The night before Christmas, Victor got a letter from Carl Gallagher, mailed straight from West Point.
Carl told him exactly where he'd buried his stash. Victor dug it up—twenty-five grand and change.
He was stunned by the amount, but after pocketing three grand, he buried the rest right back in the same spot.
When he handed the cash over to Frankie, the guy still looked pissed.
"Any word from Fiona?"
Of course Frankie was salty. Even with a grand in interest, getting played still stung.
"Fiona promised two grand for Carl's situation. Then the kid dragged me around for a whole damn month!"
Nothing to be done about it.
Carl wanted out of the gang life, but the Black gangs wouldn't let him walk. Fiona tracked down Michael, trying to get to Frankie, and swore she'd pay three grand.
But she only coughed up the first grand before vanishing, leaving Michael and Frankie to chase Carl down themselves.
"Nah," Victor said. "She packed her bags last November, left a note saying she was headed to L.A. with a fat stack of cash. Lip and the others won't touch it."
Victor stayed quiet on the sidelines, staring off into the distance, thinking about that girl—woman now—with a cigarette always dangling from her lips and that stubborn fire in her eyes.
The South Side couldn't hold her. Just like it couldn't hold him anymore.
Still, what she did was shady as hell. Almost had Frankie kicking in the Gallagher door with a Chicago typewriter.
···
New Year's 1984, Victor showed up at Old Joe's place with two bottles of whiskey.
Joe's youngest, Emily—six years old, cute as a button—opened the door. Her eyes lit up. "Daddy! The fat big brother's here!"
Old Joe poked his head out of the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. "Perfect timing—help me wrestle this turkey!"
Auntie was wrapping dumplings—northern , went to Taiwan first, then made it to the States. She didn't look thrilled or annoyed to see Victor; her son rolled with him, so whatever.
That night, Victor sat at Joe's table, wrapped in warm laughter and the smell of home-cooked food.
When Emily hung a handmade Christmas stocking on his bedpost, it hit him: he had a new family in this city.
"Hey, you zoning out?"
Jimmy's voice snapped him back. "Wanna check out the laundromat? I'm about to close the deal, just like you said."
Victor shook his head. "Next time. Starting tomorrow, I'm dialing in—anti-strike training kicks off."
Jimmy whistled. "Chicago qualifiers? I hear the winner goes to Vegas for nationals."
Victor didn't answer, but his eyes said everything.
Months of brutal training—5 a.m. runs, tens of thousands of bag punches, Old Jack's near-abusive drills—all for one shot.
···
Winter melted into spring. The South Side snow thawed, revealing asphalt blackened by road salt and coal dust.
February 1985 rolled in with damp, cold wind. Crocuses pushed through sidewalk cracks, announcing another spring.
Victor Lee stood in front of the full-length mirror at Foucault's Gym, toweling sweat off his neck.
The guy in the mirror was a stranger compared to the bloated South Side slob from five months ago.
Shoulders like a brick wall, chest stretching a white tank to its limits, veins snaking down arms like rivers, legs like pillars, core carved into three terrifying slabs. His gut still poked out, but the flab had turned rock-hard.
Most striking: his eyes. Once squinty under fat, now hawk-sharp and glowing with something dangerous.
Even the triple chin was gone—neck training had turned it into one thick, powerful column.
"371 pounds. Up two from last week."
Old Jack's voice came from behind. The guy was pushing fifty-seven, clipboard in hand, gray brows over eyes that saw everything.
Victor turned, sweat dripping off his jawline onto the floor.
"Muscle mass is up," he said, slapping his steel-plate abs. "Body fat's down to 21%."
"Can't go lower, or you'll lose punch resistance."
Old Jack grunted, tossing him a pair of gloves. "Less talk. Power test today."
Victor slipped them on and walked to the corner force meter.
Deep breath. He replayed five months of Jack's lessons—how to drive power from the soles of his feet through his fist, twist his torso like wringing a towel, explode everything into his knuckles at the last millisecond.
BAM!
The needle whipped wild, finally settling at 990 pounds.
"Jesus, your strength gains are like Kennedy's scandals—never-ending!"
Old Jack grumbled, but couldn't hide his grin. "That punch could drop a cow. Hardly any champ throws that hard!"
Victor shook out his wrist. "Force spreads on a live body."
"No excuses," Jack said, smacking the back of his head with the clipboard. "Chicago qualifiers next month. I don't want you flailing like a sissy up there. You go pro, you face real killers. You need a style."
Victor nodded.
Jack threw out an invite: "Dinner at my place tomorrow night. Might have a side hustle for you."
