svetikya Page 125
Page 125
He stood up and walked to the window: "What I'm establishing is order. Yes, I've cleaned up the illegal businesses run by Chinese people, not only because they were poisoning our own people, but also because I want to reform them. Isn't that why you came?"
Regarding the debts… the debts of the Chinese community will be taken over by a newly established finance company with more favorable terms. Other ethnic groups? They will be dealt with according to the contracts.”
Victor turned around, his voice calm but powerful: "For those who can't find work temporarily, Chinese people who have accidentally gone down the wrong path, and people from the rest of the community, the security company will do their job."
We only need to focus on the lowest-risk downstream segment, whether it's gold, firearms, or anything else; simply handling the recycling will allow us to comfortably earn a 50% profit. The direct sales can be delegated to others, thus eliminating our risk.
The old boxer remained silent for a long time, then finally sighed: "You're playing with fire, Victor. Power corrupts even the kindest people."
“I gave them a chance, and many of them survived.”
Victor nodded slightly: "But you're right. I never thought about building an empire, never thought about long-term stability, I just wanted to see what role I could play!"
After seeing the old boxer off, Victor returned to his desk and turned on his bulky computer.
The screen displays a map of Chicago, with different colored markers representing various spheres of influence.
He tapped lightly, marking the Chinese community area with a uniform blue—his color.
His plan has only just begun.
Cleaning up the internal structure is only the first step. The next step is to integrate resources and then expand outwards with the help of the entire Chinese community in Chicago.
A glint flashed in Viktor's eyes—a yearning for order and control, calm and precise, just like everything he did.
So, I dialed the phone:
"Blair, how long do we think it will take for Sky Entertainment to buy the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City?"
Chapter 104 Moscow in Snow
Sky Sports Training Center, South Side of Chicago.
The smells of sweat, leather, and disinfectant mingled in the air, creating a powerful symphony with the thumping of blows and heavy breathing.
Viktor, shirtless, his bronze skin glistening with sweat and his muscles bulging, launched wave after wave of fierce attacks on the heavy sandbags.
Each punch contained explosive power, the sandbag shook violently, and the chains groaned under the strain.
On October 25, Viktor was beaten so badly that he could barely stand. In just over forty days, his bones healed and he returned to training. Business was just an idea; boxing was Viktor's real calling.
However, his eyes were somewhat unfocused, and although his punches were fierce, they seemed to lack some kind of focus.
A loud, slightly hoarse voice interrupted his training.
Frankie, Victor's new promoter and former coach, strode in, a cigar dangling from his lips.
He was still as thin as before, with sharp eyes like an eagle, and exuded a fierce aura like a street fighting dog.
"Viktor, your fists are as soft as a woman's! Are you still thinking about the snow in Moscow?"
Frankie roared without any politeness, his voice echoing in the empty training hall, attracting the attention of several young Chinese Americans who were training.
Viktor stopped what he was doing, wiped his face with a towel, and did not answer immediately.
He walked to the sidelines, picked up a telegram, and glanced at it again. It was from Lodge in Moscow, containing only a brief sentence: "The winters here are cold, but the fighting is even hotter."
Frankie snatched the telegram, glanced at it, and snorted, "I know you're on good terms with that kid Balboa. But don't forget, Victor! You're now a six-win-one businessman, a businessman, and the face of 'Skyrim'!"
You're not some street thug who just walks away on a whim anymore! In June, you're going to fight Fury! That former boxing champion isn't someone to be trifled with; he's waiting with bloodshot eyes to tear you apart and get points from you!
What you need is to be here, in this training center, dedicating every single second to preparing for your fight, instead of traveling thousands of miles to be a psychologist for a washed-up boxer!
Victor finally raised his head, his gaze calm yet unwavering: "Frankie, Rocky isn't just 'a washed-up boxer.' He's my friend. And Ivan Drago is a monster. Rocky needs me."
Frankie scoffed and exhaled a smoke ring. "In the boxing world, friendship is the most expensive luxury! Look at Hadda, your former agent, now managing your sports agency. Is it because you have 'friendship'?"
No! It's because you can make money, because 'Skyline' gave him a bigger stage and a larger share of the profits! And look at Foucault, your original promoter—just because you thought I was 'better at promotion,' you kicked him aside! Why didn't you think about 'friendship' back then?"
These words were like a thorn, piercing precisely into Viktor's heart.
He was silent for a moment.
Indeed, for the sake of the group's development and for more professional and aggressive promotion, he chose the more ruthless, well-connected, and knowledgeable Frankie, and abandoned Foucault, with whom he had cooperated for a year—although the initial cooperation was also achieved through underhanded means.
The business decisions were beyond reproach, but occasionally, in the quiet of the night, a pang of guilt would cross my mind.
“That’s different, Frankie.”
Viktor's voice lowered. "That's business. This is... a fight. The purest kind. Rocky isn't just facing a match; he's fighting a system, a symbol. I can sense that things in Moscow aren't that simple, and I think he can win."
Frankie almost jumped up. "Can your senses help you block Fury's punches? Can your senses help you deal with that big fat guy who's even more agile than you?"
Listen, kid, I admire your loyalty, but loyalty won't put food on the table! You're in this position now, not for playing the hero!
"Skywind City, Snow Honey Catering—so many Chinese people depend on you for their livelihood! Fiona Gallagher, that girl, is doing incredibly well in the South District, earning almost as much as you do in one of your matches, but she's relying on your reputation and the stability of Skywind! If you lose, all of that will be affected!"
Viktor clenched his fist.
Frankie's words, though harsh, were all true.
