"Twenty-nine percent? Mr. Blair, does that mean we all gotta answer to Victor now?"
The voice belonged to Master Lin, owner of the Lin Family Martial Arts Academy. Pushing sixty, he was the third-most rooted guy in the room, and his tone carried that old-school wariness with just a hint of pushback you could barely catch.
His dojo was packed with students. That was his real leverage.
"Mr. Lin," Blair leaned forward, hands flat on the table, eyes sharp as knives, "the dojo's just a training hub. All the funding gets pooled anyway. You collect dues, hand 'em over. Nobody's talking about 'taking orders.'"
He scanned the room. "This is a win-win. Victor's twenty-nine percent stake locks in group strategy and keeps decisions fast and tight."
Then he laid it out for everyone:
"The dojos fold into a sports training and security company. Your students get real careers: pro athletes, high-end bodyguards, not just bouncers or street muscle.
Paychecks'll blow past whatever tuition or protection scraps you're pulling in now. And we'll open enrollment to all Americans. You're trading a rundown building for actual equity in a corporation."
"What about the security side going to Frankie's crew?"
That came from Li Kun, a middle-aged guy who ran a trucking outfit. His voice dripped disdain. "Those guys? Their rep's trash. We're legit businesses. Mix us with them and—"
"Li."
A cold voice cut him off.
Frankie rose from the corner. A jagged scar ran down his face, glowing ugly under the lights.
"Rep don't pay the bills, but it sure can stop you from eating."
He stood tall in a tailored suit—no more leather-jacket thug. "Victor's my brother from the soul. He trusts me, I keep the group's assets—and all your businesses—sleeping safe at night. You call us 'those people'? Fine. You wanna build your own security team to handle the Italians rolling down from the North Side or the Mexican crews pushing up from the south?"
His words were a naked threat, but also stone-cold truth. "Li, if I remember right, you lost two rigs one year. When those loans came due, who rolled with the boys to Koreatown and brought your trucks back?"
Li's face twitched. He shut up.
Blair seized the moment. "Frankie's got the muscle, but from now on they draw group paychecks and follow group rules. Victor wants order, not chaos."
He paused, then dropped the big one. "Plus, based on what our community already does best, we're spinning up specialized divisions: renovation, construction, fresh produce, logistics—you name it."
Old Joe jumped in, eyeing the nervous bosses in those exact trades. "Relax, folks. We're not here to corner the market or put you out of business. We're integrating. The top dogs in each field run the new companies. We use group scale to buy bulk, slash costs on materials and gear.
Then we undercut the competition across Chicago—and beyond. We're not stealing your lunch. We're building a battleship so we can all go take a bigger slice of the pie out there."
It hit like a bomb.
This wasn't just banding together. This was the community launching a straight-up insurgency against the white old boys' club.
The mental scales tipped hard.
Fear of losing control battled raw hunger for money, power, and a better life.
"Mr. Blair," Aunt Wang, who ran a little vegetable stall, asked timidly, "even small fries like us get to 'invest'?"
"Absolutely," Blair said with a warm smile. "Your supplier network, your loyal customers, the trust you've built over decades—that's priceless intangible capital. Certified appraisers will value it all for equity. The group needs your know-how and your Rolodex."
The Q&A marathon began.
How exactly do we calculate shares?
Who runs the new companies?
What about existing debts?
Blair was locked and loaded. Every answer was crisp, persuasive, rock-solid on Victor's core rules (like the 29% dry shares) but flexible where it counted.
The mood shifted in slow motion.
Shock and suspicion melted into curiosity, then mental math, then a quiet thrill: Maybe this actually works.
They saw Victor's ambition. They saw Blair's airtight execution.
Most of all, they saw a future lone wolves could never touch: no more scraping by in Chinatown. Now they'd stride into Chicago's steel-and-concrete jungle as Skyline Wind City Group, a legit colossus, and carve out a fat chunk for themselves.
Master Lin finally exhaled—half sigh, half relief. "Good plan. But we need time. When do we start?"
Blair straightened. Showtime.
"Everything except the farm launches immediately. Victor's deadline: full corporate skeleton by December 31, 1985. All integration wrapped by April 1986.
We'll soon acquire—through… special channels—some major bidding documents.
The group will bid internally. First big contract stays in the family."
He raised his glass. "So, TWC: yes or no?"
Internal bidding.
Real projects. Real money. Day one.
