"Lord have mercy, that's already the third one!"
The announcer's voice boomed through the gym's PA system. By the second win, Victor was basically the star of the show.
"The Iron Hammer Far East Tiger's right hook came down like rebar swung by a crane! Clark's jaw must've shattered like a cookie!"
Frankie watched it all from the shadows of the fighter's tunnel, a little smirk tugging at his lips.
His runner was scribbling odds changes like mad, muttering under his breath, "Boss, nobody's betting against Victor anymore."
"This is just the warm-up," Frankie said, pulling out a cigar but not lighting it. "My cousin's actually turning into something."
In the locker room, Victor iced his knuckles.
His wrecking-ball offense had left the Mexican guy with a jaw in pieces—three months on liquids only. The gym rat's heart and lungs were wrecked—he'd be flat on his back for at least a month. The ex-soldier had a cracked jaw and post-concussion fog.
"You're hitting too hard," Old Jack said, tossing him a towel. "The commission might want a medical eval. At the least a psych check."
Victor snorted, voice muffled under the towel. "They should be checking if those chumps can take one of my punches."
Old Jack wasn't having it. "Victor! Pride'll blind you to the next guy!"
Victor snapped to attention. "You're right. Next fight, I'm going all out!"
Too bad the fifth-round bracket came out and the kid supposed to face Victor suddenly pulled out with "rib issues that ain't healed."
Round six was even wilder. The Black kid who drew the short straw looked straight at the crowd and said, "My pops won't let me fight a killer."
Someone yelled back, "Where the hell's your dad?!"
And just like that, Victor Lee locked in one of the five slots to advance—three bloody KOs and two forfeits.
He threw the victory party in Chinatown's swankiest private room. One table: $150 a head—about a middle-class guy's weekly paycheck. They had to bring in a reinforced chair just to hold Victor's frame.
"To our 'Iron Hammer Far East Tiger'!"
Jason raised his glass. Michael, Old Jack, Kevin and his wife, Carl, Uncle Old Joe—all toasted back.
Victor silently demolished a whole roast duck, grease dripping down his chin.
After dinner, they divvied up the winnings. Everyone had been betting heavy—Kevin's couple, Carl Gallagher, Uncle Old Joe—they were all walking away fat.
They were stuffing bricks of cash into briefcases—minimum a grand each—when the bathroom door exploded off its hinges.
Victor didn't flinch. Mid-shave, he slid the safety razor down his jawline to his left cheek, drew his revolver, and thumbed back the hammer.
His eyes in the mirror didn't blink—just the pupils tightening like a camera lens locking focus on the crack in the bathroom door.
Three pairs of shoes—two tactical cop boots, one shiny pair of Oxfords—crunched over scattered pizza boxes and empty beer cans in the living room.
Footsteps spread out on the hardwood, forming a perfect triangle.
"Chicago PD! Search warrant!"
"Drop the gun! Drop it!"
The Latino officer's shout bounced off the bathroom tile.
Victor let out a slow breath. In the mirror, a thin red line bloomed through the shaving cream on his left cheek. That five-year-old safety razor had finally betrayed him today.
He tossed the revolver. Cops swarmed, slamming him to the floor.
"Victor Lee?"
The lead officer kicked the door wide just as the razor hovered three centimeters above Victor's Adam's apple.
Three badges flashed under the warm bathroom light—too shiny, like they'd just come out of the box. "You're under arrest for illegal possession of a firearm! Engaging in illegal activities. We've got some questions."
Victor turned, holding the razor between two fingers. He clocked the lead guy's left hand white-knuckling his holster.
That little twitch made the corner of Victor's mouth jump. Chicago PD badges start with "C." This Latino guy's read D-1479.
Cook County Sheriff's Office. Not street cops.
"Can I rinse off the foam, Officer?"
Victor's voice sounded like sandpaper on rusted steel.
He let the razor slip from his fingers. The stainless steel blade pinged off the tile, making the youngest cop flinch.
"Hands where I can see 'em!"
As the Latino officer slapped on cuffs, Victor spotted a fresh scar behind the guy's ear—looked like claw marks. "Turn around."
Victor faced the wall, palms on the damp tile.
When the cuffs clicked shut, he smelled it—interrogation-room special: cheap coffee, sour sweat, and industrial cleaner.
These guys weren't even pretending this was routine.
"You'll wait for my lawyer before asking questions."
They shoved him into the living room. His bare toes snagged a wrinkled T-shirt off the floor.
Three hundred sixty pounds made the floorboards groan with every step, but he moved light—like a trained pit bull.
The young cop laughed. "Six a.m. raid and you think we're giving you phone time?"
"Looks like the 'Diamond-Level Companion Service' prince had a wild night."
He kicked an empty protein powder tub, annoyed. "What brand? Same as mine!"
Victor's left eyelid twitched.
Hearing that phrase from cops meant they'd been watching for days.
He let them throw an old hoodie on him. His eyes swept the trashed bedroom—the spare pager in the nightstand drawer was gone, but the "service notebook" hidden in the boxing manual box should still be there.
The cruiser was an unmarked Chevy, back door reinforced with extra steel.
