harleyscars Page 180
Page 180
Ivana sat up, took the coat and wrapped it around herself, without looking at him.
“TLP won’t ask for my opinion on this kind of thing.”
“I will give you shares, which will allow you to have your own business after leaving TLP.”
Victor interrupted her, his voice low and firm, "I know you've actually been separated all along."
Ivana looked up at his calm profile, then suddenly smiled, a smile tinged with self-mockery and relief: "He is arrogant and conceited."
She quickly got dressed and went to the door.
As she gripped the doorknob, she paused, without turning around, and said softly, "Call my private number when you have time."
Then, just as she had come, she opened the door silently and left quickly.
Viktor was the only one left in the room.
He walked to the window; the sky was already beginning to lighten, and the city lights hadn't completely gone out yet. Everything from last night—TLP's oppressive proposal, his calm refusal, TLP's anger, Ivana's unexpected arrival, and the subsequent frenzied passion—flashed through his mind like scenes from a movie.
He felt a complex mix of emotions: the emptiness of not knowing the future, the secret thrill of offending authority, and a sense of unease about unpredictable consequences.
Ivana's warning echoed in his ears.
TLP certainly doesn't like being rejected.
But Viktor does not regret his decision.
He always knew where his boundaries lay.
New York's glamour and danger, like Ivana, are alluring yet difficult to control.
He belongs to the clear rules of the boxing ring, and to the more tangible world of Chicago.
The cold air seems to have a sobering effect.
He buried that night in Manhattan deep in his heart and threw himself back into training and business as if nothing had ever happened.
In New York, TLP returned after finishing his business in Atlantic City. Perhaps intrigued by Victor's suggestion, he actually had the risk assessment department initiate a project to study the possibility of building a Plaza Hotel in Chicago.
Chapter 152 Golota is a Polish coward
In early February 1987, the New York winds were biting cold, but they did nothing to dampen the excited atmosphere inside the Plaza Hotel.
Under the crystal chandelier, men in suits and women in elegant dresses held champagne and chatted and laughed in the warm yellow light, as if this were not a weigh-in ceremony before a boxing match, but a high-society dinner party.
"Victor Lee, WBA Heavyweight Champion! World Boxing Champion..."
The host's loud voice echoed through the hall.
The spotlight shone on an unusually broad-shouldered Asian man.
Viktor slowly walked onto the stage. His height of 185 centimeters was not outstanding among heavyweight boxers, but his back, which was almost twice as wide as an average person's, and his thick neck were unforgettable.
His red silk boxing robe fluttered slightly with his steps, revealing glimpses of his well-defined muscles beneath.
Victor stepped onto the scale expressionlessly—400 pounds exactly.
A murmur arose from the audience; no one could have imagined that this Chinese boxer, despite his astonishing weight, did not appear particularly obese.
"Now, please welcome the challenger, the 'Chicago Giant' from Poland—Andrew Golota!"
A burly white man, standing at least 196 centimeters tall, leaped onto the stage. His short blond hair stood up like steel needles, and his blue eyes gleamed with a wild light.
He blew kisses to the audience in an exaggerated manner, showing off his well-defined muscles—254 pounds, the typical physique of a heavyweight boxer.
The weighing ceremony should have ended there, but Golota suddenly grabbed the microphone and stared intently at Viktor.
"Li, I heard you're the head of a Chinese gang in Chicago?"
Golotta's voice blared through the loudspeaker, eliciting gasps from the crowd: "But in the ring, without your henchmen to protect you, tomorrow night I'll make you beg for mercy on the ground like a stray dog in a Chinese restaurant."
The scene fell silent.
Not everyone knows Victor Lee’s influence in Chicago, but no one has ever dared to openly provoke him like this, especially since such accusations are considered quite severe.
Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly, but a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
He took a step forward, and although he was half a head shorter than Golota, his broad figure created an invisible sense of oppression.
“Mr. Golotta,”
Victor's voice was surprisingly calm. "It seems you're not only bad at fighting, but also terrible at intelligence gathering. I'm not the owner of the Chinese restaurants; I'm their protector. As for your challenge..."
Viktor suddenly took off his boxing robe, revealing his mountain-like muscles and a menacing red tiger tattoo.
"Tomorrow night, I'll teach you how to be a proper Chicagoan with my fists!"
The two stood face to face, their noses almost touching, and the air was thick with tension.
Staff rushed forward to separate the two, and flashes of light captured the tense moment.
TLP, watching from the sidelines, turned to his wife Ivana and whispered, "This Pole has some nerve, daring to provoke Viktor like that. I heard that last year in Chicago, an Italian mafia boss disappeared without a trace the next day because he spoke rudely to Viktor."
Ivana gently swirled her champagne glass. "Donald, that's business. A game with buzz sells more tickets."
