dmims Page 221
Page 221
Svetlana stubbed out her cigarette. "But I'm having a very difficult time within the group right now."
Victor lit a cigarette, gesturing for her to speak.
“Blair married a Chinese woman, Jimmy married a Chinese woman, and you used this method to bind them together. Anyone in the group who wants to climb to the top either has Chinese ancestry or has to marry a Chinese woman... so people listen to them!”
Svetlana said angrily, "But I have nothing!"
Victor looked at her.
Svetlana continued, "Everyone knows I'm your lover, and no Chinese person dares to touch me. But I'm just a lover; nobody treats me like one of their own!"
"what would you like?"
“Victor, give me a child! Your bloodline.”
Svetlana looked at Viktor: "I'll give you custody of the baby!"
Victor's tiger eyes peered out from the smoke: "You're truly heartless!"
Svetlana laughed: "There's nothing I can do, I'm already tied to you, I can only try to make things better for you."
"I do not want."
Victor was very pragmatic: "If you really have my child, you can't stay in the position of head of the finance company. Nobody can trust you."
"Then forget it! You can stay here by yourself!"
Svetlana left the apartment with a mocking smile, like a cold wind—her test had failed, she had no future in this group, and could only step down after offending everyone in her position as head of the finance company.
After the door closed, the apartment fell silent again, even colder than before.
Viktor sat alone on the bed, Svetlana's words echoing repeatedly in his ears.
After the rage comes a deeper weariness and emptiness.
He went to the living room, picked up the shattered remains of the telephone, and looked out the window.
Chicago's lights still shone brightly, celebrating Christmas and welcoming the new year.
But for Viktor, the arrival of 1988 seemed to be just another step further in the endless, cold, and lonely river of time.
He has gained a lot, but feels he has lost even more.
The obsession to find Max Black, after the loneliness and mockery of this Christmas night, became even more urgent and intense, becoming a faint but undeniable ray of light shining into his cold golden cage.
He knew he had to find her, not just for her, but perhaps more so to prove that he wasn't truly destitute, and to find someone who could wholeheartedly care for him—Victor was fed up with these people, each with their own agendas.
Chicago in 1988 awoke to the biting cold winds of Lake Michigan.
The echoes of the New Year's bells seem not to have completely faded, but the city streets have already returned to their usual steely rhythm and hustle and bustle.
The front page of the newspaper was dominated by two news items:
First, a grand New Year celebration and a bright outlook for the future;
The other piece of news was enough to send shivers down the spines of the entire Midwestern financial community—the bankruptcy reorganization announcement of the Illinois State Bank.
The strong intervention of the federal government, through a near-nationalization approach, prevented the complete collapse of this financial giant and averted an economic disaster that could have engulfed Illinois and even a wider region.
A strange, mixed scent filled the air:
The relief of surviving a disaster, the uncertainty about the future, and the unspoken, secret expectation among the lower classes that the existing order might be shaken.
On the second floor of Victor's apartment in the southern part of the city, the air smells completely different.
This place is a mixture of sweat, leather, disinfectant, and the scorching heat emanating from a certain male hormone and ambition.
Viktor, the Chinese-American boxing champion who is rising at an astonishing pace in the heavyweight boxing world, has just finished a brutal set of heavy bag hitting training.
His bronze skin was covered in sweat, and his muscles were taut like steel wires, exuding explosive power.
He took the towel from his assistant, glanced at the Chicago Tribune on the table reporting the banking crisis, and a barely perceptible sneer appeared on his lips.
"What a pity, isn't it?"
His voice was low and slightly panting from training, "Such a big guy, and he just collapsed like that. If it weren't for the Federation getting involved..."
"It's a disaster if they fall, Viktor. How many people will lose their jobs, how many families will be ruined. It's not as simple as knocking down a couple of people in the boxing ring."
Old Jack interjected in a rough, hoarse voice, "It's very likely that Chicago will assemble a large army to attack several nearby cities!"
Victor picked up his water bottle and took a swig, his eyes sharp: “Order, Jack. The white man’s order. It looks unbreakable, like granite, but cracks always start from the inside. The more it is maintained, the more chances there are for those below to see the light.”
His disappointment was genuine. As a "minority" in a society with clear class distinctions and racial boundaries, he truly longed for the loosening of the old order, which would be the opportunity for people like him to break free.
But he quickly put those feelings behind him; he was a pragmatic ambitious man, not a dreamer.
"But it's okay, the big fish didn't die, but the small fish and shrimp that choked on the water along with it are enough to give us a good meal."
He was referring to the small banks and financial institutions that had been affected and gone bankrupt or weakened, and his business team was taking the opportunity to expand, absorb the debris, and grow stronger.
He vigorously wiped his face with a towel and pushed the newspaper aside.
"Alright, let the financial world play its part. Our battlefield is within the ropes. Have Frankie and Lowell arrived yet?"
"We've arrived. Everyone's waiting in the office."
Old Jack nodded. "Ethan and Solomon are here too. Your plans for the New Year have them both excited and sleepless."
Viktor grinned, revealing his gleaming white teeth:
"Wasn't the 20% you took last year enough? Each of you earned millions of dollars!"
Chapter 187 Punching the Nanshan Nursing Home
The small office on the second floor of the boxing gym was more like a front-line command post than a strategic planning room.
The walls were covered with information on various boxers, match schedules, physical fitness charts, and a world map covered with markings.
The air was thick and heavy, the smells of cigars and coffee mingling together, almost solidifying.
