Uberman's office reeked of pricey leather and cigar smoke—the unmistakable scent of power and money mixed together.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the heavy velvet curtains turned it into a sickly amber glow, making the whole room feel like a fever dream.
The congressman stood at the window, back to the door, shoulders locked tight like a bowstring ready to snap.
"Close the door."
His voice was a volcano under a thin crust of rock.
The lock clicked. Uberman whipped around.
He was younger and taller than Old Joe expected, suit tailored to a gym-sculpted frame.
But those bloodshot eyes—panicked, cornered—gave him away. Not the look of a man used to running the show.
"What do you want?"
He fired the question, fingers drumming the $20,000 mahogany desk, nails leaving tiny scratches on the polished wood.
Old Joe took his time, sliding photos from an envelope and fanning them across the desk like a winning poker hand.
Each one worse than the last.
First: Uberman chatting with a young woman in a hotel lobby.
Second: elevator make-out—obviously security cam.
Third: Uberman on his knees, taking orders.
The final shot—Uberman's Adam's apple bobbed hard.
"Thirty minutes till one o'clock," Old Joe said, calm as a poisoned dagger brushing skin. "Chicago PD needs a statement clearing Victor of any sex-work charges. That ESPN hack, Max Wilson, needs to pay for slandering the department's integrity."
Uberman's face went from red to ghost-white. "You think a few photos can blackmail a United States congressman?"
His voice cracked an octave higher, betraying the shake.
He was a son-in-law, not blood. If these leaked, his career was toast.
Old Joe smiled—Uberman took half a step back, dress shoes whispering on the carpet. "Not blackmail, Congressman. A trade. You help me, these pictures never see the front page of the Chicago Tribune."
He paused. "Think of your wife's book club. Your daughter's future at Princeton."
"What if I say no?" Uberman lifted his chin, grasping for dignity.
Old Joe pulled a single negative from his pocket—clean edges—and set it beside the photos. "Then tomorrow morning, the other half shows up on your wife's vanity. Copy goes to the Washington Post."
Uberman slammed a fist on the desk. A framed photo with the governor jumped. "Do you know who I am? I can make you and your mob goons disappear overnight!"
Old Joe didn't flinch. He'd heard empty threats before. "Go ahead. You'll hit the evening news first."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper sharper than a scream: "Congressman and call girl—great headline. Especially when she's the one in charge."
The air froze.
Old Joe kept going: "And when your redneck voters find out you picked a Black domme? Now that's entertainment."
Uberman's chest heaved, eyes flashing murder and terror—like a caged animal.
Old Joe knew this was the moment: submit or lash out.
His hand eased inside his coat, brushing the .38 with the trigger already filed.
The antique wall clock ticked like a bomb.
One o'clock deadline hung overhead like a guillotine.
Finally, Uberman reached for the phone. Fingers hovered, then slammed the buttons.
"Get me the Chicago chief of police."
He glared at Old Joe like he could nail him to the wall with his eyes. "Yeah, this is Congressman Uberman. That boxer case? It's closed. Why are people still questioning CPD's competence? You want the whole country thinking Chicago cops can't do their jobs?"
"Victor represents Chicago. We letting our own get railroaded? That's dereliction!"
"Before one o'clock, send a clearance letter to the American Boxing Association and the Hilton in Colorado Springs—Victor never touched sex work. Add that we're pursuing legal action against ESPN's Max Wilson for personally smearing CPD's fairness and capability."
"What do you mean you're off duty? That how you waste taxpayer money?"
"Overtime? I'll push for a budget increase."
Old Joe listened quietly as Uberman made every call.
Last one was to a connected underworld boss—the guy who'd ratted out the ESPN reporter. Clock read 12:45.
Three's voice was low on the line.
Sweat soaked Uberman's collar, staining his silk tie dark.
"Now give me the negatives," he demanded, bravado gone.
Old Joe stood, straightening his coat. "One o'clock. I'll confirm Victor gets my insurance."
He walked to the door, paused without turning. "Oh, and Congressman? This secret? We'll own you for life."
The door shut. A heavy thud hit the floor behind it. Old Joe let himself smirk.
That night, Veronica took 27 bullets in the back at home—ruled a crime of passion by her live-in boyfriend, who snapped due to a family history of mental illness.
Old Joe's place and Victor's room got hit by "burglars" too. No casualties.