He is no longer a lone wolf with no ties to him. He carries the reputation of the entire group and the expectations of the Chinese community on his shoulders.
The group under Blair's leadership was just getting on track, with companies in each chain performing well, and the security in the South District improving thanks to Skyline Security's patrols. Everything was thriving.
He had to weigh every choice he made.
The psychological balance is swinging violently.
On one hand, there's loyalty to friends and an instinctive desire for a powerful opponent (he even feels a hint of curiosity and fighting spirit towards the unfamiliar Drago).
On the other side are heavy responsibilities, realistic interests, and the grim prospects depicted by Frankie.
Just then, his private phone rang.
“Victor,”
Blair's voice was as calm and rational as ever, "Frankie told me about your thoughts. I understand your relationship with Rocky Balboa."
From a personal perspective, I have no right to interfere. But from the group's perspective, I must remind you of the risks. Your image is one of our core assets. However…”
Blair then changed the subject, "I've also received some information that the Soviet Union intends to use this boxing match to showcase their 'new image,' and Drago is a weapon they've meticulously crafted."
Going to the scene and observing the enemy up close might... be valuable to our future strategy. Of course, the premise is ensuring your own safety and avoiding any unnecessary trouble. Your main task is to prepare for the battle against Furi.
Blair's words were like a wake-up call, both highlighting the risks and cleverly providing Victor with a rational outlet and a way out for his impulses.
Viktor took a deep breath and made a decision—that's just how things are, the company should serve Viktor, not the other way around.
He looked at Frankie, who was still fuming: "Frankie, give me a week. Just one week. I'll be right back."
I assure you, I won't participate in any matches. I'm just going to support Rocky and observe that Drago. Then, I'll come back immediately and throw myself into training. I will not lose to Fury!
Frankie stared at him for a long time, took a deep drag on his cigar, and finally waved his hand helplessly: "Damn it! I knew I couldn't convince you, you stubborn mule! One week! Just one week!"
"I'll fly to Moscow and drag you back in one more day! Also, maintain at least two training sessions a day, and I'll have Hadda keep an eye on you!"
The biting cold of Moscow was so intense it felt like it could freeze your breath.
Unlike the vibrant and bustling South Side of Chicago, the streets here have a solemn and austere atmosphere.
Victor met Rocky at the hotel where he was staying.
At this moment, Rocky had cuts on his face from the Siberian cold wind, but his eyes burned with an indomitable flame.
He looked thinner than when we last met, but his muscles were more defined.
"Victor! You really came!"
Rocky gave him a tight hug. "I almost thought I had no friends left!"
"You look good, just a little nervous."
Victor punched him on the shoulder.
Rocky smiled, a complex smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. Victor, this time is different. Drago... he's like a robot, incapable of feeling pain."
They say he has bones of steel and a brain of a computer. The local newspapers are praising him to the skies, calling him a 'Soviet fighter of the new era.'
He paused, then lowered his voice: "Moreover, I feel this is more than just a match. They (the Soviet authorities) want to prove something through Drago's victory. The atmosphere here... is very tense."
Victor could sense the pressure Rocky was under.
This pressure comes not only from powerful adversaries, but also from the complex political symbolism behind it.
This is far more than just a simple sporting competition.
“Listen, Rocky,”
Victor said seriously, “Don’t be intimidated by those things. No matter how strong he is, he only has two shoulders and one head. In the ring, it’s just you and him. Forget about symbols, remember what you’re fighting for—for Apollo, for yourself, to prove that even after all these years, your ‘Italian Stallion’ heart can still beat with the strongest sound!”
Looking into Viktor's determined eyes, Rocky took a deep breath and nodded heavily. "You're right. Thank you, Viktor. Being here at this time means a lot."
Just as the two were talking, there was a knock on the door.
Several people were standing outside the door. The leader was a tall man wearing a Soviet sports official uniform with a stern expression, accompanied by a translator.
Behind them stood a figure as imposing as an iron tower—Ivan Drago.
Drago was half a head taller than Victor, his muscles were so developed they were inhuman, and his eyes were cold and empty, sweeping over Victor without any emotion before finally landing on Rocky with the indifference of someone scrutinizing prey.
The official spoke through a translator, his tone carrying a formulaic arrogance: "Mr. Rocky Balboa, this is Comrade Ivan Drago."
He heard that boxer Viktor Lee had also come to Moscow and hoped to meet one of his future rivals in advance.
The phrase "one of the future rivals" carries a profound meaning.
Victor frowned slightly, stepped forward, and met Drago's gaze without fear: "I am Victor Lee. They all say you are a good fighter, but in my opinion, you are no match for Rocky."
As soon as the translator finished speaking, Drago's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, as if in mockery or simply out of disdain for replying.
He spoke directly in deep, heavily accented English, his voice like sandpaper scraping: "I've watched your match videos. You have plenty of explosive power and strength, but against absolute power, you're no match."
The verbal exchange instantly ignited a tense atmosphere.
"Your power? The power you build up in a laboratory with drugs and equipment? Every battle I've been through, every drop of blood I've shed, is real."
Viktor sneered: "And you, you're nothing but a tool they created to flex their muscles. In my opinion, your true strength is just as weak and pathetic as the Soviet Union's in Afghanistan!"
Drago's eyes suddenly sharpened, and a chilling murderous aura emanated from him.
The official beside him changed his expression, seemingly wanting to stop him, but Drago had already taken a small step forward, and an immense sense of oppression washed over him.
Drago's voice grew colder, "You'll soon find out what it feels like to be knocked down by tools. You and this washed-up old man are just stepping stones."
Victor knew this—because one of the boxers Frankie wanted to contact was Ivan Drago!