Blair Pafa stared at the gold-edged contract in his hands. Afternoon sunlight poured through the cheap blinds of Snow Honey Wind City Catering Services (SHW)'s second-floor office in Chicago, making the numbers on the page practically glow: $20,000 base salary plus 2% of the company's annual profits.
That was huge money. Not Wall Street huge, but top-5% huge. Enough for Blair to buy a house tomorrow with the lowest interest rate out there.
For a guy fresh out of business school, it felt too good to be true. For a guy who'd tanked his first big interview by spilling coffee all over the boss and got blacklisted? It was straight-up fantasy.
"Mr. Pafa, Jimmy will be here in five," an Asian-American secretary said softly, snapping him out of his daydream.
Blair nodded, set the contract on the conference table, and glanced around the South Side office.
Maps covered the walls: one showed Chicago's ninety community areas, another the whole U.S. A faint scent of sandalwood drifted from an incense burner on the shelf.
The East-meets-West vibe was weird, but kinda cool.
The door opened without a sound.
Jimmy walked in wearing a sharp charcoal suit, followed by a built Asian guy Blair recognized instantly: Old Joe, a South Side legend. Everyone knew his kids were all doing fine—except the oldest, who was a total screw-up.
"Welcome to SHW, Blair," Old Joe said, gripping Blair's hand like he meant it. His voice rumbled deep in his chest. "I'm guessing Jimmy already gave you the grand tour of HQ?"
"Yeah, Mr. Li—"
"Just Joe," he cut in with a grin. "Any questions? We'll talk over lunch. I booked us a private room next door."
Over lunch, Blair got the real scoop on SHW.
On paper, they ran food trucks selling fast takeout straight to customers, with a flat two-tier management setup.
In reality? Ingredients were still controlled by outsiders, suppliers were a mess, and half the crew looked like they could bench-press the trucks themselves. Robberies were a regular thing.
The company needed a full overhaul: from Chinatown to downtown, they wanted SHW trucks covering nearly 70% of the city.
"Our edge is resource integration," Joe said, deftly picking up a piece of Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks. "We get hot food into people's mouths fast. Hot beats cold every time—customers tell us that constantly. Plus, eating a bowl of rice with a spoon? Way quicker than a burger."
Jimmy chimed in with a wink: "We also help with… neighborhood relations."
A chill ran down Blair's spine.
Back in the office, Blair finally saw the full shareholder breakdown.
Victor held 70%. Old Joe had 5%. Michael and Ethan—you know who they are—split another 5%. Jimmy's crew had 3%. 2% went to an executive bonus pool. The remaining 15% was scattered across a dozen Chicago community groups.
"This structure…" Blair frowned. "It's super unconventional. Outside investors would run screaming."
Old Joe leaned back in his leather chair, fingers laced over his stomach. "Victor says SHW doesn't need Wall Street cash. We're never going public. We need pros like you to copy the Chicago model in other cities."
He leaned forward. "New York, L.A., San Francisco… those food markets are way bigger than Chicago's."
Excitement and nerves twisted in Blair's gut. This was bigger—and messier—than he'd thought.
He noticed Joe said "food market," not "community." That little word choice stuck with him.
"One question," Blair said, gathering his courage. "That 15% community stake… how exactly does that work?"
Jimmy and Joe swapped a quick look, then smiled.
"Second Sunday of every month, Chinatown community center conference room," Jimmy explained. "Old-timers show up with ledgers and abacuses. We provide tea, snacks, and translators. They check we're treating every restaurant fairly. We make sure their retirement checks keep coming. Win-win."
It clicked for Blair why SHW had basically cornered the non-takeout market in Chicago in just a few months.
This wasn't regular business. It was a crazy-smart symbiotic web tying profit to community loyalty.
August 12, 1985. Blair flew to Atlantic City with a full expansion plan to meet Victor again.
He'd spent the last two weeks digging into New York's food scene—way more fragmented and cutthroat than Chicago.
"This setup won't fly in New York," Blair said bluntly. "The… community groups there are super splintered and hate each other. We can't just copy Chicago's unified model."
Victor didn't even blink—like he'd seen it coming. "So we start on the edges. There're a few owned fusion spots on the border of Brooklyn's Little Italy. Italians don't fully accept them, Chinatown doesn't claim them."
He slid over a map with red circles. "We build a small network here first. No need to swallow all of New York at once."
Blair was stunned by how well Victor knew the lay of the land—and how perfect those in-between restaurants were for SHW's "protection."
"I'll scout them," Blair said, tossing out ideas. "We need solid suppliers. Either our own farms or a processing plant. Any interest in buying a small food-processing factory?"
Victor laughed. "We're pulling in sixty grand a month. A factory costs millions!"
Blair nodded. "Millions, yeah. But we don't go it alone. Wait for the right one to tank in value. Small plants don't always cost seven figures."
Victor thought about it. "Do it."
Blair hesitated. "I'm gonna need more details on the… non-business side of things."
Victor slid an envelope across the table with a grin. "Jimmy will hook you up. He runs our 'special relationships' department."
Just as Blair was about to leave, Michael rushed in and whispered something in Victor's ear.
Victor's expression turned playful. "Blair, you should meet this lady. She might help with the New York plan."
A minute later, a young blonde woman walked in wearing a clean but slightly worn beige trench coat, notebook and recorder in hand.
"Mr. Victor Li, Alice Moretti, Brooklyn Eagle," she said, voice steady and confident. "We'd love to do a feature on your fight with Razor Ruddock."
Blair caught the glint in Victor's eye.
What Blair didn't know was Victor was remembering the last time he'd "tasted" Alice the firefighter—blonde, amazing mouthfeel, totally unforgettable.
For the next half hour, Victor flipped on full charm-offensive mode: boxing philosophy, funny training stories, even invited her to dinner for a "deeper conversation."
Frankie the trainer killed the vibe, though—big fight coming up, no distractions.
After Alice left, Victor grabbed the phone and dialed Jimmy: "Look into the Brooklyn Eagle's finances. Yeah, the old newspaper. No, I'm not buying an ad."
He hung up and turned to Blair. "Know why restaurants never make the mainstream food columns?"
Without waiting, he answered himself: "Because we don't control the narrative. If the Eagle's in as much trouble as I think…"
Blair got it instantly.
This wasn't just about food or boxing. Victor was playing 4D chess.
Blair remembered something his B-school prof always said: Real power isn't how much money you have—it's how many information nodes you control.
That night in his hotel room, Jimmy called, practically buzzing.
"Guess what? The Eagle's parent company is drowning in bank debt. They're quietly shopping for a buyer. Victor might actually pull this off."
Blair stared out at Chicago's skyline, lights twinkling like stars.
He suddenly understood what SHW really stood for. Snow Honey Wind was just the surface. The deeper meaning? Only Victor and his inner circle knew.
But he had to keep Victor grounded.
"We can't expand and buy a newspaper at the same time. That's insane."
Victor was holding a jar of deep-red sauce—no label, just pure, thick goodness. Lao Gan Ma wasn't a thing yet, but chili sauces always existed.
"So buy the processing plant first. Then mass-produce this sauce and get it out there."
"What is it?"
"A condiment."
"Will Americans even like it?"
"It doesn't have to cater to white-bread tastes. Keep it authentic ."
"Sales?"
"Trust me, tons of people are sick of bland American food and will pay for the real deal."
"Tweak the recipe just a tiny bit."
"Got it!"
"Blair, go for it."
"What should we call it?"
Victor grinned wide.
"The Godmother Chili Black Bean Sauce!"