Chicago's late fall hits hard—wind whipping through the South Side's rundown blocks and Chinatown's greasy, bustling streets, carrying a bite that warns winter's coming.
Early November 1985, something felt different in the air. A restless energy.
All of it sparked by Victor Lee's sharp eyes—part mind-reader, part predator—and the bold moves he'd already set in motion.
Inside Congressman Uberman's office, it was toasty warm, a stark contrast to the gray chill outside.
On the heavy mahogany desk sat the incorporation papers for "Tianji Wind City Group Co., Ltd."—impossible to miss.
Uberman flashed Blair a knowing grin.
"Blair, Victor's ideas are always… electric."
His voice was smooth, pure politician. "The South Side needs jobs, needs life. I love seeing young guys like you step up. These forms?"
He tapped the papers. "Just cutting through red tape. For the community's sake, it's worth it."
Blair gave a polite nod—grateful on the surface, but his eyes stayed cool, almost bored with Uberman's grandstanding.
He knew the real price of this "fast lane" wasn't a handshake. Uberman wanted the growing vote bloc and future "donations" to Victor's PAC.
But mostly? Uberman was scared. Victor had him by the throat.
It was a silent deal: speed now, influence later.
"We really appreciate your support, Congressman. Tianji Wind City won't let you down. We're gonna transform the South Side."
Blair's words were sincere—he wasn't Victor, didn't need to fake the fire.
But he put the South Side front and center, not Uberman. Shared glory, not groveling.
Uberman was a horndog idiot, but not deaf. He caught the hint and tried one last play: "Blair, we're both white guys, right?"
Blair's face tightened. Then he let it go.
Victor had seen Uberman at his worst. No way they'd ever be partners.
"I work for Mr. Li, sir."
Uberman's smile vanished. Anger flashed. Blair just told him: You're marked now.
Meeting over.
Two days later—two days—every permit, license, and filing was done. Lightning fast.
But Tianji Wind City Group? It didn't even have a headquarters.
Just a name on paper, a ghost looking for a body.
That job fell to the new CEO: Blair.
He stood outside the University of Chicago's gothic towers, pulling his trench coat tight against the wind.
Jimmy McGill and Frankie Li flanked him.
Jimmy's eyes sparkled—half schemer, half nervous wreck.
Frankie? Silent as ever, hand resting on a beat-up canvas duffel at his feet.
"Knowledge is power, gentlemen," Blair said, more to himself than them. "And today, we're buying it."
Inside, he was buzzing.
Running an empire this big—even on paper—was a rush. Victor's trust? Intoxicating.
But starting with smoke and mirrors, plus a laundry list of "gray-area" businesses? Walking a tightrope.
This is my shot, he kept telling himself. Class jump. Don't blow it.
They walked past bright-eyed college kids, full of dreams and student loans.
They were hunting finance, accounting, law, and management majors—especially the hungry ones. The ones who wanted fast money, not slow climbs.
Only the ambitious would sign with a tiny startup. Only the bold would work for a boss.
Interviews happened in a small library conference room.
Two stone-faced guys from Frankie's crew stood guard outside.
At their feet? The duffel—stuffed with neat stacks of cash, smelling like raw power.
A nerdy econ grad in thick glasses sat across from Blair, rattling off macro theory.
Blair listened, then leaned in, voice low and tempting:
"Great stuff. But you wanna live it? Theory tells you how money moves. This—"
He nodded at the bag. "—lets you feel it. Starting salary double market rate, plus bonuses. We're a new group with deep political backing and unlimited upside. You'd be a founding member."
The kid's eyes went from confused to shocked to hungry.
He swallowed hard. Barely nodded.
Jimmy slid a fat contract across the table—legalese thick as a phone book, but the salary and stock options? Bolded.
One by one, the skeleton crew came together.
Cash smashed through ethics, résumés, and five-year plans.
Blair watched the new blood file in. A little calmer. But the pressure? Cranked up.
He had to get this machine running—for Victor, for Uberman, for these kids chasing green.
All November, Blair was a blur—racing between businesses like a man possessed.
SHW was the core. He carved it up, rebuilt it, pumped in franchise fees, and spun out real projects:
- Food trucks nationwide
- Grain farms
- Urban veggie farms
- Cold-chain fresh delivery
All shiny, legal, branded as "innovation," "community," "healthy living."
Then the quieter moves:
Trucking, construction, remodeling—quietly swallowing Chinatown's scattered players. Even dipping into fringe logistics and real estate.
The darker stuff—bars, gambling, sports betting, fight promotion, management, Tianji Security—was run by the same tattooed, gravel-voiced gang vets.
Meetings with them? A different kind of heat.
In the back room of a smoky bar, Blair faced "Big Mouth Snake"—old-school enforcer, now in charge of "Tianji Security maintenance fees" and part of the betting ops.
"Mr. Blair," Snake said, blowing smoke, Chicago accent thick. "Victor trusts you. We give face. We want money. We keep territory. But your corporate rules? Don't put 'em on us. We got our own way."
Blair's back prickled with sweat—Snake picked a day Frankie wasn't around.
But he kept cool:
"I'm just the executor. Victor says: to go big, we need structure. Security has to look like pros—like the military, not street brawls.
Gambling needs systems. Not wild bets. This isn't control—it's protection. For longevity. For bigger profits."
He dropped Victor's name like a hammer—pressure without direct beef.
"Rules?" Snake snorted. "Frankie didn't have rules when he was taking corners as a kid. Fine. He spoke, we'll look pretty. But the books? Crystal clear."
He gave Blair a hard stare. "Our cut? On time. Every dime."
Same dance, every gray project.
Blair juggled two worlds:
Daytime—sharp suit, charming bankers, lawyers, wide-eyed grads, painting the empire dream.
Nighttime—back alleys, handshakes with shadows, compromises that left a taste in his mouth.
His brain split between big-picture fantasy and brutal reality.
Only thing keeping him upright? Victor's trust, a $350K after-tax salary, and raw, aching ambition.
And Victor Lee?
Barely showed his face. A ghost pulling strings.
But he wasn't idle.
While Blair built the empire, Victor pulled Old Joe aside in a quiet teahouse.
"Uncle, we need eyes. Our eyes."
"Blair's killing it, but he's stretched thin. And… he's dealing with too many people. Money's flowing out. I need to know where. Every dollar. No funny business."
He interviewed a CPA—business tanked, blackballed by peers.
Eyes defeated, but skills sharp. And bitter. Hungry.
"Build an audit team. Start after June next year. You report to Old Joe—only Old Joe. Your department sits outside all business units. Full access to every ledger. Find leaks. Find waste. Find… lies."
He didn't say embezzlement or gang skimming. Didn't need to.
Blair and Jimmy were still white at the end of the day.
The accountant's eyes lit up—power, trust, a second chance.
He knew: how sharp this blade stayed would decide if Victor kept control of the beast he'd unleashed.
So in 1985 Chicago, a strange new picture took shape:
- CEO Blair out front—running, expanding, stitching bright dreams to dark deals, drunk on history and stress.
- Old Joe's audit team—a silent undercurrent, sliding into every new division. Cold numbers would judge loyalty and efficiency.
- Gang vets like Big Mouth Snake—folded into "Tianji Security," "Entertainment"—both shield and muscle, but also live grenades. Loving the legit cover, hating the leash.
And at the center?
Victor Lee—blade in hand, ready to make an example.