That was the knockout punch. Everyone knew Victor could sweet-talk a congressman into anything. They bought it.
Eyes met across the table. Nods. Resolve.
Master Lin raised his hand first. "Lin Family Martial Arts is in."
"Count me in."
"Me too!"
"Let's ride with Victor!"
Cheers overlapped into one roaring yes.
Done deal.
Blair's first genuine smile of the night broke across his face. "Excellent. I hereby declare Skyline Wind City Group officially formed. I'll serve as interim GM, executing Victor's vision and coordinating all parties until we're fully operational."
Applause thundered.
Jimmy piped up. "Victor gets discharged tomorrow. He'll be recovering at the 2312 South Side apartment. He already bought the eight units around it. Tomorrow night: dinner celebration. Everyone needs to be there."
Nods all around.
Meeting adjourned. People filed out buzzing with adrenaline, nerves, dreams, and a respectful shiver of the unknown.
Only Old Joe, Blair, and Frankie remained.
Blair walked to the window, watching the crowd melt into Chinatown's neon night.
Frankie sidled up, offered a cigar.
"Nice speech, Blair. You had 'em eating out of your hand."
He lit his own, took a slow drag. "Wasn't me, Frankie. It was Victor. It was the future. Fear and greed did the convincing."
Blair took the cigar but didn't light it. "And let's be real: nobody's put skin in the game yet."
He stared out at the city's glittering skyline. "We just lit the fuse. The real storm's just starting. Tell Victor: step one, mission accomplished."
Outside, Chicago's sky looked close enough to touch. A led fusion reaction in the Windy City had officially begun.
---
October 29, 1985
Victor returned to his loyal South Side… but first, Congressman Uberman ambushed him outside the airport.
---
Late Chicago fall bit hard, but the street outside Victor's South Side gym was pure carnival.
Banners waved. Crowds crushed. Reporters jostled like paparazzi at a royal wedding, lenses glued to two men: Chicago Congressman Uberman and the fresh city hero who'd just gone fifteen brutal rounds with Iron Mike Tyson and lived to tell it—Victor Li.
Camera flashes popped like gunfire.
Uberman beamed that perfect politician smile, one hand clamped on Victor's, the other slapping the boxer's ripped shoulder like they were blood brothers.
Victor was banged up but didn't care.
"Chicago is proud to call Victor Li one of its own!" Uberman boomed into the mic, voice dripping with rehearsed passion. "He stared down the baddest man on the planet and fought to the final bell! This isn't just sports—this is Chicago spirit: tough, unbreakable, never quit! He's the true soul of the Windy City!"
Victor stood there, bronze face blank except for a tight, polite half-smile. His eyes flicked to the front row—Frankie Li, Blair, and Jimmy locked gazes with him for a split second.
Frankie, now in a sharp suit trying to sand down his street edge, snorted under his breath to Blair:
"Look at this clown. When Victor won the Golden Gloves? Uberman didn't fart in our direction. Now he's here picking peaches and singing hymns."
Blair adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, smirk cold. "Political ROI, Frankie. Before, Victor was just a promising fighter. Now…"
He dropped his voice. "Now Victor made Tyson bleed, and—more importantly—we took out Sri, unified the crews. Our influence has him sweating. These cheers aren't for boxer Victor. They're for Godfather Victor."
Jimmy grinned, all teeth and menace. "Shameless? Nah, Blair. That's professional. Dude's selling it so hard I almost believe he gives a damn."
On stage, Uberman hit his crescendo, arms flailing: "Victor Li is the shining example of Chicago's multicultural success! His journey is the American Dream in action!"
He painted Victor as a saint, a community pillar—never once mentioning the backroom deals or the blood on the pavement.
Victor nodded along, tossing out the occasional "Thank you, Congressman" or "Chicago's my home."
But the hand not shaking Uberman's stayed buried in his pocket, knuckles white.
They were both acting: one the humble politician basking in reflected glory, the other the grateful athlete honored to serve.
A silent two-man play—for the press, the public, and each other.
The welcome "ceremony" finally ended in another wave of fake warmth.
Reporters left stuffed with feel-good soundbites.
Uberman slung an arm around Victor's shoulders, voice low: "Victor, my friend, we need a private word. Some community development matters I'd love your input on."
He turned to Frankie, Blair, and Jimmy. "You gentlemen too. You're Victor's inner circle."