The room was filled with the core members of Victor's team:
Promoter Frankie, agent Lowell, head coach Jack Sr., assistant coach Solomon, assistant coach and strength and conditioning coach Ethan, and nutritionist Michael.
Victor walked in, wearing only a vest, and his powerful aura immediately filled the room.
Without exchanging pleasantries, he went straight to the whiteboard covered with photos and information about potential adversaries and picked up a large marker.
"I want to keep fighting!"
Viktor cut to the chase, his pen landing heavily on a photograph of a young giant on the whiteboard: "Vladimir Klitschko. A genius from Ukraine, an Olympic champion, six feet six inches tall, an eighty-inch reach, and a terrifying knockout rate."
He and his brother Vitaly are heavyweight prodigies. They are our first and toughest opponent this year, and one we must overcome. Once we defeat them, there will be no other promising young fighters in front of me!
Frankie immediately exhaled a smoke ring and frowned: "Viktor, I understand your ambition. Little Klitschko is a perfect stepping stone, if he's not so...perfect."
Listen, kid, he's only 22, the same age as you, but he has over 200 wins in amateur matches and is undefeated in professional fights, almost all by knockout. His technique, power, and physique are top-notch. We need to be more cautious…”
"Be cautious? I'm the one doing the boxing!"
Viktor interrupted him, his gaze sweeping over everyone. "Caution will only keep us fighting second-rate opponents and making third-rate money! If we beat him, we can rise to the top in one step!"
The IBF (International Boxing Federation), WBO, WBC (World Boxing Council)—all boxing organizations will list us as their number one challenger! We'll be in all the headlines!
"Only if you can win!"
Frankie raised his voice, "Listen, Victor, you're strong, I never doubt that. But in the heavyweight boxing world, one punch can change everything."
What we need is to steadily improve your ranking, defend your title, and play in high-reward, low-risk tournaments. For example, 'Destroyer' Williams or 'Heavy Hitman' Miller—they're in their prime, have market potential, and your style counters them!
"In the prime of his life?"
Viktor scoffed, abruptly moving his pen away from Klitschko's photograph and tracing a string of legendary names. "What's the point of beating them? If we win, people will say, 'Oh, he beat some decent active boxer.' And then what? How many years will we have to clear all these obstacles one by one?"
His pen tip traced the names of the legendary boxing champions—retired or aging—posted on the whiteboard in turn: Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Jack Dempsey, Sonny Liston, Joe Frazier, Larry Holmes, Michael Muller…
Some names even had "contacted" or "pending reply" next to them.
“My plan is,”
Viktor's voice carried an undeniable fervor, "After Klitschko—win or lose, we're going to embark on a 'legendary conquest'!"
Starting with 'Brown Bomber' Joe Lewis! Then Marciano, who retired undefeated! 'Roaring Bull' Larry Holmes! 'Terrifying' Sonny Liston! 'Smoker' Joe Frazier! And that left-handed champion Muller!
Take them down one by one!
A brief, unbelievable silence fell over the office.
Even old Jack and Solomon, who knew Viktor best, widened their eyes in surprise.
Agent Lowell was the first to react. He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone filled with astonishment and pragmatism: "Victor... this... this is insane! Putting aside whether these legends are willing—this would require an astronomical appearance fee!"
Besides, Mr. Joe Lewis is almost forty! Marciano has been retired for almost five years! How are you going to compete with them?
He almost thought Viktor was joking.
Victor turned around, his face devoid of any jest, his gaze intense: "Lowell, use your business acumen. We don't need them to actually be back to their peak—that's impossible anyway."
What we want are their names! Their legends! Imagine headlines like: 'Victor Lee vs. Joe Louis – A Battle Across Time!' 'Modern Boxing Champion Challenges an Immortal Legend!' What a sensation that would be! Box office, broadcasting rights, merchandise… it would sell like hotcakes!
They're willing to perform with me as long as there's an appearance fee!
He paused, looking at the expressions on everyone's faces—a mixture of shock, confusion, and a hint of attraction to the enormous commercial potential—before offering his most convincing reason, which he had carefully considered:
"Besides, Frankie, are you worried about the risks? Fighting these old legends is the real low-risk, high-reward strategy!"
He spoke faster and more forcefully, “Their reputations are incredibly prestigious, bringing them enormous attention and money. But their physical abilities are long gone, and their skills have become rusty.”
Their presence in the ring was more symbolic. Fighting them, I'd almost certainly win! Wouldn't that be safer than fighting those ravenous young boxers who were determined to tear me apart and prove themselves? We could reap the greatest fame and fortune with the least cost and the fastest speed! It's like…”
He searched for metaphors, "It's like harvesting a field of ripe, golden wheat, not like cultivating a wasteland full of pebbles and unknown risks!"
The office fell silent again, with only the faint hissing of a Frankie cigar burning.
Everyone was processing Viktor's words.
Old Jack spoke slowly, his voice hoarse but tinged with excitement: "Victor...you little rascal, your brain is really...but, damn it, it seems to make sense. A show match with Joe Lewis? God, this will be a huge profit!"
"From a tactical perspective... indeed, Viktor did the right thing!"
Solomon squinted as he processed the information, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table: "These veterans still have the experience and technical backbone, but their speed, strength, and endurance are absolutely no match for their peak."
Victor's youth, speed, and power will be amplified. The key is to control the race, winning beautifully while showing respect for the legend, which requires careful planning and on-field control.
Old Jack questioned, "Won't people say this is bullying an old person?"