harleyscars Page 102
Page 102
His gaze swept across the restaurant, quickly locking onto Victor's location, and he strode over.
"Victor."
Tyson's voice was deep and powerful as he extended his hand. "Long time no see."
Victor stood up and grasped the hand that had once and was about to defeat countless opponents: "Mike, thank you for coming."
After Tyson sat down, the waiter immediately came forward, but he waved him away.
"Let's get straight to the point,"
Tyson looked Viktor straight in the eye. "I know why you asked me out."
Victor took a deep breath: "I think you know Trump's plans."
"That greedy bastard,"
Tyson sneered, "He wants to pull off a big heist before my contract expires, and you're his chosen scapegoat. He might even spend another month building up your reputation before I finish you off."
Viktor's fingers tapped unconsciously on the tablecloth.
Tyson leaned forward: "Listen, Viktor, I've watched all your fights. You have talent, real talent. But Trump doesn't care about that—he only cares about money. He's planning to have you face me early, when I'm at my best, so he can make a fortune no matter what."
Viktor felt a surge of excitement run down his spine—fighting Tyson would have made him nervous before, but now it was exhilarating.
“I’d be happy to. You’re currently ranked 130th in the heavyweight division, while I’m still over 700. I won’t give up the chance to beat you. Isn’t that what you want too?”
You think I wanted this?
Tyson's voice suddenly rose, drawing the attention of several nearby tables of customers. He immediately lowered his voice, "I've worked so hard in boxing for so many years, I don't need to prove anything by fighting for a lower ranking."
The restaurant lights flickered in Tyson's eyes, and for the first time, Victor saw genuine anger in those usually aggressive eyes—not directed at him, but at the businessman who was trying to manipulate the two of them.
"Then why are you distancing yourself from me?"
Victor asked directly, "You haven't spoken to me since Trump started promoting my game."
Tyson sighed, twirling his thick fingers in his water glass. "I don't want to put pressure on you. I know what Trump is up to, and if I continue to maintain a close relationship with you, it will only bring you more unnecessary attention and expectations."
Viktor suddenly understood Tyson's good intentions—though they were rather naive.
Tyson isn't the Mike Tyson who boxed for money; he's now protecting his friends.
I misunderstood you.
Victor said frankly, "But Mike, I want you to fight me with all your might. I want to see the difference between us."
"Gap? What nonsense!"
Tyson gave a rare smile. "I'm not confident I can beat you either, but the question now is, what should we do? We'll fight when it's time to fight, but Trump has a contract, and I don't want him to have it so easy."
A resolute glint flashed in Viktor's eyes: "I will not shy away from the fight. If I must face you in the end, I will stand on that ring without fear."
Tyson nodded: "Go on."
"I want to fight you!"
Victor said to Tyson, "And I need your approval, the two of us will fight fifteen rounds! Let's make Trump lose everything!"
"Good idea, but you might not be able to last fifteen rounds."
That's my business.
"I respect your arrogance!"
Tyson raised his glass, then suddenly became serious: "Victor, there's one thing you need to understand. If we end up in the same ring, I won't hold back. That's the greatest respect I can give you."
Viktor met his gaze: "That's what I've been waiting for. Let bygones be bygones, but after tonight, no matter what happens, I will consider you a friend."
Chapter 82 Blair Becomes CEO of SHW
In July, Chicago was sweltering, and the air inside the boxing gym was so thick it felt like you could wring water out of it.
Viktor was shirtless, his bronze skin covered with a fine layer of sweat that shimmered with a metallic sheen under the overhead light.
His arms were swollen, with veins bulging on the surface of his muscles like winding rivers.
Old Jack's hoarse voice echoed in the training hall.
Viktor gritted his teeth and lunged at the sandbag hanging in front of him once more.
This is not ordinary striking training—he must hold a nearly 200-pound sandbag tightly with both arms, gripping it like a lover for five seconds, then suddenly push it away, and then quickly repeat the process.
"Hug like a python, push away like a spring!"
Frankie, holding a stopwatch, instructed from the side, "Remember, Radok hates this kind of play, but he's 191cm tall, and his height and wingspan are both greater than yours. This is the only way you can do it!"
Viktor's breathing had become heavy, and his arms were burning with pain from the buildup of lactic acid.
Since starting this special training on July 25, he has repeated this movement no less than 7 times a day.
His already astonishing strength was amplified through professional training, but the price was that his hands would tremble even when he picked up a glass of water after returning to his apartment every night.
"Take a five-minute break, then we'll have a live-fire exercise."
Old Jack tossed him a towel, which was already soaked with sweat from the previous breaks.
