After the first round of the South Side Badass Boxing Tournament, Victor was back in his rundown apartment, still grinding. Ice pack pressed to a bruise.
The water heater wheezed like it was on its last breath, spitting lukewarm spurts that washed sweat and grime down the drain.
"Top eighty."
Victor grinned at the mirror, even though it tugged at the cut on his lip.
He could still feel the ref raising his arm, the crowd roaring—half cheers, half boos.
Man, that rush was addictive.
His pager screeched from the living room, killing the vibe.
He wrapped a towel around his waist, water dripping off his chest and dotting the floor.
The number on the screen twisted his gut—Kevin.
Victor hovered over the callback button, finger frozen.
Kevin was one of his guys now—hooked him up with cheap meat, no questions asked.
But Kevin was also Veronica's husband.
Every hookup with Veronica—in sketchy motels, in Kevin's own house, right next to his kids' rooms—felt like a loaded gun to Victor's temple.
If Kevin ever found out… Victor shook it off and dialed.
"Victor."
Kevin's voice came through low and flat. "Come to my place. Now."
Click. Line dead.
Victor stood there, legs suddenly strong under the towel. Kevin sounded ice-cold—like he knew.
If he knows, he knows—Veronica started it.
Victor threw on jeans, a black tank, and his faded hoodie. Mirror guy: bronze skin, murder in his eyes. He tucked "Miss Six-Shot" under his arm.
"Maybe he just wants to talk bets for the next fight," Victor muttered, not buying his own bullshit. "Can't kill the guy! All I care about with Veronica is what's under the headlights!"
Kevin never called for nothing, especially mid-tournament.
Twenty minutes later, Victor stood at Kevin's door.
Deep breath. Three knocks.
Door opened—but it wasn't Kevin.
Veronica. Black hair loose over her shoulders, red lipstick like a fresh cut in the dim hall light. Tight black dress, neckline plunging—headlights blazing.
"You came," she purred, voice huskier than usual. "Come in."
Victor's eyes flicked past her, right hand on Miss Six-Shot's grip, scanning the empty living room. "Where's Kevin?"
"He's not here."
She grabbed his wrist, nails grazing skin. "We called you."
"We?"
That's when another woman stepped out of the kitchen, holding two glasses of amber liquid. Taller than Veronica, platinum hair down to her waist, ice-blue eyes like a Siberian winter.
Even in a plain white tee and jeans, she radiated danger. Victor frowned—he knew this chick.
"Victor Li," she said, thick Russian accent. "I'm Svetlana. Veronica's friend."
Victor didn't take the glass.
His eyes bounced between them, muscles flexing under the tank. "You used Kevin's pager to get me here? Why?"
Svetlana chuckled, shoved the glass into his hand, clinked hers against it. "To celebrate your win, of course. And to… cheer you on for the next fight."
She leaned on those last two words.
Only then did Victor clock the room—curtains drawn, coffee table with a nearly empty vodka bottle, low jazz humming from the stereo.
This wasn't a party. This was a setup.
"Round two," Victor said slowly, setting the glass on a shelf. "I'm fighting Dryalovski. The 'Siberian Bear.'"
Svetlana's eyes narrowed. "Ah, Dmitri. Our hometown hero."
She stepped closer—close enough for her perfume to hit: cedar and something spicy. "You know how strong he is? Three-fifty pounds of pure muscle. Can kill a reindeer with one punch."
Victor didn't back up, even though every nerve screamed trap.
"So that's the play? Wear me out before the fight?"
He smirked. "Tell your countryman I'll beat him fair and square in the ring. No need for this low-rent bullshit."
Svetlana's face went stone-cold.
She set her glass down, hands sliding onto Victor's shoulders. "You think this is just about the fight?"
Her fingers trailed down his chest. "Veronica told me how… special you are. I want to find out for myself."
Veronica pressed in from behind, breath hot on his neck. "The three of us could have fun, Victor. Like last time, just you and me…"
Her hand slipped under his hoodie.
Victor jerked back, breaking their circle.
"Enough!"
His voice cracked like a whip. "I know what this is. Svetlana—you're not Russian mob, are you? You're just a plant. Dryalovski sent you to rig the win."
The air froze.
Svetlana blinked, then slipped back into that lazy smile. "Smart boy."
She glided to the couch, cat-like. "But you don't get what you're turning down. I can keep you alive in that ring, Victor. Dmitri will snap every rib you've got—unless…"
"Unless I play along tonight, throw the fight, and let him 'kill' me clean?" Victor finished for her. "South Side don't play that. No way."
Svetlana's smile vanished.
She stood, suddenly lethal. "Then maybe Kevin would like to hear about you and Veronica's little secret?"
She turned to Veronica. "Or should I say—your ongoing affair?"
Veronica went ghost-white. "You promised you wouldn't—"
"Plans change, darling. If I don't deliver, the Siberian Bear kills me."
Svetlana pulled a mini recorder from her pocket, hit play.
Veronica's voice, clear as day: "…last week at the motel, Victor's way better than Kevin… had me seeing my stomach bounce!"
Victor's fists clenched, unclenched.
He stared at the recorder—then laughed.
"You know what, Svetlana?" He walked to the phone. "You got no leverage."
Svetlana froze. "What?"
Victor was already dialing. "Hey, INS? Got an illegal Russian national here—expired visa. Address?"
He looked at Veronica. Her eyes flashed anger, relief, everything.
She took the phone, rattled off her own address, then added: "She's also threatening to release illegal recordings. I've got proof."
Svetlana turned sheet-white. "You can't—Dmitri will—"
"Tell your 'Siberian Bear,'" Victor cut in, voice steel, "I'll be waiting in the ring. Fair fight."
Fifteen minutes later, INS hauled Svetlana into a cruiser. Veronica stood on the porch, arms crossed.
As the taillights faded, she turned to Victor. "She'll tell Kevin."
"No, she won't."
Victor pulled the tape from his pocket, snapped it in half in front of her. "Illegal immigrant plus extortion? She's getting deported tomorrow. And this was her only card—she ain't burning it on a losing bet."
Veronica stared at him, then cracked up. "So she came here not to sleep with you?"
Victor gave her chest a quick squeeze. "Hell no. Lock her up for two nights, you go down and 'explain'—she'll thank you."
Night breeze hit his face, cutting through the booze-and-perfume haze.
Victor took a breath—and walked. Fight's soon. Can't be wasting seed.
---
Victor twisted the cap off a mineral water, chugged half.
Cold, crisp, with that faint mineral bite—he couldn't get enough. Took another swig.
Third bottle this morning, and he was still parched.
"Weird," he muttered, eyeing the blue label. "Never used to love this stuff."
Gym clock read 10 a.m. He set the bottle down, headed to the locker room to change.
Passing the diner, a wave of rich smell stopped him cold.
"Hey, Martha—fried liver and onions today?"
Martha looked up from prep, smiling. "You bet, Victor. Nose like a bloodhound. Wanna come in and sample? We got two hours."
Victor swallowed hard. Sudden, insane craving—for liver.
Third time this week.
Last week he'd driven clear across town for that one spot's goose liver pâté.
"What's wrong with me?" he mumbled, heading to change. "Am I sick?"
The thought stuck.
During training, he couldn't focus. Coach's yelling sounded miles away.
Post-workout shower, he studied himself in the mirror.
Eighteen-year-old face, all baby fat gone. Jawline sharp, Adam's apple barely there.
Arms up—coiled power, seamless.
"Looks fine…" he said, but still booked a doctor's visit.