"Rocky, this is my gym—a real training center. If you know any solid guys, send 'em my way."
"I will, but I might never box again. Feels like my brain's turned to mush."
"Rock, only you know how bad the hooks hurt. I'm telling you—you made a deal with the Big Man upstairs."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're gonna heal."
"Thanks for the blessing."
---
Chicago's South Side wind always carries that faded-industrial rust smell, mixed with a low-key anxiety you can't shake.
Victor was driving solo down familiar streets, fresh off meeting Rocky. Behind the wheel of a brand-new Jeep—company purchase, automatic transmission, perfect for a rookie driver like him.
Beating Drago took stubbornness, and Rocky had it in spades. But that old-school glory didn't fit in today's pay-per-view boxing world—especially not with Rocky's style: hurt yourself to hurt them.
Being back here, quietly checking on the business, was the only thing grounding Victor.
He spent half the day like a king surveying territory he hadn't fully claimed yet.
West Side: renovation crews hammering away—noise loud but full of promise. Workers spotted him, waved like he was a rock star. He nodded back, inspected the details.
South Side: spots prepped for food trucks. Water and power hooked up—just waiting on the sleek "mobile kitchens." The Shadow trucks were already huge, and thanks to a hookup with Jeep's manufacturer, no more illegal mods needed. Ten-dish menus were turning white folks away from their own bland food.
Labor-intensive?
Nah—Americans don't eat like back home. Most just want it sweet. Top monthly expense? White sugar.
This was his empire—built with fists and brains. An ark out of the street mud.
He was standing in front of a freshly painted, gleaming food truck, picturing smoke curling up, lines out the door, when a familiar voice snapped behind him, pissed and unfiltered.
"Victor! You're back? Jesus, I've been looking for you for days!"
He turned. Fiona Gallagher.
Work pants, plain T-shirt, brown hair in a messy ponytail, strands stuck to her cheeks from the wind. Tired from running around, but still sharp-eyed and wired.
Beautiful. Smart. That killer smile.
But the one woman who couldn't get under his skin.
"Fiona."
Flat tone. "Just got in. Checking progress."
"Progress? You don't trust us? Yeah, all sixty-two trucks in the South Side are franchisees. Just me and Ian—two white people—trying to keep an eye on your 'progress'!"
Her words fired like a machine gun. "Victor, this operation's huge. Procurement, staffing, construction, health inspections… I'm not Superman. I need help—a real one—who can actually do shit. Now. I put in a request weeks ago. That yellow-hearted white boy Jimmy won't touch it!"
"Jimmy's legal. You go to HR. And half our guys are married to white women—they'd love to bring one home."
Victor jerked his head toward the Jeep. "Get in. We'll talk. You eat lunch?"
Fiona glanced inside—new paint, new plastic smell. "Let's eat in the truck."
"Done."
He grabbed two lunch boxes from the warmer, tossed her one, leaned against the counter, ripped open his own.
They ate in silence. Just chewing and distant city noise.
Fiona scarfed hers down like fuel for the fight.
She doubled down: "I'm serious, Victor. I'm drowning."
He chewed slow, mind racing.
No chance with Fiona in that way? Fine. Squeeze her dry.
Workplace bullying 101: bury her in busywork till she breaks.
But he also needed someone tough, street-smart, under his thumb, to back her up.
One name popped up—Svetlana. That Siberian-cold woman.
"I've got someone."
Voice flat. No emotion.
"Who?"
Fiona's guard went up. She heard something off.
"Svetlana."
"WHO?!"
Her voice cracked. "That Russian? Victor, are you insane? You forget how she threatened you? You forget Veronica—"
She slammed on the brakes, face going white.
South Side rumor mill: nobody bought Kevin—Veronica's whipped puppy—had the guts to kill her.
Fiona's eyes blazed—anger, disbelief. She still believed: if Svetlana hadn't threatened Victor, Veronica never would've shown her true colors.
Yeah. Fiona was that naive.
Victor's face went stone cold. Eyes like flint.
"I remember everything. That's why she's perfect."
"Perfect? She's a walking disaster! All she does is screw things up and steal—everything!"
Fiona waved her arms. "And now you're dumping this psycho on me?"
"Fiona."
His voice dropped, heavy. "My call. Svetlana's got nowhere to go. She needs this. She'll work like a starving wolf. Ruthless. Smart. Handles the dirt you don't have time for—or guts for. Punks trying to skim, lazy vendors—she'll crush 'em."
And she's already on Old Joe's radar. Audit team material. Reports to Connor West—the accountant.
He paused, watching her face flush red with rage.
"Your beef with her? Not my problem. I'm your boss. I want results. You take her. You get shit done."
He didn't say the rest. Didn't need to.
His eyes said: I own your world.
Fiona's chest heaved. She stared, hunting for a joke, a crack.
Nothing. Just ice.
She got it. This wasn't a discussion. It was an order.
Everything she had? Victor gave her.
He wasn't taking it back. Just putting a wolf in her cage.
Powerlessness. Betrayal. Cold, hard reality.
"…Fuck you! Damn it, Victor, you'll regret this!"
She spat it through clenched teeth.
"Fuck me?"
He stayed cool. "I can book a hotel. I'll even pay."
Fiona chucked her empty box in the trash, yanked the door open, jumped out, and stormed off—back rigid as steel.
Victor watched her vanish. Face blank.
He pulled out his phone. Made a call.
---
A few hours later, back at the apartment, Svetlana walked in.
Thinner than last time. Puffer jacket came off fast—barely anything underneath.
Ice-blue eyes still sharp, hungry.
A little boy played quietly with blocks in the corner. Liz Chen—Michael's wife—was watching him.
Yeah, Michael—that dog—knocked her up at nineteen. First to get hitched.
"Victor."
She smiled—tired, calculated seduction. "You finally called."
"Fiona Gallagher needs help. South Side food ops, venue management. You start tomorrow. Report to her."
Svetlana's eyes flashed—predator locking on prey.
"You're the boss, Victor. I'll show her who's better at—"
She stepped close, fingers on his chest, voice low. "I knew that November 'talk' worked. You keep your word."
Victor grabbed her wrist. Hard. Eyes burning.
"Listen up, Svetlana. You're useful. That's why you're here. Keep your hands to yourself. Do your job.
If I hear you're sabotaging Fiona—or my business—you and your kid are back on the street. Worse than the night Frankie torched your bookie den. Clear?"
Her smile froze. But her hand slid to his jeans. Heat radiating.
"Of course, Victor. I'm always… cooperative."
She pressed closer. This time, he didn't push her away.
Nineteen-year-old Victor? No chance against a white-hot freight train.
"Just the tip's enough!"
"I showered before I came."
"I don't like Icarus."
"That hurts. Fiona's a Crown Vic too."
"I've got standards now."
"Fuck you! You're worse than Mickey!"
"Good verb. Now scream one of your husbands' names. Any of 'em."
"Fuck you!"
"Perfect."
"Let me relax—like I ate caviar."
"Don't worry. I can't survive another motorcycle crash. Old Joe won't need to buy a new one."
Svetlana left the apartment.
Victor's fire simmered down.
He headed to the first-floor training gym.
Massive empty space.
Just the thud-thud-thud of his fists pounding the heavy bag, echoing like war drums.