Viktor slumped onto a bench in the corner and tilted his head back to gulp down an entire bottle of electrolyte drink.
His gaze swept over the calendar on the wall—August 10th was circled in red, the last day of high-intensity training.
After that, there will be a five-day adjustment period, followed by the showdown with 'Razor' Ruddock on the 15th.
Viktor had never heard of Radok until someone told him that Radok had been playing professionally since 1980 and had never lost. Only then did Viktor relax his guard.
"Your progress is faster than expected."
Frankie walked over and handed him a document. "This is a report that Fiona just sent. Jimmy said you might want to take a look."
Viktor opened the folder with trembling fingers.
According to monthly reports from Snowy Windy City Food Service (SHW), its sixty food trucks have covered most of Chicago’s low- and middle-income neighborhoods, and have formed a stable customer base, particularly around the University of Chicago.
The average monthly profit per vehicle is consistently between $700 and $1,000, which means the company can generate approximately $60,000 in cash flow for him each month.
“Fiona said that next month they could expand to eighty vehicles,”
Victor glanced at Jimmy's note at the end of the report, "But additional investment is needed."
Viktor closed the file, his mind racing with calculations.
With this income, he now has nearly $900,000 in cash on hand.
How should this money be used—to continue expanding the restaurant business, or to invest in Nike and Apple stocks as originally planned?
What else did Jimmy say?
He asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Frankie shrugged: "That kid said you shouldn't be figuring things out on your own, you should find someone who knows what you're doing."
Before Victor could respond, Old Jack blew his whistle: "Break time! Victor, it's time to go on the court with your sparring partner!"
The next two hours were a hellish live-fire exercise.
Viktor had to apply his training to real combat – hugging, applying pressure, pushing away, and then quickly closing in again.
This tactic may seem simple, but it actually requires precise timing and incredible physical stamina.
When training ended, Victor collapsed onto the boxing ring, his chest heaving violently, as if he had just finished a marathon.
Old Jack rarely showed a satisfied expression. "Hang in there for another week, and your arms will be stronger than Radok's thighs."
On August 2, at the Ocean Restaurant in the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City, Victor was wearing a tailor-made dark blue suit, a stark contrast to his usual image at the boxing gym.
Jimmy sat to his right, adjusting his bow tie from time to time, clearly not used to such a high-class occasion.
"he came."
Jimmy said in a low voice, glancing toward the restaurant entrance.
Blair Parfait—the investor who couldn't make it on Wall Street—was being led by a waiter to their table.
He looked to be in his early twenties. His suit, though well-made, was somewhat worn, and the wrinkles around his eyes and his slightly hunched shoulders spoke of his recent disappointment.
Victor stood up and extended his hand. "You've finally come!"
Blair shook Victor's hand, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.
He clearly hadn't expected that the arrogant person back then would actually have such great abilities, and that he could have reached this point.
“Victor,”
Blair responded cautiously, "To be honest, I'm curious why you contacted me."
Victor gestured for him to sit down: “Let’s eat first, we can talk business later. I’ve heard the seafood here is the best on the entire East Coast.”
Blair nodded, and although he didn't wolf down his food, he ate very quickly afterward.
During the dinner that followed, Victor displayed a completely different demeanor from his boxing persona.
He discussed economic trends, asked Blair for his views on the development of the retail industry, and even talked about the recent stock market fluctuations.
Blair told Victor:
"I never imagined that a star player... or rather, Jordan, would be so crazy. He achieved Nike's sales in three years in just one year, causing the stock price to soar. As for Apple, which you mentioned, it's getting worse and worse, with no sign of recovery."
Victor laughed heartily: "That's because Jobs is making his animated films now!"
Jimmy laughed heartily, and then while Victor introduced his Snow Honey Windy City Catering Services (SHW), Jimmy would occasionally add details about SHW, but he mostly let Victor lead the conversation.
"So, Viktor..."
When dessert arrived, Blair finally couldn't help but ask, "Are you looking for investment advice?"
Victor put down his coffee cup and looked Blair straight in the eye: "No, Blair. I want to invite you to be the CEO of Snowy Wind City Catering Services."
Blair froze, the fork hanging in mid-air.
"I know you've had some setbacks on Wall Street lately. That bastard's making things incredibly difficult for you, and some people's help feels like kicking you when you're down..."
Victor continued, his tone calm but firm, "But Jimmy knows you. You accurately predicted the explosive growth of the fast food industry in the early 1980s, you just didn't time it right."
Blair's expression became complicated: "I hadn't graduated yet at that time."
"And my research shows that those clients later regretted not sticking to your advice,"