dmims Page 36
Page 36
Viktor shook his head and wrapped his right hand tightly with bandages.
"This is the only chance. Only if Foucault intervenes in front of the congressman will I have a chance to truly escape the control of the gang."
He forced a smile, but the gesture seemed to have exhausted his last bit of energy. "Besides, you know how arrogant the Southern District gangs are."
Indeed, this is undeniable.
Power doesn't disappear, it just changes hands—the incompetence of the Chicago government was naturally taken over by the mob.
Outside the changing room, the clamor of the crowd surged in like a tide.
The Chicago Elite Boxing Club's 2,000 seats were sold out, and the betting pools of four gangs all exceeded three million dollars—this was Chicago's most anticipated fight this month.
Victor Lee, weighing 361 pounds and undefeated in 19 consecutive fights, will face Hansen Chen, the Chinese-American member of the Green Dragons.
"At least eat some of this."
Ian tossed him a piece of chocolate, and Victor's fingers trembled slightly as he caught it.
He wolfed it down, the sweet taste reminding him that the last time he ate a proper meal was forty hours earlier—a bowl of cold bean soup.
As Victor walked toward the ring, the spotlight blinded him.
In the audience, he recognized several familiar faces:
Cucci Gambino, an Italian Mafia member, sits in the VIP area smoking a cigar;
Mr. Lin, the second-in-command of the Chinese gang, and Third Master (Sri), the top leader, stared at him expressionlessly;
In the front row, Jack Williams, a member of the Black gang, was yelling into his phone, the bulging veins on his neck standing out against his black skin.
Michael whispered in Victor's ear as he applied Vaseline to him, "Don't push yourself. If you feel something's wrong, just say so."
Viktor felt dizzy as he stood up.
Hansen Chen stood in the center of the boxing ring, his muscles gleaming under the lights, like a meticulously polished brass statue.
In contrast, Viktor felt like a crumpled and unfolded piece of paper, all wrinkled and full of fat.
Less than thirty seconds into the first round, Victor knew he could complete the first step.
His punches felt like hitting a concrete wall as they struck Hansen, and each of Hansen's counterattacks made him see a flash of white light.
Sweat soaked through his shorts, dripping onto the boxing ring and forming dark spots.
He could hear whispers starting to appear in the audience—this wasn't the Far East Fat Tiger they knew!
"Cheer up!"
Kevin shouted from the corner, but the sound seemed to come from a great distance, and the rhythm was off.
Before the second round began, Mike tried to put glucose gum into Victor's mouth, but he shook his head.
The dizziness intensified, and the boxing ring seemed to sway beneath my feet.
When Hansen Chen's jab struck his chin like a bullet, Victor even felt a sense of relief—darkness had finally descended.
The moment he fell, the entire stadium erupted in a deafening roar.
"Damn liar!"
Viktor vaguely felt himself being lifted up, with someone protecting his head.
Angry gamblers tried to rush onto the boxing ring but were stopped by security.
A glass bottle smashed on the spot where Victor had just fallen, shards flying everywhere.
"Get out of the way! All of you, get the fuck out of the way!"
Kevin's voice.
Victor felt himself being lifted up, Kevin's shoulder digging into his stomach, making him feel nauseous.
Backstage, Michael waved a piece of paper: "He has low blood sugar! Hospital certificate! This isn't a fixed match!"
But no one cares.
A man with a flushed face grabbed Michael by the collar: "I bet six hundred dollars on you, you bastard!"
A Black man yelled, "You coward who's afraid to fight because of low blood sugar!"
Franky, following Third Master's instructions, appeared amidst the chaos at some unknown time.
He calmly pulled out a silver pistol and fired a shot at the ceiling.
He said the voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough. Taking advantage of the moment when the crowd was stunned, Michael grabbed Victor's arm and rushed out the back door.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Jack's gang headquarters is facing annihilation.
Four hundred angry black gamblers gathered outside the dilapidated warehouse, waving gambling tickets in their hands, looking like a group of restless ghosts in the moonlight.
Jack made a fatal mistake—he invested all his cash reserves in a new shipment from Mexico, betting that Victor would win.
Based on odds of eight, he now needs to pay nearly two million in cash.
"Listen, brothers,"
Jack returned and stood at the second-floor window of the warehouse, shouting in a shrill voice filled with fear, "Tomorrow! I'll pay it all by tomorrow!"
