May in Chicago smelled like heat waves and fried food.
Victor stood in front of a food truck in the Black neighborhood, sweat rolling down his temples, but his grin was brighter than the sun bouncing off the Chicago River.
The line snaked to the corner—Black faces only, pointing at the Snow Honey Wind City logo, laughing, hollering orders.
"Two elbow combos—extra hot sauce!"
"Yo, gimme another brisket sandwich on that steamed bun!"
Victor watched his crew—a young kid named Rashawn—working the window like a pro, scooping from the warmer with one hand, making change with the other.
Last week, Rashawn was a corner hustler. Now he rocked a red SHW uniform like he'd been born for it.
"Boss, we're out of onion rings again!"
Rashawn yelled over the sizzle of frying chicken.
Victor nodded, grabbed the truck's phone: "Central kitchen, this is South Side Truck 3. Need emergency onion rings and cola syrup—send a runner now."
Mary the accountant—sheriff's sister-in-law—crackled back, annoyed: "Got it, Victor. Also, IRS quarterly's due tomorrow."
Jimmy knew how to pick 'em. And they weren't half bad.
Victor smirked. That was his system:
- Frontline crew got base pay + commission—hustle hard.
- Back office? Cops' relatives. Slow as hell, but zero shakedowns.
Last week, some wannabe gang tried the protection racket. Rashawn just hollered—one elbow combo later, his "personal security" pulled a Miss Flame, and the punks scattered.
"Victor!"
Fresh from the gym, Jimmy stormed in, shirt soaked, waving a stack of papers.
"You gotta see this! May numbers are in!"
Victor dragged him aside, poured an ice water.
Jimmy flipped pages, hyped: "After all costs—we cleared $20,700! That's five trucks!"
Victor's finger traced the line. Heart pounded.
Twenty grand. A middle-class American's yearly salary.
"$700 of that went to the sister-in-law and the side chick."
Victor shot Jimmy a look: "I know you're thirsty, but watch it—those two ain't playthings."
Jimmy grinned: "Relax, just fun."
Victor's eyes drifted across the street—crumbling apartments, idle kids. A bolder plan clicked.
"We're scaling," he said, voice low and locked in. "Not five trucks. Not ten. Twenty. Logan Square, Andersonville, Hyde Park, North Center, Roscoe Village… two near UChicago!"
Jimmy's eyes bugged: "All profits back in? What if—"
"No what-ifs," Victor cut him. "Frankie's trucks are half market. Our model's proven. By end of June, Snow Honey Wind City's profits hit where they belong."
Jimmy nodded.
Victor was already moving: "Jimmy—trademark, patents, the works. Hire someone from UChicago?"
Jimmy: "Police chief's son does that. We'll outsource."
"Done. And Old Wang's recipes? Buy 'em out. Everyone else gets 2% royalty—bump his to 3%, get the formulas, patent everything."
"On it."
---
That afternoon, Victor rolled up to Frankie's used lot.
Cousin Frankie was napping on the office couch, newspaper over his face.
Victor yanked it off. Frankie's piggy eyes squinted in the dim light.
"Twenty food trucks," Victor said flat. "Two weeks."
Frankie sat up, jowls jiggling: "You think this is McDonald's drive-thru? Twenty trucks means pulling from three states, full refits—"
"Fifteen days," Victor didn't blink. "First ten in three. Cash up front—but drop the price another 10%."
Frankie stared at the shy Asian kid from months ago—now this. He laughed: "Deal!"
Victor leaned in, hands on Frankie's greasy desk: "Tell 'em Victor ain't asking permission. My people protect my business—same as these five trucks."
Frankie's smile died.
He knew Victor's pull. Golden Gloves didn't move the Bellmans—but in the community? Those martial arts cousins? That was muscle.
"Fifteen days," Frankie caved. "You handle the cops!"
Out of Frankie's, Victor went straight to the dojo.
Not his training gym—this was Chinatown's heavyweight martial arts HQ.
Guards at the door recognized him. No stop.
Inside, a dozen students drilled forms.
Back room: Master Li, 70-something, eyes sharp as a 20-year-old, brewing tea.
"Victor," he said in Cantonese. "Heard your food game's popping."
Victor bowed deep. "Thanks to you. I'm here to hire—25 new trucks need 50 workers."
Li's teacup froze mid-air: "Kid, big steps trip you. 50 jobs feed 50 families. Can you promise steady?"
