's paradise; one idiot said the air here tastes sweet. I just dunked his ass in the toilet for a reality check."
Two hours later, Victor laid it all out: operations, expansion, equity structure.
He downplayed risk, hyped returns; but kept it real.
When he showed three months of cash flow, the last holdouts caved.
"Deal," Frank said finally. "But my guys run distribution."
Victor was ready.
"Of course. Best to spread the work. I need solid supply chains."
"We've got three gyms on it. We'll hook up the farms."
"Next phase: campus areas."
"Leave it to us. We'll send Street to talk. Long as you're not slinging dope, the brothers and the white boys won't care."
Victor raised his glass. "To our partnership."
That night, he left with signed papers and $180,000 in checks.
In the cold, his breath vanished into the dark.
The money was nice. But now? SHW had city hall permits and the meanest crew on the streets in its corner.
Back at the apartment, Victor ditched the suit for training gear.
Calendar on the wall: less than two weeks until July 11.
He wrapped his hands in the mirror, started his nightly routine.
Jab, right hook, combos; sweat soaked his tank fast.
Business wins didn't mean squat if he forgot he was a fighter first.
This opponent? His pro debut. No room for slip-ups.
After training, cold shower, then the desk; big clunky PC, internet wasn't cheap.
Fiona had emailed today's sales and tomorrow's schedule. Victor nuked the schedule; Old Joe was running the food side now.
He fired off quick replies, then opened an encrypted folder; intel from the food trucks on key Chicago politicians and businessmen.
In this city, information was power. Victor was building his own web: snap a photo of a target, tell the crew; spot 'em, report back, get a bonus.
The landline rang.
Victor picked up. Max's voice crackled through.
"Heard you're expanding again. Killing it, huh?"
Victor grinned. "Haven't forgotten. Chicago's just the start."
Five-minute call. Victor told Max the pro fight was coming.
He hung up, stepped onto the balcony, looked out over Chicago's glow.
The city that nearly ate him alive?
Now he was about to step into its jaws.
"Didn't expect my first pro fight to be against Tyson."