The Nevada sun was hot enough to melt asphalt, but the real heat in Vegas wasn't the weather.
Promoter Frankie; a guy pushing sixty; turned into a machine the second the casino money hit his account.
He twisted arms, pooled resources with Mr. Chen's casino crew, and actually got the WBO to open its doors.
Two grudge matches? Suddenly official ranking bouts.
That meant Victor wasn't just chasing paydays; he was climbing the ladder straight to an intercontinental title shot.
Frankie's next calls went to James "Bonecrusher" Smith and Tony "TNT" Tucker's camps.
Two hundred grand appearance fee each? For two former champs in their prime; especially with ranking points on the line; it was a no-brainer.
Deals closed fast. July 5, 1986. Vegas. Contracts signed.
Press conference. Flashbulbs popping, reporters shoving mics at the three headliners.
James "Bonecrusher" Smith; built like a dump truck, skin gleaming under the lights; former WBA champ; stared down everyone like they owed him money.
He grabbed the mic, voice low and menacing:
"Victor? Yeah, I heard the name. Some overhyped kid."
He sneered, eyes raking Victor with pure contempt. "They packaged you like a movie star, but the ring ain't Hollywood. August 10th, I'm gonna show you real pro boxing. I'll break down all your fancy tricks; just like your 'Mad Tiger' nickname; and send you crying back to preschool."
Murmurs rippled through the press.
Victor didn't flinch. When Smith finished, he picked up his mic; slow, deliberate; and didn't even look at him.
Instead, he reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a betting slip, and held it high for every camera.
"Bonecrusher, you're right; the ring's not Hollywood. But sometimes it is a casino."
His voice was calm, cold steel: "This is a fresh bet. Two hundred grand. On myself. Four-round KO on you."
BOOM.
The room lost its mind.
Two hundred large; basically Smith's whole purse; bet on a quick finish?
Smith's face went eggplant purple, veins popping.
He looked ready to vault the table.
"You arrogant little bastard! You don't even know who you're messing with!"
Before he could keep roaring, Tony "TNT" Tucker jumped in.
Former IBF champ, known for bombs in his gloves and a fuse just as short.
He slammed the table, pointing at Victor: "What is this? Flashing dirty money to show off? You're a disgrace to the sport! Just a lucky clown! September 10th, I'm blowing you to pieces! You and that damn betting slip are trash!"
Victor turned, eyes cutting like razors: "TNT? Hope you still go boom in September, Tucker. As for the slip?"
He slid it back in his pocket, voice dripping disdain. "Just letting you; and everybody; know I'm not here to play. I'm here to collect. Wins, cash, and whatever scraps of reputation you've got left. Scared? Take your two hundred K and bounce while you can."
The room nearly rioted. Roars from the ex-champs, ice-cold taunts from Victor; reporters scribbling like mad, flashes turning the stage white-hot.
Frankie and Mr. Chen's rep jumped in to calm things down and wrap the signing.
·······
But when the circus cleared out and the anger still hung in the air, Smith and Tucker found themselves… with Victor.
"Hey, fellas."
Victor's smirk was gone, replaced by an odd calm. "We yelled, we cursed; we're good. There's a killer bar around the corner with top-shelf whiskey. You in?"
Smith and Tucker stared, totally thrown. What was this kid's angle?
Victor grinned. "What; scared I'll poison you? Or scared of whiskey that costs more than two hundred grand?"
Reverse psychology; works every time.
Thirty minutes later, the three sat in a dim, blues-jamming upscale lounge booth.
A few glasses of single-malt later, the vibe shifted; weirdly chill.
"…So you really just slapped down two hundred large like it's poker night?"
Smith knocked back a shot, shaking his head; less hostility, more disbelief.
"Gotta give the show some spice, right?"
Victor swirled his glass, ice clinking. "Fans don't just want fights. They want drama, beef, and lunatics."
Tucker snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. "Man, even before my title fights I never stirred the pot like you."
"Because deep down, we're the same, gentlemen."
Victor looked them dead in the eye; sharp, but not hostile. "We sell tickets. The ring's the stage, we're the actors. You sell 'former champ revenge' and 'TNT explosions.' I sell 'cocky upstart' and 'insane bets.' Crowd buys tickets, we cash checks. That's it."
Silence. Then Smith boomed a laugh: "HA! Damn right! It's all about the money! Who cares if they cheer or boo?"
