Victor tapped his knuckles on the wooden desk upstairs at the laundromat, eyes locked on the open ledger.
Late-June Chicago sunlight filtered through grimy windows, throwing patchy shadows over the numbers.
He pushed his black hair out of his face, a grin tugging at his lips. Over the past three weeks, that souped-up food truck had cleared over ten grand in profit.
All for a measly $360 in wages plus $240 in bonuses.
Three weeks at $600 total, plus meals and a place to crash? Old Wang was over the moon. His family could crack ten grand a year easy, and in just one year, they'd own their own house.
"What time are Old Wang and the crew setting up today?"
Victor asked without looking up.
"Six, eleven, five—like always," Jimmy said, lifting his head from a stack of legal docs and pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Little Mei says her mom made fresh braised pork. Gonna slap it on steamed buns and call it an American sandwich. Should sell like crazy today."
Victor closed the ledger, stood, and walked to the window.
From the second floor, he could see the Wangs hustling in the backyard.
Old Wang, greasy apron tied tight, was sweating bullets over a makeshift stove.
His wife packed veggies into plastic containers.
Wang Xiaomei—the twenty-something with the ponytail—was checking ingredients off a list.
"We're on a roll. Time to scale up."
Victor spun around and locked eyes with Jimmy. "Buy the food truck, hire crew, go big!"
Jimmy set down his pen, folded his hands on the desk. "How? Register a company?"
"Yup. Legit operation. The Wangs proved the model works."
Victor paced back to the desk, tracing invisible routes with his finger. "fast food—cheap, fast, bold flavors, and way tastier. Perfect for construction sites and the projects. One truck per neighborhood. We need more rigs, more people."
Jimmy took off his glasses, wiped the lenses on his shirt tail—his thinking tic.
"Starting a company's easy. But equity split, supply chain, a real kitchen—family-style won't cut it anymore. And expansion needs cash."
"Mortgage the laundromat."
Victor didn't blink.
"That'll get you ten grand max."
Jimmy thought it over, then shook his head. "Plus, this fast-paced thing? Someone'll copy it quick."
"Chicago's got its own rules!"
Victor flashed a sly grin. "This city's business vibe is infamous across the U.S. A laundromat? That's why we mortgage it. Use the bank's money to make money—safer than using our own."
"I can make it happen, but I'll need to hire help."
"No problem. Hire away."
"Victor, I'm your legal counsel."
"I know. But you're also part-time HR, part-time CEO, part-time spokesperson."
"Fuck!"
Jimmy pointed a finger. "You really know how to delegate."
"I'll give you equity, Jimmy. You're the smartest guy in the room. But bring in someone with real management experience to back you up."
"I've got my eye on Fiona's old assistant manager from her restaurant days. Just gotta figure out how to poach him."
"Hard?"
"Real hard. Can't match his salary, and I can't talk him into it."
"Want my advice?"
"Legal?"
"You're the lawyer, Jimmy. I toss out ideas—you tell me if they're clean."
"Shoot."
"I know the guy. Solid rep, young, married with a kid, career on the rise."
"That's the problem."
"But his boss is a woman, and his wife's the jealous type. You can tell from how she keeps up with the Joneses. Lose his job, and that new house he just bought? It'll force him to take our offer."
"Oh, I get it. Your idea's shady."
"I don't have a ton of people I trust right now, Jimmy. Step up. We gotta survive this stretch."
…
Three days later, Snow Honey Windy City Catering Services (SHW) officially launched on the laundromat's second floor.
Victor stood under the fresh company sign, scanning the cramped office packed with partners:
Uncle Joe slouched on the couch, puffing a cigar.
Michael and Ethan whispered by the window.
Jimmy meticulously organized the equity docs.
"75% mine, 5% Uncle Joe, 5% each for you two, 3% Jimmy, and the last 12%..."
Victor paused. "For 'special expenses.'"
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Special expenses?"
"Chicago rules. Split four ways: one cut to Uberman, one to the Chicago PD, one to the IRS, one to the local crew."
Victor explained it cool as ice. "Every block's got someone to grease. Cops, gangs, community bosses… That 12% profit is our 'protection.'"
Michael whistled. "You learn fast."
Jimmy cleared his throat. "Legally, we call it 'community relations maintenance.' Tax-deductible."
"Smart."
