The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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His steps were steady, his gaze fixed straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding noise.

This cold contrast creates an even more suffocating sense of oppression.

He stepped onto the scale with ease; 408 pounds, in impeccable condition.

As is customary, both sides need to stand face to face for the media to take photos, which is also the starting point for psychological warfare and verbal battles.

Before the host had even fully stepped back, Libarta suddenly shoved his face close to Viktor's, almost touching nose to nose, and roared, spitting as he spoke:

"Li! Tomorrow night, right here in this boxing ring, I'm going to take it back with my own hands! I'm going to break your ribs, smash your jaw! I'm going to kill you! Do you hear me? Kill you!"

The roar echoed throughout the banquet hall through the microphone, drawing gasps and even more enthusiastic cheers—yes, the Cubans have always been dissatisfied with the Americans.

Libarta's team also stirred things up, and the atmosphere instantly became tense.

Under the spotlight, Victor didn't even lift his eyelids.

He waited quietly until Libarta finished speaking before slowly opening his mouth in a clear, cold, and even slightly contemptuous tone. His voice wasn't loud, but strangely it overwhelmed the noise in the room, reaching everyone's ears:

"Want to kill me? Jose, I have no doubt that you have the power. But remember, when you're determined to kill someone, you'd better be prepared to be killed yourself first. In the boxing ring, life and death are left to fate. Are you ready for your fate?"

These words were like a bucket of ice water, suddenly poured onto Libarta's burning anger.

It wasn't a shouting match, but a warning and threat that went deeper into the bones.

Libarta was speechless for a moment, and could only glare at Viktor more fiercely, his chest heaving violently.

Viktor stopped looking at him, turned around, nodded expressionlessly at the camera, then put on his battle robe and walked straight off the stage.

Libarta remained where he was, like a statue frozen in anger.

The weighing ceremony ended in an eerie, high-tension atmosphere.

As the crowd gradually dispersed, the focus of the discussion shifted entirely to the brief yet deadly exchange between the two.

·······

Viktor returned to his private dressing room backstage and had just changed when there was a knock on the door.

Michael announced in a low voice, "TLP wants to see you."

A barely perceptible smile appeared on Victor's lips.

He knew that what was meant to happen would happen eventually.

"Invite him in."

Donald TLP, a former prominent figure in Atlantic City's casino industry, was still impeccably dressed in a suit and with his hair perfectly styled, but the anxiety in his brows and the weariness deep in his eyes did not escape Victor's notice.

The economic shock caused by the "Black Monday" stock market crash in 1987 was far from over, only a little over a month later.

The Trump empire, heavily reliant on excessive leverage and debt and junk bond financing, has been severely impacted.

His casino business was hit hardest, with income plummeting and debt pressure mounting like a landslide.

The Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino, his former pride, is now like a magnificent ship that keeps leaking, draping him into the depths—and giving Victor a reason to sharpen his knives.

“Victor!”

Trump flashed his signature, slightly exaggerated smile, opened his arms, and stepped forward. "A brilliant entrance! Perfect psychological warfare! That Cuban bull was completely stunned! I knew that choosing to hold your title defense here was the absolutely right decision!"

Victor didn't reciprocate his enthusiasm, simply gesturing to the sofa: "Please sit down, Donald. Did you need something?"

Trump rubbed his hands together, sat on the sofa, leaned forward, and adopted a sincere and open posture: "Victor, we're old friends, right? You've played four very successful games with me, and this is the fifth. We've always had a great working relationship."

"Get to the point, Donald. I have a game tomorrow."

Victor interrupted his reminiscing; in fact, Emily was in her own room.

Trump paused, his smile fading slightly, and lowered his voice: "Well, you know, the market environment has been a bit challenging lately. The aftermath of 'Black Monday,' the damn Fed rates... and on the cash flow front, we've encountered a minor technical adjustment."

Viktor looked at him quietly, without saying a word, waiting for his "but".

Trump took a deep breath and finally revealed his true purpose: "It's about your appearance fee and box office revenue share. That $120 million, could you perhaps postpone payment?"

"Just for a while! Once I've recovered my funds, I'll compensate you with principal and interest—no, I can even offer you higher compensation! It's just a temporary reprieve! Also, the interest on that loan we agreed on before, you know, can we postpone that too? The bank is putting too much pressure on me right now; I need some breathing room."

Viktor sneered inwardly.

He knew far more than just Trump's predicament; his vast business intelligence network foresaw the crisis even earlier and more clearly than Trump himself.

Victor had already secretly assessed the actual value of Trump's casino assets and his debt hole.