A brick smashed the windowpane.
One person shouted, "Are you waiting for me to pull out a gun tomorrow? You psychopath who even killed your own mother!!!"
The crowd began to charge.
The warehouse door collapsed with a crash on the third impact.
Jack's men fired a few shots, but were quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Many of these gamblers came from other street gangs and knew what was in the warehouse—drugs, weapons, cash, and the solid gold jewelry Jack had flaunted last week.
The first intruder's rage reached its peak when he discovered the safe was empty.
When Jack was dragged out of the ventilation duct where he was hiding, his expensive silk shirt was soaked with sweat.
"Where's the money?"
"The goods...the goods are at the dock!"
Jack's voice trembled, "It can be exchanged for cash..."
A steel pipe slammed into his knee, and Jack's scream was drowned out by more roars.
Thirty minutes later, when the sirens finally sounded, only more than thirty mutilated corpses and a mess remained in the warehouse.
Jack's head was hanging from the ceiling fan in the warehouse, his eyes still wide open in terror.
The next morning, when Victor woke up in his bed at home, Kevin was watching the morning news.
"...A gang fight broke out at the North District warehouse, resulting in at least 34 deaths..."
The news anchor's voice sounded unnaturally calm: "Police say this is related to the recent collapse of underground gambling operations..."
Michael pushed the door open and came in, carrying three cups of coffee.
"Italians and Chinese are dividing up Jack's territory,"
He said in a low voice, "Frankie said we could go to Miami to lay low for a while."
Victor tried to sit up, but the dizziness returned—he was too hungry.
He closed his eyes and recalled the last scene he saw before he collapsed—the look in Hansen Chen's eyes was not one of triumph, but of a strange pity.
"Do you know,"
Kevin suddenly said, pointing to the aerial footage of the warehouse on the TV, "Those guys who robbed Jack's warehouse, they took enough cocaine to get half the city high."
Suddenly, Kevin exclaimed excitedly, "You know what? Fiona's pregnant! Sean's going to be thrilled when he hears this news this afternoon!"
Victor looked at Kevin, doubting Kevin's intelligence—Sean couldn't have children.
But Viktor did not doubt himself, because his past work had made him accustomed to carrying an umbrella and wearing rain boots when walking at night in the rain.
Michael glanced at Victor several times, filled with envy and jealousy.
······
Viktor lay on the single bed in his cramped apartment, the bruise on his right eye resembling a rotting violet, contemplating the crucial matter that was about to unfold.
The door was suddenly pushed open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang.
Viktor instinctively tried to get up, but his body ached so much that he was pushed back onto the bed.
“Victor, this is the Chicago Boxing League’s investigation team.”
Old Jack's voice was lower than usual, as if he was suppressing something. His graying temples were damp with sweat, and three men in sharp suits followed behind him.
Viktor squinted his swollen eyes and saw the leading man wiping his shiny leather shoes with a handkerchief—the kick he'd just received was clearly merciless.
"They're here to investigate whether you threw the game in the South District Thugs competition."
Old Jack entered the room and pulled out three rickety wooden chairs from the corner. “Sit down, gentlemen. This child is indeed malnourished. The doctor said he needs at least two weeks of IV fluids and rest.”
The man in the lead—Victor noticed that his name tag read 'Howard Stone'—ignored old Jack's kindness and went straight to the bedside.
The scent of his cologne was so strong that it made Victor want to vomit.
“Mr. Victor, you lost to Hansen Chen, who is 130 pounds lighter than you, in yesterday’s match, which lasted only 2 minutes.”
Howard pulled a stack of photos from his briefcase and threw them on Victor's blanket. "These are betting records provided by the betting companies. Before the fight, there was a sudden influx of money betting on Williams to win by knockout."
The densely packed numbers in the photo flashed before Viktor's eyes, but his hardened heart remained unmoved.
“You need to ask the Black people.”
Viktor's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, "I just didn't perform well."
Didn't perform well?
Howard sneered and pulled out a close-up photo. "You didn't play at all! You were just letting him beat you up!"
The air in the room became thick and sticky.
Viktor felt sweat trickling down his back, soaking the bandages.
He looked at old Jack, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Victor, they need to ask you a few questions.”