Uncle Joe didn't want the shares, but Victor had already divvied them up and told him, "Dividend rights only, no voting." Uncle Joe accepted—he knew damn well that slice was mostly for him and Frankie.
"Uncle Joe, we need suppliers."
Victor's question was right in Uncle Joe's wheelhouse. "Don't worry. I've got a list."
…
A month into Victor's training grind, the bank came through with a $10,000 loan.
That same afternoon, Ethan dragged him to a rundown used-car lot in the South Side.
A few tattooed toughs stood out front. They nodded at Ethan.
"Frankie says your three trucks'll be ready in three days."
A skinny guy missing a front tooth grinned. "Twenty-five hundred each, mods included. Road-legal, no sweat."
Ethan frowned. "That's above market!"
Toothless grinned wider, flashing the gap. "Special pipeline. Ten thousand miles on the clock. You get it."
After leaving the lot, Victor lit a smoke. "Stolen?"
Ethan shrugged. "'Borrowed' from Indiana. Owners got insurance payouts. Refurb, new plates, 'convince' the precinct. Stay in Chicago, nobody cares."
Victor blew a smoke ring and let it drop.
To survive in Chicago, sometimes you gotta turn a blind eye.
Once the modded trucks rolled in, Victor started recruiting.
He hit up three martial arts gyms—more than dojos, they were hubs for new immigrants, gossip, and connections.
"One day off a week. Work three meal rushes—seven hours total. Seventy bucks a week."
Victor stood in the main hall of the Hung Mun gym, facing twenty-plus young guys. "Meals included. Dorm's a buck a day per person. Plus 2% of daily profits as commission."
A ripped dude raised his hand. "What if cops or thugs hassle us?"
Victor smirked. "Not your problem."
In the end, fifteen gym rats—or their cousins—signed on with SHW.
Old Wang got promoted to central kitchen boss. He took over a shuttered restaurant and started training three newbies on prep.
Wang Xiaomei became squad leader for Truck #1, running the downtown construction site route—the cash cow.
Just as the fleet expansion was kicking into high gear, Victor got a call on Jimmy's brick phone.
"They let me out!"
Nick's voice shook with excitement on the landline. "The judge actually bought my 'intellectually disabled' bullshit!"
Victor laughed—he wouldn't mention the judge's wife got three grand or the victim got ten.
"That's 'cause Jimmy's shrink report was gold. Swing by the laundromat tonight. We're celebrating."
That night, Nick John—the "slow" kid who killed a guy over a bike—sat awkwardly in SHW's office, a bottle of whiskey in front of him.
He was bulkier than Victor remembered, black curls buzzed prison-short, brown eyes jittery.
"What's next?"
Victor poured him half a glass.
Nick downed it in one. "Dunno. Parole officer hooked me up with a stock-boy gig. Three bucks an hour."
"Come work for me."
Victor locked eyes. "We need guys like you."
"Guys like me?"
Nick gave a bitter laugh. "Killers?"
"You didn't murder random people."
Victor corrected him. "You can't just roam the streets. I want you to have a real shot—make money, get married, have kids."
Nick spun the empty glass. "I've got money."
"Your money's frozen!"
Victor's eyes burned with ambition. "Body like yours? Come train boxing with me! And there's work here!"
Nick went quiet for a few minutes, then stuck out his hand. "Give me a week. Gotta call Carl first."
A week later, as SHW's five trucks rolled out together for the first time, Nick showed up in the laundromat backyard with a beat-up army duffel.
"Carl's cool with it."
He mimicked a stiff West Point salute. "And when he heard you sprang me, he said to pass on his thanks. He'll thank you in person later."
Victor laughed and pulled his old buddy into a hug. "Welcome to SHW!"
Next morning, five orange-flame-painted food trucks peeled out to five corners of Chicago.
Victor stood on the laundromat roof, watching the last one vanish around the block.
The sunset bled the West Side red. Wind whipped his hair.
Jimmy climbed up and handed him a coffee. "What's on your mind?"
Victor took the cup, didn't answer right away.
A distant siren wailed, then faded into the city noise.
"I'm wondering…"
He finally said, "when Frankie's gonna demand a bigger slice of that 'community relations' pie."
Jimmy frowned. "The contract's clear—"
"In Chicago, a contract ain't worth a gun."
Victor cut him off with a cold smile. "But don't sweat it. I'm ready. If he pushes and nobody's got his back? He's out."