Trump's backing came in hot and heavy. Fouquet, who nobody wanted before, suddenly had eleven names to pick from. He chose three as Victor's next opponents:
- Donovan "Razor" Ruddock, born 1963, Canadian. 6'3", 238 lbs, 82-inch reach. Known for crushing power and his signature "Ruddock uppercut." Pro record: 13-0.
- Eddie Richardson (6-0 rising star).
- Hector Mercedes (the guy Tyson KO'd in his pro debut).
- Donald Harpern (the guy Tyson flattened in his third pro fight).
Fouquet was straight with Victor: Everything but Ruddock is Trump's doing.
The goal? Build hype, jack up the price tag—and the fifth fight would be the big one.
That's how you make headlines.
Fouquet laid it out:
- July 19 vs. Eddie Richardson
- August 15 vs. Ruddock
- September 5 vs. Mercedes
- October 9 vs. Harpern
…
July 15, 1985 — Trump Plaza Hotel conference room, Atlantic City. Camera flashes popping like gunfire.
Victor sat dead-center at the long table, stone-faced while reporters fired questions like machine guns.
White T-shirt stretched tight over his frame, tiger eyes and beard glowing under the lights.
"Mr. Lee, you've been pro less than three months and already booked four fights in the next three. Isn't that rushing it?"
The New York Times guy pushed up his glasses. "Some experts say you might have undiagnosed violent tendencies."
Victor tapped the table three times—his tell that he was pissed.
Lowell Hadda kicked his ankle under the table: Chill.
"I only answer to my hunger to fight."
His voice rumbled low, Chicago accent thick as brass knuckles. "The pro ring is the real battlefield."
Fouquet grabbed the mic, smooth as ever: "Victor's got rare talent. We're just following the call. Mr. Trump sees it too—that's why he's all in."
Reporters traded looks.
Everyone knew Trump loved drama. And Victor humiliating Japanese fighter Kyotaro Fujimoto—then turning him into a vegetable—had already made front-page news.
After the presser, the three headed back to the suite.
Lowell pulled three beers from the mini-fridge, popped the caps with his teeth.
"Fiat-Chrysler called again," he said, handing Victor a bottle. "Five years, 1.2 million, plus a Jeep—if you drive it everywhere for the next five."
Victor took the beer but didn't drink. Just stared at the condensation. "Beggar money?"
"What?"
Lowell nearly choked. "You know how many fighters would kill for that?"
"I know they're dying. Toyota's crushing them."
Victor set the bottle down, liquid sloshing. "Tell 'em next year. And come with cash."
Fouquet whistled. "Ruddock? Guy's chin could crack concrete. That uppercut's a blade. You sure you want him as a stepping stone?"
Victor didn't answer. Just walked to the window.
Thirteen floors below, Atlantic City's streets pulsed like a live wire.
"Trump's a slick bastard. Signs me to five fights, stuffs in three of Tyson's leftovers. Even the Japanese pig knows what he's doing!"
Fouquet threw his head back. "Obvious—he's training his 'knight'!"
Lowell nodded. "You go 5-0, then the fifth fight's gotta be you and Tyson."
"Targeted training starts tomorrow."
Victor turned, eyes burning with something dangerous. "I need Frankie and Old Jack to dig up every tape of these guys—every fight."
Next morning, 5 a.m.—Victor was already in some no-name Atlantic City gym.
Sweat rolled off his buzzed head, splashing dark circles on the concrete.
Frankie, cursing in a thick Texas drawl, adjusted the heavy bag.
"Motherfucking Canadian—82-inch reach,"
Frankie punched the bag. "Treat him like a rattlesnake. One-shot kill. In and out. Don't give him range."
Old Jack—still smoking—tossed a stack of yellowed newspapers onto a folding chair.
"1983, Toronto. Look how Ruddock's left hook sent a Polish giant's teeth flying into the third row."
Victor strapped on gloves, started combo work on the bag.
Jab, straight, left hook—each punch thudding like bone on bone.
His style wasn't pretty. It was raw power—like he wanted to punch straight through the bag.
That's what Frankie demanded: master the basics, let muscle memory take over, then rely on explosiveness and durability in the ring.
"Defense!"
