Night was falling hard, but the lawn outside Victor Lee's apartment was lit up like a stadium, buzzing with voices.
The fancy indoor party space they'd set up? Totally overrun. Two, three hundred big shots from Chicago's community were out there, wine glasses in hand, clustered in little groups, laughing and chatting. The air smelled like grilled meat, cigars, and high-end cologne, with faint jazz drifting in the background; a weird, thriving mix of old-school and upscale.
Everyone had the perfect smile plastered on, but when their eyes met, there was always that quick, knowing scan; like they were sizing each other up.
They weren't here for a party. This was a roll-call. A congressman had just publicly backed the beat-up kid upstairs, and now everyone had to pick a side.
Frankie; Victor's brother, the public face of the mob and future head of the security company; was sliding through the crowd like a pro.
Sharp suit, practiced grin, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, keeping everything smooth:
"Mr. Wang, hang tight; Victor'll see you soon…"
"President Lin, don't worry; transportation's top of the agenda…"
He had the whole "pilgrimage" running like clockwork.
Upstairs in the office? Totally different world.
Heavy curtains blocked out the noise below. Just one desk lamp casting a dim yellow glow.
Victor Lee was sunk deep in a leather executive chair, like every ounce of strength had been drained out.
His jaw was locked in a fancy brace, every breath pulling at cracked ribs, ears still ringing from the Tyson war.
Docs said absolute bed rest.
Yeah, right. Rest was the one thing he couldn't afford; he'd ripped the brace off with Uberman on purpose to look tough.
Close his eyes, and he saw Tyson's freight-train punches, heard bones snap, felt the world spin out.
Glory went to Tyson. The pain? All his, swallowed alone in this quiet room.
But what burned hotter than the injuries was the ice-cold urgency.
The congressman's endorsement was a double-edged sword; massive clout and legitimacy, but now he was in the spotlight with no way out.
He had to strike while the iron was hot, before the momentum cooled, and pull the scattered community together; lock them into his machine.
A soft knock. Frankie poked his head in.
"Victor, Master Zhao from Bajiquan and Master Chen from the other school are here."
Their presence meant the martial arts gyms were making a statement.
Victor took a deep breath; pain twisted his face; but he forced his voice steady: "Send 'em in."
Master Chen was pushing sixty, sharp as hell, temples bulging, wearing a traditional short jacket, walking like he owned the ground.
He cupped his fist in respect, eyes showing a little pity for the injuries but mostly old-school caution.
"Victor, congrats; you put all of us on the map!"
His voice boomed. Master Zhao stayed quiet.
Victor gave a small nod; couldn't move much: "Too kind, Master Chen. Just luck. Have a seat."
His words came out muffled through clenched teeth.
After some small talk, Chen got to it: "Heard you're building a big company, pulling resources together? Our gym kids; they've got skills and loyalty. A lot of 'em need a real way out."
Victor locked eyes, speaking slow and clear: "TWC Group needs security. The other lanes need reliable people too. Licensed training, staffing, even high-end self-defense classes for rich clients. The gyms are gold mines for talent, but we can't run things the old way. We go standard, professional."
Chen thought it over: "Standard… means following company rules?"
"Means bigger markets, steady paychecks, and workers getting paid what white folks do; or better."
Victor leaned forward a bit; pain made him pause; "No more street brawls and thugging. Licensed, respected pros. TWC's name protects every legit operation."
Eyes locked.
Chen weighing tradition versus modern structure.
Finally, a nod: "Alright. I'm in. Details with Blair and Frankie."
"Pleasure doing business, Master Chen, Master Zhao."
Victor extended his good left hand; firm grips all around.
First piece locked in.
Next up: casino and bar reps. A guy nicknamed "Golden Abacus" Ho, eyes sharp with dollar signs.
"Victor, your name's pure gold right now!"
He was pumped: "If our casinos and bars run under TWC branding, we're not just pulling clients…"
Victor cut him off, voice weak but steel-cold: "Mr. Ho, TWC doesn't run casinos or endorse any. That's under the entertainment gaming arm."
Blair jumped in with the edge: "Or we start a unified supply company; liquor, equipment, cleaning; discounted, guaranteed.
TWC Security keeps your places safe; no one messes with you, not even over-eager cops. But your books? They take our… suggestions."
Ho's smile froze: "This… Victor, the cut and the 'suggestions'…"
"Beats getting nickel-and-dimed by every crew or eating each other alive in price wars."
