svetikya Page 213
Page 213
His senior assistant came in immediately.
“Call the head of the Atlantic City tax office,”
The director gave the order, his tone calm but firm, “We need to conduct an ‘urgent inquiry’ regarding the recent tax payments at the Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino.”
In particular, regarding the withholding tax calculation and payment guarantee plan for the huge revenue share of an upcoming major boxing match, I hope they will visit Mr. Trump first thing tomorrow morning to get the clearest and most reliable answer.
Your tone should be professional, your attitude firm, and you must make it clear to him how seriously the IRS takes this tax. Tell them you have a way to double the taxes paid by the Plaza Casino Hotel and the Castle Casino Hotel.
"Yes, Director."
The assistant understood immediately: "But do we really want to support Skywind City without reservation?"
"You don't trust him? Just say so."
"He is of Chinese descent."
"Wrong, he's a Chinese American, the kind who can't go back and won't be recognized."
"But he is of Chinese descent."
“Look at what he did. He paid his Chinese brothers salaries, but took one-fifth of them as company shares, under the guise of fundraising. Isn’t that just exploitation? He’s a true American.”
"But his company has a 97% Chinese population."
"There's still 3%? The Italian company is 100% Italian, and the Irish mafia doesn't even want Irish people who speak London."
"I····"
"No need to worry, they are weak and powerless, we have the power of violence, and even Franklin would have to yield to bullets."
"But their security company has more than 1.5 employees."
"Is he armed?"
"There are also armored vehicles and machine guns."
"Shit! Who issued this license? How are we supposed to collect taxes with such heavy firepower?"
"They pay their taxes monthly."
“They are legitimate businesses, and we should protect them. Let’s do it.”
The assistant left immediately, and the director turned around and drove to his mistress's room.
It's raining in Chicago.
······
The commotion after the weighing ceremony gradually subsided, but the undercurrents surged even more fiercely.
José Libarta went on a rampage in his hotel suite, smashing things and yelling so loudly that the entire floor could hear him.
Viktor's words, "be prepared to be killed," were like a poisonous thorn, deeply embedded in his heart, filling him with unprecedented humiliation and rage.
His coaching team tried to calm him down, worried that his out-of-control emotions would affect his performance the next day, but to little avail.
Libarta had only one thought in his mind: to tear that cold Chinese man to pieces in the boxing ring.
Donald TLP returned to his penthouse suite, a mixture of anger and anxiety swirling within him.
Victor's refusal was ruthless, cutting off a crucial shortcut for him to quickly generate cash flow.
He lashed out at several of his core executives, cursing Viktor for being "ungrateful" and "shortsighted."
However, what bothered him even more was the vague unease he felt. The certain look in Victor's eyes when he mentioned the IRS made him feel that things might not be so simple.
He began frantically calling lawyers and financial advisors, trying to find other financing options, but he was mostly met with polite rejections and bad news.
An atmosphere of despair permeated the luxury suite.
Meanwhile, Victor Lee appeared unusually calm.
He was doing simple stretching exercises in his suite, listening to his assistant report on the latest business intelligence and financial market dynamics.
He seemed completely unconcerned about tomorrow's match.
His focus has long since shifted from the boxing ring to the grander business arena.
The TLP's predicament and the IRS's intervention were both within his expectations and plans.
He was like a patient fisherman who had already cast his net and now just needed to wait for the fish to struggle until they were exhausted.
He even had time to call several of his trusted lieutenants in Chicago, instructing them to prepare funds, closely monitor the stock and bond price fluctuations of Trump Entertainment, and re-examine the asset lists and legal documents of the target casinos.
"A storm is coming,"
He told his deputy in Chicago over the phone, "We need to make sure that while everyone else is looking for refuge, our ships are ready to set sail and collect the spoils."
As night deepened, the neon lights of Atlantic City continued to flicker, illuminating desire and ambition, but also concealing scheming and murderous intent.
The victories and defeats in the boxing ring, the deals behind the scenes, the silent pressure from the tax authorities, the undercurrents of the financial markets…
Everything is intertwined and fermenting in this city that never sleeps, waiting for the final explosion after the sun sets tomorrow.
The threats and counter-threats at the weighing ceremony are merely the beginning of everything.
The real contest has long transcended the realm of sports, quietly taking place on a much larger gambling table, with the stakes being the ownership of billions in wealth and business empires.
We won, and now we're taking it to the next level.
If we lose, we'll go all the way down this path.
Chapter 180 Uncontrollable Rage!