Victor was ready: "As long as I'm breathing and fighting pro."
Li sipped slow. Finally: "Your dad was the same—balls of steel. Shame…"
He shook his head. "Fine. I'll give you people. But in Chicago, money and fists matter—respect matters more."
Walking out, Victor's brick phone buzzed.
Frankie—his coach.
"Victor! You're 30 minutes late! The ring don't wait!"
Shit. Training.
Last month, business and boxing ran parallel—both full throttle.
Street smarts in deals. Frankie rebuilding him in the gym.
"On my way."
He sprinted to the gym. Frankie stood arms crossed at the door.
"Mr. CEO finally shows?"
Victor didn't argue—just warmed up.
Past month: +8 lbs, all muscle.
Frankie's plan was brutal but gold—dawn runs, afternoon tech, night sparring.
Today: live opponent.
His foe: a Latino vet from Fokker's gym, 20 amateur fights.
Bell rang. Victor locked in.
Stance rock-solid, jab lightning, head movement slick, long arms guarding skull and ribs.
Round 3: clean left hook—down.
Post-spar, Frankie tossed a towel: "Power control's weak. Up the med ball work!"
Victor wiped sweat, flashing back to getting jumped—those forced self-defense moves now his edge.
"I got a good coach," he said humbly.
Frankie grunted: "Got your opponent. July 11. We'll break down his style."
---
That night, Victor called a war room.
Core team: Jimmy, DeShawn (Black community ops), Mary (accounting), new central kitchen boss Sister Lin—Master Zhao's pick.
"Twenty trucks by June 15," Victor mapped on the whiteboard. "We take these zones. DeShawn—five more in the South Side. Jimmy—West Side Latino hood's yours. Sister Lin—kitchen goes 24/7, three shifts."
Mary cut in: "Cash flow hold? Payroll, ingredients, maintenance…"
Victor tapped the board: "Starting next month—frontline commission jumps to 2.5%. Admin salaries frozen."
DeShawn frowned: "Meaning?"
"Sell more, earn more. That's it."
Victor smiled. "Incentive. 3% means top crews pocket an extra $20–30 a week. They'll kill for it."
DeShawn nodded: "They'll eat that up."
Victor kept rolling: "Mary—your pay doubles to $100/week. But books go from weekly to every two days. My cash flow's tight!"
Mary thought: "$125/week—I'll work seven."
Victor nodded.
Meeting over. Only Jimmy stayed.
He eyed Victor's callused knuckles, fresh cut over the brow: "You sure about juggling all this? Business, boxing… and enemies you can't see?"
Victor stared at Chicago's night sky: "Jimmy—either go all in or stay on the bench."
---
First week of June: ten new trucks delivered.
Victor oversaw refits himself—top gear, screaming Snow Honey Wind City logos.
Meanwhile, boxing hit a new gear—Frankie tailoring tactics for the July 11 opponent.
Business and boxing—two worlds, one rhythm.
The ring gave him guts for risk.
Deals sharpened his fight IQ.
Every knockdown reminded him of business flops.
Every stalled negotiation? He waited like a boxer—patient for the opening.
---
Night six: Frankie called, voice grim.
"We need to talk. Now."
In Frankie's office: surprise guest—a sharp-suited middle-aged Asian man, jade pinky ring, snake tattoo peeking from his cuff.
"Victor."
He stood, offered a hand. "Heard a lot. I'm Mr. Huang. Representing Srei."
Frankie fidgeted: "Mr. Huang's… concerned about your hiring at the dojo."
Huang's smile didn't reach his eyes: "Ambition's good, kid. But Chicago's food scene's fragile. Twenty trucks? Hurts a lot of mouths."
Victor locked eyes: "Like Srei's underground casinos and brothels? I hear they serve food too."
Air froze.
Frankie went ghost-white. Huang's smile vanished.
"You're clever," Huang said softly. "Clever ones die young. The dojo gives you bodies—not backup."
Victor stood tall: "I need cash to fund my boxing. I'm even if I dominate, no fair shake. No promoters, no agents want me. Only export companies hit me up. I need this to train, to get fights."
"We understand."
Huang left, satisfied.
Frankie slammed a whiskey: "You're insane! Srei runs half Chicago's underworld!"
Victor fixed his cuffs: "The dojo won't back me while Srei's breathing. They want someone who plays nice—not a pig like me! Frankie—Srei can be anyone!"