Victor ducked in; the Latino officer's breathing picked up.
They'd read his file. Knew what happened in that Lincoln Park High bathroom stall. Knew what 360 pounds of muscle could do in a phone booth.
"Seatbelt."
The word came out like a threat.
Victor fumbled the buckle with cuffed hands, chains clinking in the silence.
As the car rolled past the Chinatown arch, he saw morning market vendors freeze, watching the cruiser go.
Then he spotted a sign. He leaned hard, smashing his forehead through the window. Glass shards dug into his scalp, blood pouring.
The officer roared, jamming a Taser into Victor's side. But Victor bellowed toward his usual breakfast spot: "FRANKIE! FRANKIE! THE COPS GOT ME! THE COPS GOT ME!"
Another Taser to the neck.
Zzzzt. Victor slumped.
But before blacking out, he saw one of Frankie's guys peel off—phone already to his ear.
When he came to, the interrogation room's fluorescent tubes buzzed like they'd been salvaged from an abandoned hospital.
His cuffs were swapped for a shorter chain, bolted to the steel table leg—forcing him to hunch like a broken vending machine.
Clever design: no visible torture marks, but after thirty minutes you'd beg.
"Victor Lee, AKA 'Big V.'"
Deputy Chief Keith slapped a folder down. Victor smelled whiskey under the mint gum.
This fifty-something white guy had bloodshot eyes and a wedding-ring tan line but no ring. "Know why we brought you in for tea?"
Photos fanned out like playing cards.
Victor saw himself under the Peninsula Hotel awning—tux straining over his boxy frame, arm in arm with a white woman in an emerald necklace.
Next: the Drake Hotel, a redhead in mink whispering in his ear.
Every photo had the faint "Diamond-Level Companion Service" watermark in the corner.
"You do 'deep emotional connection'—fifty bucks an hour?"
Keith jabbed Victor's face with a pencil, leaving a crescent dent.
"Seriously, these rich ladies not worried you'll crush their pelvis?"
Officer Rodriguez let out a fake laugh, but his eyes stayed locked on Victor's traps and neck.
Victor knew the play—waiting for the angry Asian fat guy to snap and swing on a cop.
He rotated his cuffed wrists, chains clinking sharp.
"I want my lawyer."
He stared at the one-way glass. At least two sets of eyes tracking his pupils. "No questions till he's here."
Keith leaned in, badge nearly touching Victor's nose.
Victor smelled bleeding gums. "We know what Frankie Lee does in Chinatown."
The chief dropped his voice. "And why he hits that strip club on Michigan Avenue every Wednesday."
Victor didn't blink.
Frankie did go to Blue Paradise every Wednesday—but not for the dancers. The walk-in freezer out back led straight to the Chicago mob's accountant.
"But this is Chicago, kid."
Keith's breath hit Victor's face. "No ch—"
"I'll sue for discrimination—"
The door slammed open, cutting him off.
Frankie Lee stood there in a $3,000 Armani suit, three lawyers with briefcases behind him.
He took off his Ray-Bans like he was holstering a gun.
"Under Illinois Criminal Procedure Code 725, Section 5—"
The lead lawyer's voice cut like a scalpel. "You've got seventeen minutes to charge or release."
Victor caught Frankie's right pinky twitching—the tell he only showed when he was furious.
While the lawyers checked the bruises on Victor's wrists, Frankie muttered in Hakka: "Mark ratted you out. That blond punk from high school you scalped half of."
In the observation room, Sergeant Jason Bege hit stop on the recorder.
The gray-haired Black detective turned to criminal analyst Sophia Bush. "Pull Frankie's cross-border money moves last three months—especially Nevada."
His eyes stayed on Victor signing release forms through the glass.
"Damn it, next time we need pros for this!"
No high-society woman would ever admit to hiring Victor. The revolver was registered—everything clean. They couldn't sweat the kid.
Sophia typed fast on her tablet, a red strand slipping from her bun. "You think he's tied to the Golden Triangle pipeline?"
"Victor's a hell of a amateur boxer."
Jason popped a mint. "Frankie just bought a near-bankrupt trucking company. Mob wants to go legit—easiest way is a celebrity face."
He stood, straightening his suit. "Get the drug dogs some 'special seasoning' for training."
BAM!
The door flew open. Jason's boss walked in with orders. Jason read it and rubbed his temples. "IRS is serious? They're accepting this as proof?"
Chief McMahon just looked at him. "Stand down. IRS only cares about taxes. Everything they're doing is legal."
…
When Victor finally stepped out of the precinct, Chicago's sunset looked like a spilled Bloody Mary across the West Side skyline.
His shadow stretched cartoon-long—like a waking beast.
"Your mess is cleaned up, but you owe seven grand to feed these lawyers. Those rich broads won't talk."
Frankie handed him a brand-new satellite phone. "Yeah, Mark snitched. He's in college now. Every Friday after work he hits the Red Mill in Old Town for hookers."
He paused. "Taking care of him costs fifty large."
"I don't have fifty grand. Seven grand tonight. Mark—"
Victor took the phone. The metal case cracked slightly in his grip. "I'll give him an offer he can't refuse."