---
2:00 p.m. that day.
Hilton, 17th-floor executive lounge, Colorado Springs.
Victor slammed a fist on the marble bar—ice cubes clinked like wind chimes in his glass.
"I'm ending this reporter! I swear, not even Jesus could save him!"
His bronze face was flushed with rage, the swelling on his right cheek making him look even meaner.
Max was sweating—and not from any fear of the Lord, since nobody in the room believed in Him.
"Shut it, Victor. Quit acting like a raging bull—this ain't a rodeo!"
Max barked, flipping through a thick stack of printouts while speed-talking into his brick-sized cell phone.
"Old Joe, heads up—Uberman's a total moron. He might send hitters after you guys."
"Don't sleep on it. Nobody predicts idiots. He's not asking advice—he might think killing you is the clean play."
"Yeah, total amateur."
"Veronica alive is best for him—at least if this blows up, she can testify it never happened. Just pay her off. But Uberman's dumb—he'll probably overcorrect."
---
"Lock his location! He's in our hotel? Sweet. Jimmy, draft a cease-and-desist with the CPD attachment—fax it to ESPN corporate!"
"Forget playing nice! ESPN's barely five years old. Big audience, sure—but they won't fight the government. And we're calling it personal misconduct!"
---
"Jimmy, blast the CPD clearance to our sneaker and gym-equipment sponsors. Keep it vague—let 'em think Chicago PD's got our back."
---
"Jimmy, find the snitch. Don't touch him… Wait, Mark? Isn't he paralyzed, incontinent, got AIDS, syphilis, the works—locked up in a psych ward?"
"Oh, his dad? Father-of-the-year material. Any way to shut him up?"
"Cool it, Jimmy—no mob tactics!"
"You're a damn lawyer and that's your big idea? Your brain's like the subway—loud, dirty, and stuck on one track!"
"You want my advice? I ain't the lawyer. You gonna cut me in on your paycheck? What'd they teach you in law school—PE teacher?"
"Oh, right—you never went to college."
"Jimmy—tax evasion? Mistress? Hell, stage a school shooting if you have to! Use that peanut brain and think! Make him too busy to mess with us!"
---
"A girl at their school lost her hymen? Black girl? Jimmy, you're a genius. You and your buddies—geniuses!"
"Jimmy, I knew you had it in you. Leak the 'board of trustees fetish' angle—go straight for the school's donors."
"Feed the scandal to the American Minors Association—they'll know what to do!"
"What do you mean 'sports-related membrane tear'? Jimmy, you're a lawyer—you only speak truth. I'm not asking for lies. Just tell the press and the association the truth:
Sports. Membrane damage. Black girl. Trustee meeting. Parents suspicious. Girl scared to speak. Worried about graduation.
All true. Just shuffle the order. We stick to facts!"
---
"Victor, quit losing it in here!"
Max hung up, spun to Victor, and snapped: "CPD sent the clearance. Jimmy's handling cleanup. We gotta meet the boxing association."
Victor snatched the stack of papers. Chicago PD's badge glinted cold under the lights.
Official Statement: Victor Cleared of Any Involvement in Sex Services.
That ESPN prick Max Wilson dropped an "exclusive" claiming "reliable sources" tied the Chicago champ to high-end escorts.
The headline alone made Victor's blood boil—why bash a guy for earning his money fair and square in the land of the free?
"Sixty copies enough?"
Hotel PR director Lisa hustled in, trailed by two bellhops pushing carts stacked with files. "Printed per Ms. Max's orders."
Max flipped through the top copy. "Perfect. Lisa, get these to the convention center? Press conference in thirty."
Victor watched the carts roll out, neat and official. Max was a machine.
The last two hours had been hell:
Sponsors pausing deals. Boxing association investigation notices. Twitter blowing up with #BoxerPimp.
Worst? Someone called him a "ho." Victor memorized the username—if they ever crossed paths, lights out.
"Remember, Victor—keep it together. Don't erupt till it's time."
Max gripped his shoulder. "Press conference: three lines. One—malicious slander. Two—police cleared you. Three—legal action incoming. I'll handle the rest."
Victor nodded, sucked in a breath.
He could eat a heavyweight's hook, but backstabbing? That blindsided him.
Through the window, Colorado Springs sparkled below—city lights like a thousand spying eyes.
So far, Victor had zero regrets about going legit.