The weighing ceremony ended in an unpleasant atmosphere.
Victor put on his robe and walked straight toward the Trumps.
"Donald, Ivana, thank you for coming to watch the match."
When Victor shook hands with TLP, the hostility on his face had vanished, replaced by a businesslike smile.
"Victor, you still know how to create a buzz."
TLP laughed and patted him on the shoulder, "I believe you can win."
Viktor knew that TLP was definitely doing this for business. Viktor glanced at Ivana and smacked his lips—he had been living a very carefree life these past few days, working one day on and resting the next.
"Don't worry, I'll make that Pole understand why I was able to defend my gold belt three times."
After exchanging pleasantries, Viktor turned and left, his smile vanishing instantly.
Ethan quickly caught up and whispered, "Should I have someone 'deal with' Golota?"
Victor shook his head. "No need. I'll personally crush him in the boxing ring, then I'll have the hospital handle it..."
Back in the presidential suite on the top floor of the hotel, Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the New York night view, but another thought surfaced in his mind:
'Ivana and the others aren't acting, are they?'
"Golota's information is more detailed now."
Shortly after, Ethan's voice interrupted his recollection as he entered, "He immigrated from Poland last year and is very popular in Chicago's Polish community. His record is 12 wins and 0 losses, with 11 knockouts."
Victor took the file and glanced at it. "Where's the background?"
"It's suspiciously clean. How could someone who just immigrated a year ago have so much money to hire top coaches and sparring partners? I suspect there's Polish gang support behind him, and he might be deliberately trying to provoke you."
"This is a scheme orchestrated by capital!"
Victor sneered, "Those old guys want to steal Chicago's attention with boxing. Whoever backs them up, they'll lose everything tomorrow night."
On the evening of February 6, the Plaza Hotel in New York was converted into a temporary boxing ring.
All 15000 seats were sold out, and tickets were being resold for five times the original price—Victor still commanded a $12 million appearance fee plus a 40% cut of the box office, while Golota only received $50,000.
The audience included socialites, sports stars, gang members, and various media outlets, all eager to witness this explosive showdown.
Victor was making his final preparations in the locker room, and Frankie was wrapping his wrists.
"Remember, Golota likes to launch a fierce attack when his opponent is tired. Be careful of his left hook in the first two rounds; it's his most powerful weapon."
Old Jack advised from the side, "Your strength and resilience are your advantages. Close the distance and strike the body or abdomen."
Viktor nodded, his eyes focused.
He put on boxing gloves and did a few shadowboxing moves, feeling the contraction and expansion of his muscles.
His 400-pound weight makes his movements look less graceful than those of agile boxers, but every punch he throws is accompanied by a whooshing sound, as if it can tear the air apart.
"Time is up!"
The staff knocked on the door and called out.
Victor stood up, and the red tiger tattoo seemed to come alive with the rise and fall of his muscles.
At the end of the passage, a boxing ring under the spotlight awaited him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Plaza Hotel!"
The host's booming voice echoed throughout the arena, "Tonight we will witness the second WBA heavyweight championship title defense! First up, the challenger from Chicago, the Polish giant—Andrew Golota!"
Amid cheers and boos, Golota leaped onto the ring, arrogantly blowing kisses to the surrounding audience, and finally making a throat-slitting gesture in Viktor's direction.
"And the defending champion is Victor Lee, the 'Tiger' from Chicago!"
Viktor calmly walked into the ring, expressionless, and simply nodded slightly in response to the cheers of the audience.
Ignoring Golota's provocation, he walked straight to his corner for his final warm-up.
The referee called the two men to the center of the ring and routinely explained the rules.
Golota's eyes were fixed on Viktor, as if he wanted to devour him alive.
"I want a fair fight. Now let's touch our gloves and go back to our corners."
The two touched their boxing gloves symbolically, and in that instant, Golota suddenly whispered, "After the match, I'll go find your mistress in Chinatown and let her taste what a real man is like."
Victor's eyes narrowed suddenly, but he quickly regained his composure, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth: "I will make you offer your wife to me to enjoy!"
The sharp ringing tore through the air like a blade slicing through the boiling clamor inside the stadium.
"Round one begins!"
As soon as the referee made his gesture, Andre Golota pounced like a tiger unleashed from its cage.
This Polish giant weighs nearly 250 pounds, yet his muscular body moves with remarkable agility.
He threw a left hook that whistled through the air, heading straight for Victor's head. The speed of the punch drew gasps from the audience.
Victor took a half step back, raised his arms, and used the outside of his gauntlets to block the blow.
Even with some preparation, my arm was still numb from the shock—the strength of this Polish man was indeed not to be underestimated.
"Just as the data said, they like to launch a fierce attack at the start."