Jimmy McGill took the floor. He stood up like he was making closing arguments in court—clear, sharp, and impossible to look away from.
"Here's the deal, folks. Three big reasons.
First: Sri's true colors. You really think he's out here fighting for us folks?
Nah. He's Congressman Uberman's puppet. His paycheck and his power are tied to that guy. Our community's future? Never his top priority. He just uses us to lock in his own clout and Uberman's votes."
He paused, letting the words sink in, watching the gym owners' faces get heavier by the second. Then he kept rolling.
"Second: the way things are right now. Under Sri's so-called 'leadership,' has our influence grown at all? Has our slice of the pie gotten any bigger?
Think about it—decades ago, our parents could land steady jobs in factories or restaurants, put food on the table, no problem.
And now?
How many of our kids are out there slinging 'Chicago typewriters'—Tommy guns—running the streets, living day-to-day, dodging bullets?
Is this the 'prosperity' Sri brought us?
We can't even push our influence past these few blocks!"
"Third: the future—and a real way out."
Jimmy grabbed the first stack of papers. "Victor Li, through SHW, has already proved we can do this a different way—legal, respectable, and stacking cash. SHW rolled into New York in September. In just a couple months, we're up to 110 food trucks. Monthly profit? Three hundred fifty grand."
He flashed the New York financials. The numbers hit like a gut punch—some of the gym owners actually gasped.
Then he held up two more contracts: "These? We're buying a local food processing plant and a meatpacking facility. That means we control the whole chain—from raw materials to the final sale.
And this—" he slapped a thick playbook down on the table—"this is SHW's expansion roadmap for 1986 and beyond. We're taking this nationwide—Midwest, coasts, everywhere!
We don't need to keep begging for scraps through some middleman who skims off the top and might sell us out tomorrow. With SHW leading, we talk direct to power—congressmen, city hall. We wash the 'gangster' stink off our name and fight for our rights and our money out in the open!"
Old Joe stood up. "Even if y'all say no, SHW's still building two 10,000-acre grain farms and three urban farms."
The gym owners started whispering, heads together.
Jimmy's arguments cut deep—exposed the rot under Sri's rule. SHW's cash flow and growth plan? Pure catnip.
But years of habit die hard. Nobody wanted to jump first.
Master Chen spoke up again, voicing what most were thinking: "Mr. McGill, you make a strong case. SHW's numbers don't lie. But Victor… he's young. Green. Leading the whole Chicago community in direct talks with politicians? Does he have the chops? The respect? How do we know he won't crash and burn worse than Sri? The risk feels huge."
Old Joe's voice cut through like a blade: "Trust isn't talked into existence—it's earned. SHW's track record is the proof. The Li family's entire fortune is on the line—that's our bond. As for the vacuum Sri leaves behind…"
He glanced back at Frankie. "The gangs will handle that themselves. What we need from you is a quiet 'okay' during the transition. Keep Chinatown calm."
He didn't spell out what "support" meant. He didn't have to. Everyone in the room knew.
Jimmy jumped back in: "SHW's win is everyone's win. The new setup guarantees profits way more transparent and fair than when Sri hoarded everything. Anyone who's in, President Blair will sit down with you one-on-one and hash it out."
The promise of big money, frustration with the status quo, plus the Li family and McGill's airtight prep and muscle—it all tipped the scale.
The gym owners traded looks. Finally, Master Chen gave a slow nod. The rest stayed quiet. In that moment, silence meant yes.
Before the meeting even wrapped, Old Joe shot Frankie Li a look.
Frankie nodded, stone-faced, and slipped out into the night with a handful of guys.
Meanwhile, Sri—aka Third Uncle—was still kicking back in his mistress's apartment, enjoying dinner, totally clueless about what was coming.
Frankie's crew knocked with "urgent business to report." Door opened easy.
It was quick. Clean. No fuss, no neighbors waking up.
Soon, Sri and his mistress's whole family—nine people—sat down to a final meal of "concrete." Then they got loaded into "barrels," stuffed into a cement mixer truck, and took a one-way trip to the icy bottom of Lake Michigan.
Word that the mob had a new boss spread through Chinatown's underworld like wildfire. But the chaos everyone expected? Never came.
Every martial arts gym sent their top guys to "visit" Sri's key lieutenants and strongholds alongside Frankie's crew.
