A sticky summer night in Chicago's South Side, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and soy sauce.
Victor stood at Uncle Joe's front door holding two bottles of top-shelf Moutai and a pack of premium Heiqun cigarettes. He straightened his jacket, already hearing kids laughing in the backyard and the clatter of spatulas in the kitchen.
The door swung open. Uncle Joe—wrinkled but full of life—snatched the cigarettes with a grin.
"Nice stuff, kid! This ain't cheap! Victor! Get in here—Michael and Ethan are already inside."
Of course it's not cheap. You can only get these through smuggling.
"Happy birthday."
—Uncle Joe's birthday was March 26th.
Victor handed over the gifts—his first time celebrating the old man's big day.
In the living room, Michael was waving his arms, telling some wild story. Ethan lounged on the beat-up leather couch, flipping a fancy lighter in his hand—the gift he'd brought for his dad.
In the corner, Frankie sat like a shadow by the window, cigarette smoke curling from his fingers, twisting into weird shapes under the dim yellow light.
"Hey, fellas!"
Victor called out, dropping the booze on the coffee table. "Y'all got here early!"
Six-year-old Karen came barreling in like a little rocket. Victor laughed, scooped her up, and lifted her over his head. She giggled like a wind chime.
Frankie just raised an eyebrow and kept smoking.
Two-year-old Jessica sat in his lap, sucking her thumb, staring curiously.
"Big brother Victor!"
Karen wrapped her arms around his neck. "Mom said you're gonna teach me how to box!"
"You bet, future champ."
Victor glanced at "flexible" Aunt Mei, nuzzled Karen's cheek, then sat by the window. He opened the pack of Heiqun, passed one to each guy, lit up, and turned to Frankie:
"How's the South Side lately? Thanks for the tip you sent—it helped a ton."
Frankie blew a smoke ring, savoring the kick of hometown tobacco from halfway around the world. "No big deal. Just small-time stuff."
His voice was low and gravelly, like sandpaper on wood. "Srei's in a good mood lately. Hasn't messed with Chinatown much."
From the kitchen came Aunt Mei's booming voice: "Frankie! Tell your wife to ease up on the chili! We Americans can't handle that heat!"
Frankie's wife, Lin Mei, poked her head out, smiling helplessly—she was from Jiangxiu.
Victor noticed Frankie's fingers tighten around his cigarette when he heard "Americans," crumpling the filter. "That's exactly why we don't like our own mom."
"Victor," Michael cut in, practically bouncing. "Tell Dad how much we made this time!"
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Can't you wait till we eat?"
"Two grand," Victor said, setting Karen down. He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to Uncle Joe. "Your cut, Uncle."
Uncle Joe felt the thickness, eyes wide. "I just passed along a thing."
Victor shook his head. "I'm broke, or it'd be more."
Frankie snorted. "How much can you make with fists? Guns pay better."
"With contracts and the law," Victor said calmly, but his eyes sharpened. "Frankie, our money's clean—we can spend it in daylight."
The room went quiet for a beat.
Uncle Joe jumped in: "Did you guys see Victor's fight? Golden Gloves champ! How long's it been since Chicago had a Chinese-American winner?"
"Thirteen years," Ethan answered right away. "Last one was Jimmy Wang, Bruce Lee's student, back in '72."
"But the association didn't even throw a party," Michael fumed. "Victor beat a seeded fighter! Those white judges looked sick!"
Ethan grinned. "But it's about to get good—'cause we're going pro and cashing in."
Frankie stubbed his cigarette on the windowsill. "Still dreaming?"
His voice cut like a blade. "Skin like ours wants respect in this country? Look at Chinatown. Look at the laundromats and takeouts. We gotta guard our own turf with guns and blood!"
Victor saw Uncle Joe's brow furrow, but the old man stayed quiet.
Karen sensed the tension and hugged Victor's leg tight.
"Frankie's right," Victor said slowly, pulling a red-covered book from his coat and setting it on the table—he carried it everywhere now. "But not completely."
The gold-embossed Chinese characters Selected Works glinted under the light.
"Respect isn't begged for," Victor said, tapping the cover. "It's fought for. How long did Martin Luther King fight? Can Black folks walk into the White House yet?"
Frankie shot to his feet. "What the hell do you know? Srei's got a hundred guys with guns. Last year, over a couple blocks of lighter business, we lost seven brothers! You think fighting's a game?"
"Frankie!" Uncle Joe barked. "Don't bring your gang crap in here! Get out if you can't behave!"
Victor just smiled—a smile that dropped the room temperature ten degrees.
"Three hundred thousand Chinese in Chicago, Frankie. Three hundred thousand votes. Three hundred thousand consumers. Three hundred thousand taxpayers. In this country, you either control the money or the ballots—or you're second-class forever."
Everyone froze. Even the kitchen went silent.
Then someone started laughing. Then the whole room cracked up—except Victor and Frankie.