···
Walking out of the gym, the sunset stretched Victor's shadow long across the pavement.
He headed south but stopped halfway.
"Hey, Victor."
Familiar voice behind him.
He turned—Jimmy leaning against Michael's beat-up Ford.
The once-scrawny hustler now wore a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit, hair slicked back perfect.
"Get in!"
Victor hopped in with Jimmy; Michael was driving.
"How's the laundromat?" Victor asked.
Jimmy grinned. "Eleven grand—below market. Like you said, gave the old man a room to live in. The rest is ours."
Victor nodded, no need for details.
"You run it for now. Don't lose money."
"No sweat—I've been studying three months!"
Jimmy was a charmer. "Gonna spruce it up a bit, offer free cheap detergent, charge for the good stuff. More profit."
Victor warned, "Better be real detergent."
···
Back at the apartment, Victor stood in the bathroom mirror, cataloging every bruise.
Right shoulder purple from today's sparring. Chest and abs mottled from a month of repeated hits.
His body was a roadmap of grind.
These days, his schedule was tighter than a Swiss watch—morning runs, technique drills, afternoon sparring, nights studying opponent tapes.
Life boiled down to: train, eat, sleep. Repeat.
On the nightstand: the Foucault Gym entry form for the "All-American Boxing Championship Chicago Qualifier."
Date: March 6, 1985. One month away.
Outside, South Side neon flickered on.
Victor pulled the curtains, dragged an iron box from under the bed.
Inside: a little lime powder and some hand wraps—his old cheating gear. He shoved them to the back.
He'd worked too damn hard to win dirty.
Next morning, first light cutting through Chicago skyscrapers, Victor had already knocked out five miles weighted jog and five miles fast walk.
At the gym, Old Jack was polishing his vintage stopwatch.
"Taper starts today," he said without looking up. "Volume down, intensity stays."
Victor nodded, headed to the bags.
He knew the next two weeks would be hell. But he was used to hell.
Same weight, totally different build.
"Don't get cocky," Jack said, reading his mind. "Qualifiers got real pros—not lumberjacks, electricians, or cops moonlighting. These guys ain't South Side punks."
Victor laced up, started pounding the bag.
Every punch: power surged from his feet, through hips, shoulders, exploding at the knuckles.
The bag thudded heavy, chains creaking.
"Rhythm! Keep the damn rhythm!"
Jack barked. "You think this is demolition? Stay calm in the storm!"
Victor steadied his breathing, flowed into combos.
Jab left, straight right, left hook finish.
Sweat soaked his tank, but he didn't stop. In his head: the qualifier—spotlights, ref raising his hand, crowd roaring…
"Enough!"
Jack clicked the stopwatch. "Shower. Defense this afternoon."
Victor peeled off the gloves—knuckles raw, blood beading.
Didn't feel a thing. These hands had taken beatings in the South Side streets and now threw nearly 1,000 pounds.
Under the shower, hot water pounded tight muscles.
Victor closed his eyes, flashed back to that decisive night six months ago—when he told Old Joe he'd step into the ring.
The answer was obvious now.
Afternoon training was brutal.
Jack sparred him personally, picking apart every defensive hole with sneaky angles.
"Chin in! You don't have that gross triple chin anymore!"
"Hands higher! You eat lunch or what? Can't even keep 'em up!"
"Move! Don't stand there like a damn post!"
Three hours later, Victor collapsed in the corner, gasping.
Ribs burning, lip split, but his eyes blazed.
Jack tossed him a water bottle. "Tomorrow, same."
But that afternoon, uninvited guests showed up at Foucault's.
"This the 'monster' you told me about?"
A sharp-dressed middle-aged guy sized Victor up. "Big yellow gorilla, alright."
Jack stood stone-faced. "Hank, he's ten times the fighter your pretty boys are."
Hank smirked, pulled a contract from his briefcase. "Championship sponsorship. Sign early. I'm betting on you, kid."
Victor didn't reach for it. Looked at Jack.
The old man gave a tiny shake of the head.
"After the fight," Victor said calmly. "Right now, I'm just worried about the ring."
Hank raised an eyebrow, tucked the contract away. "Gutsy. Hope your fists back up that mouth."
Victor smiled. "Mr. Hank—once I clear qualifiers, maybe we talk. Not many guys throw a thousand-pound punch."
Hank walked—couldn't squeeze the price down.
"Good call," Jack said after they left, clapping Victor's shoulder. "Those leeches only show up when you win. Lose, and they vanish. You've got no name yet."
"Bring your boys to my place tonight."
···