Frankie whipped a bamboo stick wrapped in three layers of cotton across Victor's ribs. "In front of that uppercut, your chin's thinner than an eggshell. Ruddock'll pop it like a can opener!"
Victor reflex-blocked, but the stick still cracked his ribs.
Pain made him bare his teeth.
At lunch break, Lowell showed up with sandwiches—and bad news.
"Richardson's camp wants a pre-fight weigh-in stare-down. They're selling photos."
Victor wrung out his soaked T-shirt and chucked it in the corner. "Fine. As long as they pay extra."
"And,"
Lowell lowered his voice, "Trump wants you to talk trash on camera—about Fujimoto."
Victor froze for a second.
Fujimoto's twisted, pain-racked face flashed in his mind—damn, that felt good.
"Tell him to add money."
His voice came out rougher than usual. "Ten grand minimum."
Old Jack handed him a towel. "Victor, pro boxing ain't just punching. You gotta play the game."
Victor pressed the towel to his face, breathed deep.
Sweat and blood on the fabric—reminded him of his first day at Zhao's Bajiquan gym. Back then, he just wanted to survive the South Side.
Who knew ambition would grow like wildfire the stronger he got?
"As long as I keep winning, Trump will pick me."
He dropped the towel, walked to the ring. "Three more rounds."
Afternoon training was brutal.
Frankie brought in a sparring partner nearly Ruddock's height. Victor practiced cutting inside.
Every time he closed distance, the guy used long arms to shove him back—and sneaky elbows.
"Dammit!"
Third time getting pushed, Victor spat blood. "That's illegal!"
Old Jack laughed, gold teeth flashing. "Only rule in pro boxing: don't get knocked out. Ruddock'll pinch, shove, headbutt—anywhere the ref can't see."
Victor's chest heaved, sweat streaming down his back.
Suddenly he charged—not boxing footwork, full street-brawl lunge.
They crashed into the ropes. Victor's forehead smashed the guy's nose—then stopped.
"Jesus!"
The sparring partner stumbled back, clutching his face. Victor laughed, threw an arm around him in apology.
Frankie was about to explode—Old Jack stopped him.
"See that?"
Old Jack pointed at Victor. "That's instinct. You can teach technique. You can't teach that animal sense."
Evening—everyone gone. Victor stayed.
Barefoot on the floor, shadowboxing in front of the mirror.
The guy in the glass: round face, big eyes, full beard—like the leopard-headed, ring-eyed warriors in old books. Short, thick skull—built like a tank. Chin wasn't glass.
Victor threw a left hook. The mirror spider-webbed.
Blood seeped from his knuckles. Pain brought a strange calm.
"Mr. Lee."
A voice from the door.
Young blonde, sharp figure, holding a recorder and notebook. "Intern with the Brooklyn Eagle. Got five minutes?"
Victor wrapped his bleeding hand in a towel. "No."
"Just five," she pressed, wedding ring glinting. "Why'd you turn down Fiat? Some say arrogance. Others say you've got secret sponsors."
Victor headed to the locker room.
She followed. "People say you beat Fujimoto so bad because he looked like someone who hurt you. True?"
Victor spun—she backed into the wall.
"Wanna know?"
She nodded.
"Then let's make a deal."
Victor eyed her.
The blonde knew what the deal was—but her career came first.
"Not a good spot."
Victor glanced around, shook his head. "Middle of the night, nobody here, and I'm wound tight."
She accepted.
An hour later, the hardworking blonde walked out with two quotes—and three hundred bucks.
Victor stood under the shower, ice-cold water blasting.
Like a Chicago winter. He didn't move until his skin turned red and his breathing steadied.
Tyson loomed like a storm.
10 p.m.—he finally left the gym. Lowell's car still idled curbside.
"Victor, you're never short on women. No need to pick dangerous ones. Say the word—Atlantic City's full of 'em."
"A reporter, Lowell. You're overthinking."
"She's married. College-educated. Their knives cut deeper than the ones who just want powder and booze."
"I like the ones vetted by top men. Proves quality. Covers my blind spots with women."
Lowell sighed. "You're dangerous too."
"We kept it standing. No issues. Back to business."
"Can you spar one of my other cream-puff pro fighters?"
"Who's paying my appearance fee? After these five—if I survive—at least 200K a fight."
"I found a backer."
"Who?"
"The Pritzker family—Hyatt Hotels."