Tucker cracked up too, shaking his head. "You're nuts. But… this whiskey's solid."
Glasses clinked. The tension melted under booze and brutal honesty.
Yeah, they'd try to kill each other in the ring. But bigger picture? They were co-conspirators in the giant money machine, putting on a blockbuster show.
·······
Ink still wet on the contracts; cheap perfume lingering; but the second Victor stepped off the plane in Chicago, the dry Midwestern wind carried a different, dangerous scent.
Frankie was waiting in the car, face not in party mode. His always-scanning eyes were clouded with trouble.
"Problem?"
Victor slid in, voice steady, but every muscle coiled.
"Tulsa. We used the South Side community's second-round thirty-mil to buy an 80,000-acre ranch. First wave of renovations underway."
Frankie pulled out of the airport chaos. "But some old-timer showed up. Seventy-five. Dressed like a washed-up mob extra, but… damn if he doesn't look like Rocky Balboa after thirty years of bad cigars."
Victor snorted, rubbing his temple.
"Cut the riddles, Frankie. You might as well bring up that Vietnam vet who supposedly wiped out a whole precinct; people said he looked like Rocky too. We don't have time for games."
"He wants our product. Weed. Huge volume, but price lower than the wrinkles on his face. Big mouth, demands to talk to the boss, says he's got a 'gift' for you."
Frankie's voice carried irritation; and deeper unease.
Victor stared out at the city blurring past.
His empire was finally going legit on the surface, gray tentacles carefully spreading.
He hated random punks popping up thinking they could rewrite the rules.
"Send him packing. Back to the nursing home."
"Tried. He insists on a call. Doesn't sound like bluffing."
Victor's street-honed instincts growled low.
He took the satellite phone Frankie handed him, dialed.
Picked up on the first ring.
The voice on the other end was old but rock-steady, with that classic East Coast polish; like every word had been aged in fine whiskey.
"Mr. Victor ? Pleasure. Dwight Manfredi here. Sending regards from our friends in New York."
New York.
Manfredi.
Victor's brain flashed through names, rumors; old-school Italian power, ruthless, connected deep.
No hits on this guy.
"Manfredi? Never heard of you."
Victor's tone was iron. "You say you're somebody, you are? New York's big shots care about podunk Tulsa weed?"
"Podunk… colorful."
A low, raspy chuckle. "Times change, Mr. Victor . Markets consolidate. Quality needs stability. We like your product. We want long-term partnership. We bring distribution; massive distribution; and official peace.
You bring steady supply. Price negotiable, but it has to reflect our good faith and future share."
Victor's fingers tapped his knee unconsciously. "You know what I do?"
Dwight: "Chicago's reputation precedes you, Mr. Victor . Your methods are… aggressive. Doesn't stop a deal. I can move your product."
The offer was huge.
If Manfredi was legit, it meant the East Coast floodgates opening; profits exploding; cops and IRS suddenly blind.
But the risk? Dancing with the devil; especially when Victor didn't know if the devil was real.
"No proof, no deal."
"Naturally. So I invite you the day after tomorrow, evening, to the Iron Fist Bar in Tulsa. Cozy local spot. We talk territory face-to-face. Plus, I've got a small gift for you; a token of good faith."
Dwight's voice stayed smooth as ever.
Victor went quiet a few beats.
He knew it could be a trap. Could also be a ladder.
But he never feared traps; not when he brought a bigger hammer.
"Day after tomorrow. Iron Fist Bar."
He repeated it, then hung up.
"Call our New York guys. Dig up everything on Manfredi."
Silence in the car.
Frankie's phone buzzed. He listened, then relayed: "Italian crew's former number two, twenty-five years ago. Got squeezed out by the boss's kid, exiled to Tulsa."
"What a moron."
Victor thought a second.
Frankie watched, waiting.
Victor's eyes turned glacier-cold, every trace of post-fight ease gone. The street soldier was back in the driver's seat.
"Frankie, you're going to Tulsa. Take a hundred guys. Word is the local Native crews like us; reach out.
I want Dwight Manfredi's every move for the past week; who he's with, where they're staying, what kind of pizza he orders.
By tomorrow night, I want your people locked and loaded around that bar."
"You're meeting him?"
"Nah. You are."
Victor's mouth curved into a cruel smirk. "We let the Native boys handle it. We supply the guns, the artillery. Take out Dwight."