"Victor, my boy," Uncle Joe said, wiping his eyes. "Since when do you care about politics?"
Victor didn't answer.
Dinner happened in a weird vibe.
Aunt Mei's roast duck and sweet-and-sour ribs smelled amazing, but talk at the table was choppy.
Frankie barely touched his food—just kept drinking.
Victor noticed his eyes kept flicking to the red book on the coffee table.
After dinner, Uncle Joe motioned for Victor and Frankie to follow him to the study.
The study was tiny, stacked with Chinese newspapers and ledgers.
Uncle Joe shut the door and got serious.
"Victor, what the hell are you thinking?"
"Because I won the title and didn't get the respect I earned. It's not right. It's not fair. I want a place in the sun—legit."
Uncle Joe's brow knotted. Good thing Frankie wasn't well-read—he didn't catch the meaning.
Then Victor looked at Frankie and dropped a bomb: "If we took out Srei, what are your odds of running the Azure Dragon Society?"
The air froze.
Frankie's face turned red, veins popping in his neck. "You crazy?"
He punched the bookshelf—books crashed down. "This ain't your boxing match! Say that outside, and Srei'll pour cement down our throats and sink us in Lake Michigan in barrels!"
"Frankie!" Uncle Joe roared.
But Frankie stormed out, slamming the door so hard the wall calendar fell.
Victor bent down, picked it up, dusted it off.
"Sorry, Uncle. Maybe I was too direct."
Uncle Joe stared at him, eyes complicated.
"Your dad asked me to look after you before he passed. But you're grown. You've got your own ideas. I can accept that. Never thought you'd go… this far."
He pointed to a book that had fallen—The Art of War. "Be careful, Victor. Chicago's underworld is deeper than you think."
When Victor left, Frankie's car was gone.
The night breeze off Lake Michigan carried damp air through the streets. Victor pulled up his collar and drove off in Ethan's Ford.
He eased the door open. Only streetlight stripes through the blinds lit the dark living room.
A cigarette ember glowed in the corner, followed by a long exhale.
"Why take out Srei?"
"Srei's too obedient—but only to the white guys."
"If I take over, I'll still answer to the white guys. You gonna take me out too?"
"No. The white guys answer to Franklin. Srei answers to the white guys. You answer to Srei. So why can't we make Franklin answer to us?"
"You don't have that kind of pull."
"This isn't a one- or two-year plan."
"One more thing—Srei's got the martial arts schools backing him."
"You handle the streets. I'll handle the top."
…
The party Fouquet threw was at Old Jack's buddy's place—Colonel Kiefer's house.
Victor wore a suit—navy blue, shoulders a little tight from all the muscle he'd packed on lately. Even if suits weren't his thing, in America, you play by America's rules.
Colonel Kiefer's place was softly lit, maybe twenty people scattered around.
Victor spotted the coaching crew—Old Jack talking with Ethan. In the corner, a tall, skinny white-haired guy sat alone. Had to be Frankie Dunn.
"Victor!"
Old Jack waved him over. Ethan was right there. "Come meet Frankie."
Frankie Dunn stood up. Victor was shocked—the guy was half a head taller than him.
The coach's hand was rough as sandpaper but gripped with scary precision.
"Saw your fight tape," Frankie said, voice low and raspy. He needed this job—his daughter had cut him off, and without it, he'd be stuck coaching out of a garage.
"Aggressive style, real pressure, killer power in those punches. But your defense has holes. I can fix that."
Victor nodded. "I'd like that."
"If you're willing to learn."
Frankie gave a short answer, but his eyes showed respect. Then, out of nowhere, he said in Chinese: "I won't hold back."
Victor was stunned. Old Jack laughed.
"We were all POWs together. Some didn't want to come back. The ones who did got treated like dirt. So we stay in touch, help each other out."
Frankie gave a bitter smile and shut up—saying that one line in Chinese had already reminded Victor who held the power here.
Halfway through the party, a figure appeared—Colonel Kiefer. Came back from Korea with all his limbs, but led a bunch of screw-ups in Vietnam and lost his right hand. Now a gimp with a cane.
He hobbled in, followed by a sharply dressed white guy Victor didn't know.
"Victor Lee!"
Colonel Kiefer's voice boomed, way too big for his frame. "Congrats, kid. Chicago needs champs like you."
Victor shook his hand politely.
"This here's Lowell Hadda—a redneck farmer turned agent. A real oddball among Texas hardheads," Kiefer said, turning to the guy. "But he keeps that Texas flavor. Especially hates lazy n—— Old Jack, no offense."
Lowell Hadda looked mid-forties, dark suit tailored sharp, gray temples giving him gravitas.
His handshake was firm and quick, eyes direct and focused.
"Been hearing about you, Victor."
Lowell's voice was surprisingly gentle. "That punch on Alexander? Classic. Not many pro boxers could land it."
"Thanks…"
"You and one of my fighters are built similar. His name's Eric Al—"
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