The winter night in Atlantic City was bitterly cold, but inside the Plaza Casino Hotel, it was sweltering with heat.
Tonight, a WBA heavyweight title fight will take place here – defending champion Victor Lee will face challenger José Ribalta.
The venue was filled with smoke, the aroma of cigars mingling with the scent of expensive cologne.
The front row was filled with socialites, the men in sharp suits and the women adorned with sparkling jewelry—all looking for buyers.
Meanwhile, the ordinary audience members in the back rows were wearing various T-shirts and jeans, holding beer glasses tightly in their hands.
All eyes were focused on the square boxing ring under the spotlight.
"My God, I've never seen such a tense atmosphere before."
A fat man with a flushed face said to his companion, the edges of the betting ticket he was holding were soaked with sweat.
His partner nodded, his eyes never leaving the ring: "I bet on Li Si to knock him out in the first round, but judging from this, that madman Ribalta won't be so easy to take down."
"Four rounds? You actually believe in Viktor!"
One person scoffed, "Do you really believe Viktor can knock out the Cuban bull in four rounds? He fought Tyson for ten rounds before!"
"You're probably going to lose!"
"It's alright! Viktor bought himself a four-round knockout for three million dollars! I only lost two thousand dollars, but he'll lose four million."
"A life-or-death battle! It probably won't end in four rounds!"
Above the bustling crowd, two special figures sat in the commentary booth.
One is Bill Catton, a legend in boxing commentary, whose voice has accompanied countless boxing fans through classic nights;
Another special guest was retired boxing champion Rocky Balboa. Although the years have left their mark on his face, his boxer's spirit remains undiminished.
"To be honest, Rocky, have you ever seen a pre-match atmosphere like this?"
"I can't breathe," Kardon asked, adjusting his headphones.
Rocky leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping over the restless crowd below the stage: "My match with Kramer in 1981 might be similar, but tonight has a special kind of tension. These two guys have a personal grudge."
In fact, both Rocky and Carton had just experienced a low point in their lives.
Less than two months ago, on "Black Monday," the stock market crash wiped out their entire fortune and nearly bankrupted them.
Tonight's commentary work is not only an opportunity to make money for them, but also a beginning.
"Gentlemen, please prepare, the contestants are about to enter."
The producer's voice came through the headphones.
Carton immediately straightened his back and put on a professional expression: "Good evening, everyone! Welcome to the Atlantic City Plaza Casino Hotel. Tonight, we will witness a heavyweight showdown that is destined to go down in history!"
Inside the locker room, Victor Lee sat in a corner with his eyes closed.
Ethan was wrapping his hands.
"Remember, Jose will try to provoke you, to make you choose unwise tactics!"
Old Jack whispered, Ethan's hands moving with practiced speed, "He wants a brutal brawl, you can't fall for it. Keep your distance, control the pace, and look for an opportunity to strike his body."
Viktor slowly opened his eyes: "He said he would kill me, both to determine who is superior and to decide life and death!"
"That's nonsense! Nonsense in the boxing ring! Haven't you heard enough of that in all your years in the business? Mitch Green is already dead in the street, and Golota has even offered his wife to you for your amusement!"
"Different."
Viktor's voice was calm but cold. "He's not just spouting boxer nonsense. He's a real madman."
Old Jack watched Ethan finish his entanglement, then patted Victor on the shoulder: "Then use your fists to tell him that madness is worthless in the face of skill. You're the champion, remember that."
Viktor stood up, and the pattern on his red battle robe unfolded.
He was shorter than José, but his muscles were more perfectly defined, like the guardian deities meticulously sculpted by ancient Chinese sculptors.
His dark eyes held no emotion, only unfathomable focus.
Meanwhile, in the locker room at the other end of the corridor, José Ribalta was slamming his fist against the wall, and even with protective gloves on, cracks had already appeared in the wall.
"Save your energy! You need it on stage!"
His coach, Albert, roared.
Jose turned around, sweat streaming down his contorted face: "I'm going to tear that Chinaman to pieces! I'll make him regret ever stepping into the same boxing ring!"
Albert grabbed Jose's shoulder: "Listen, Victor Lee is a power boxer. You have to get close to him and prevent him from throwing combinations. Push him to the ropes and finish him off with your heavy punches. Don't give him any space!"
He said my fist felt like an old lady's caress! He said his double chin was more eloquent than I was!
José barely listened, his feet stomping incessantly like a trapped bull: "I won't be satisfied until I kill him!"
"He never said that!"