Options were simple: fall in line with the new order (and SHW's profit-sharing deal), or vanish.
Thanks to the gyms' deep roots in the community and Sri's inner circle collapsing overnight, the power shift was locked in fast.
One night. That's all it took.
Chicago's mob had a new name at the top.
On paper, it was young Victor Li and his SHW empire.
In reality? Victor's iron fist, Frankie's ice-cold efficiency, and the silent backing of the martial arts alliance.
The Windy City's underground map got redrawn for good.
A new alliance—tied together by business, aiming to go legit and muscle into politics—replaced the old-school gangster playbook.
---
The air in Chicago's South Chinatown always carried a mix of fryer grease, exhaust fumes, and a low hum of tension you could feel in your teeth.
But tonight, up on the second floor of Snow Honey Windy City (SHW) Catering's plain-Jane office, the vibe was thicker—hope and suspicion you could almost grab with your hands.
Around the long table sat the neighborhood's heavy hitters: martial arts gym masters, a contractor who'd built half the block, produce wholesalers who controlled whole streets, even a few ex-gangster types trying real hard to sit up straight and look legit.
Every eye was on the guy at the head of the table—Blair, SHW's president.
Blair wasn't , but he knew the game inside out.
The real glue holding this room together stood behind him: Victor Li—newly crowned boxing champ, SHW's owner, a fighter blowing up fast.
But before Blair could open his mouth, Master Chen—head of the Tai Chi school, dad to Michael Li's girlfriend Liz Chen—lost it and started griping in :
"The big shot doesn't even show, and you send a white guy to talk business with us?"
Frankie had already hashed this out with Old Joe—this was their ticket out of the mob life. He stepped up:
"Victor just went fifteen rounds with Tyson. He's banged up, doing press. No time. But every word here comes straight from him."
Old Joe grinned across the table at Chen, a guy who used to look down on everyone: "Victor's coming home. We gotta sweep the porch first."
The gym crowd kept their eyes down, noses clean. They'd already figured it out: Frankie, the guy with the real muscle, wasn't on their side anymore. Their quiet "yes" the other day had sealed it—they'd put Frankie in power.
So they shut up.
Blair cleared his throat. His polished voice sliced through the tension like a scalpel.
"Evening, everybody. The future's unwritten."
First line in, and he had them hooked. Admitting uncertainty made everything else hit harder.
"But Victor says waiting never earned respect or money. Doing does. So we're not here to talk survival—we're here to plan how to blow the pie wide open together."
That line made a few old-timers frown, but the younger guys' eyes lit up.
Blair didn't pause. He dropped Victor's full vision: "Per Victor's plan, 'Snow Honey Windy City' plus all your businesses will merge into one giant—Tianji Wind City Group Co., Ltd. Call it TWC Group. Every one of you stops being a lone-wolf captain and becomes an officer on an aircraft carrier."
Faces went dark. One gym owner shot up: "You're trying to swallow us whole!"
"No!" Blair shut it down hard. "This is a reorg, not a takeover. TWC's core will split into six divisions:
1. Food service + supply chain (built on SHW's backbone)
2. Entertainment, leisure, gaming
3. Sports and athletics
4. Security and construction
The gym owner was still steaming. Blair waved him down: "Your biggest job right now is to listen. No grandstanding."
Room went dead quiet.
"Your gyms are dying. Kids ditch training to run with gangs—that drags all of us down. Instead, your students can feed into our promo and management companies, get real shots in pro sports.
Gangs are always a liability. You rebrand as security firms—doesn't have to be fancy, just enough to protect the group and our partners.
Entertainment? We cut all illegal revenue. No more slinging in Chinatown. That junk stays out.
Sports training stays in your gyms. Victor's opening his own center too. Best man wins.
Blair laid out the full structure:
Pool every resource in Chicago. Spin out five new companies—
- Entertainment (casinos, clubs, bars)
- Security (staffed by Frankie's crew)
- Sports training (physical gyms stay yours, group just runs the office)
- Sports promotion
- Athlete management
"Victor takes 70% of the group. Franchise partners pay 20% of profits for insider pricing, security, and big returns."
Blair's tone left no room for debate. "This isn't a request. It's the foundation for outside backing and internal stability. His fame, his fists, SHW's cash—that's the guarantee. The rest of the shares? We value your cash and assets fair and square."
The second he stopped talking, the room exploded into chatter like a pot boiling over.