Victor leaned back, exhausted but eyes blazing: "Either we all make money; clean, long-term; or keep scrapping in the mud till the next 'Victor' or the feds clean house. Your call."
Silence. Just Victor's heavy breathing.
Ho wiped sweat with a handkerchief, then nodded hard: "Got it. We'll talk framework."
Same scene, over and over.
Farm market reps worried about monopolies and price squeezes; Victor promised unified logistics, standards, and access to upscale buyers.
Contractors wanted government jobs; Victor hinted TWC's PR muscle could open doors, but quality had to be rock-solid.
Trucking bosses griped about turf wars and undercutting; Victor offered fleet consolidation, shared scheduling, carved-up profit zones.
Victor powered through the pain and dizziness, working every visitor.
Dangling carrots, applying pressure, flashing the congressman's clout, hinting at the cost of saying no.
He read their needs and weaknesses like a book, painting TWC as the only ticket to big money and protection.
Body wrecked, but his mind and will got sharper with every deal.
Frankie kept popping in with water or updates, eyes full of awe and worry.
"Victor, you gotta rest…"
"Not yet. You can't hold it together."
Victor gasped: "Bring in the last group. The 'side-hustle' guys."
The final crew rolled in; different vibe. Low-key clothes, but eyes on high alert, a hint of menace.
Loan sharks, underground dealers, gray-area controllers.
Leading them was a wiry old man called "the Old Gentleman," quiet but heavy aura.
Straight to it, voice like gravel: "Victor, we know you're connected now. Congressman's got your back. Our business don't see daylight, but the money's real. Can TWC throw a shield over us? Keep the rain off?"
Air got thick.
Victor stared him down. This was the riskiest, most critical play.
Take them in; TWC's shadow side gets muscle and control. But one wrong step, and they all drown.
Victor went silent for nearly a minute, pain and exhaustion peaking.
Then, every word squeezed out like it hurt:
"TWC is a legit company. Legit business only."
Voice crystal clear: "I don't care how you ran things before; wipe your ass clean. From now on, all 'side' stuff shrinks.
Shylocking? Done. Ruining lives? Done. Drugs, gambling, hookers; we don't touch. Period."
The Old Gentleman's face darkened: "Then what's there to talk about?"
"A way out."
Victor's voice cracked up; then he coughed from the pain; caught his breath: "TWC's got construction, trucking, markets… Need cash flow? Hit our legit micro-loan desk; legal rates.
Need work? Jobs on sites, rigs, markets; real paychecks.
You want your people; your kids; hiding in sewers forever? Or walking tall in the sun? We'll bury you if you don't."
He swept his gaze over the uneasy faces: "Stick with TWC; your old money gets laundered into clean businesses. Your crew gets steady gigs. I'll make sure no one touches your pie during the switch.
And your old 'channels'? They can… smooth some of TWC's import-export.
Last chance. Wash up or get gone."
He didn't finish the threat. Just stared cold.
The Old Gentleman locked eyes, trying to read truth and steel.
You could hear a pin drop. Downstairs laughter felt a world away.
Finally, the old man exhaled, face sagging deeper: "…We need time. And details."
"Fine. Talk to Frankie. But my rules? Non-negotiable."
Victor shut it down: "Step off the path, we cut you loose."
When the last visitor left, it was past midnight. The lawn was empty, quiet.
Victor collapsed in the chair, pale as a ghost, shirt soaked with cold sweat.
Every breath was a knife.
Frankie slipped in, draped a blanket over him.
"It's done, Victor. They're in. TWC's framework is real."
His voice shook with excitement and relief.
Victor didn't open his eyes. Barely a whisper:
"The glory ain't just mine. It's ours."
Exhaustion and triumph crashed over him like a wave.
With his pain, his rep, and a vision of the future, he'd woven a net; pulling in every thread of Chicago's world, light and dark; into the first rough shape of something huge.
He knew this was just the start.
Bigger fights ahead. More complicated.
The congressman's support wasn't forever. Internal greed needed balancing. Rivals were circling.
But right now, he just wanted to sit in the quiet pain a little longer.
He could almost hear it; a massive ship called "Twin Cities Wind" (TWC), with him at the helm… and nailed to the keel, holding it together through every storm…
Its horn blasting low and unstoppable into the night.
Victor told Frankie, voice fading:
"Those side-hustle guys; two days, lock 'em down. Clear all the debts. Let our people know; we're really looking out for them."