That 120 million was not only his competition revenue, but also a key part of his plan. He planned to use this money, along with other funds raised, to enter the market as a "savior" when Trump was at his most vulnerable, and take over all the core casino assets, including Trump Plaza, at a price far below their actual value!

This was a meticulously planned hunt, and Trump's request at this moment was exactly what he wanted.

But Viktor's face remained expressionless.

He slowly shook his head, his tone resolute and leaving no room for negotiation: "Impossible, Donald. Not a penny more, not even a day more."

Trump's expression changed instantly; he hadn't expected Viktor to refuse so decisively: "Viktor! Listen! This is just a temporary measure! We'll sign a supplementary agreement..."

Chapter 179 Chicago is About to Hit

Seeing TLP's excitement, and out of camaraderie, Victor offered an explanation.

“It’s not because I’m heartless, Donald.”

"I·····"

Victor interrupted him again, leaning forward slightly with a sharp look in his eyes, "It's because the Chicago tax office is counting on this huge sum of tax revenue to get through the year-end."

TLP looked at Viktor, thinking, "Let's see how you make this up."

Do you know how much tax this is?

But Victor wasn't lying—that's how the Chicago tax office works:

"If I receive payment late, resulting in my inability to pay taxes on time and in full, the Chicago tax authorities will immediately question my ability to pay and my creditworthiness. They will not hesitate to initiate a comprehensive tax audit of all my Chicago properties because I am of Chinese descent."

With his last words, TLP closed his eyes—because he knew it was true.

"You know what that means! It means all my businesses—hotels, clubs, real estate projects, restaurants, and so on—will be turned upside down by them!"

Victor stood up, his voice booming like thunder: "Even if no problems are found in the end, the operational stagnation, reputational damage, and legal fees that this process brings are risks I cannot afford. I cannot, and will never, risk being targeted by the IRS for your 'technical adjustments'."

Trump was stunned.

He had anticipated that Viktor would refuse, and might even impose conditions, but he never expected that the reason for the refusal would be so practical and... impeccable.

That was the institution that no American businessman wanted to mess with the most, more terrifying than any competitor—who remembers how the once-arrogant King of Chicago got in?

IRS is the MVP and FMVP, and has five stars.

TLP attempted to argue: "I can step in and explain to the IRS on your behalf..."

"You'll step in? Which bank would be willing to listen to you then?"

Victor scoffed. "Donald, the IRS is probably more concerned about your current financial situation than you are about it."

Your guarantee may be worthless to the IRS, or even have the opposite effect. There's no room for negotiation. The $120 million must be paid in full within the time stipulated in the contract.

TLP's face went from anxious to ashen.

He stood up abruptly, the last shred of feigned friendliness vanishing: "Victor, I thought we were friends! Are you going to kick me when I'm down like this? You need to think this through, in Atlantic City, who's the landlord!"

“I know who the landlord is! It’s not Old Qian! It’s not You Tai! It’s not Ang Sa! It’s not white! It’s not black! It’s not yellow!”

Victor slowly stood up as well. He was even slightly shorter than Trump, but his cold aura instantly overwhelmed the other's anger: "It's Franklin!!!! Business is business, Donald. Fulfilling contracts is the cornerstone of business."

If you can't pay, you can file for bankruptcy protection under bankruptcy law, instead of asking me to assume the risk for you. As for the landlord?

He paused, then glanced meaningfully at the locker room. "Times will change."

They couldn't agree on what to say and parted on bad terms.

TLP slammed the door and left, leaving Victor alone in the room, his eyes deep in thought.

Ethan walked in through the side door: "Should I call Frankie?"

"No need! We can't use the same tactics we use on those little guys to deal with these old moneysters."

Victor rejected Ethan's approach: "In a free world, you have to use free methods! And luckily, we have plenty of people!"

With that, Viktor picked up the encrypted satellite phone without expression and dialed a number.

"Good evening, Director."

Viktor's tone became polite and composed.

The calm voice of Walter Hopkins, the Chicago tax commissioner, came from the other end of the phone: "Victor? Calling at this hour is unlike you. Is the weighing ceremony over? Looks like you weren't scared by that bull."

"That was just a minor incident when Franklin fell."

Victor brushed it off, "However, I just had an interesting conversation with Mr. Donald TLP. He formally requested a postponement of my appearance fee and share for tomorrow's match, totaling $120 million, plus related interest."

"This message you sent so late at night puts me in a difficult position!"

Then, there was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a chill in Director Hopkins' voice: "Mr. TLP seems to be short of cash. Doesn't he know that the huge amount of tax revenue generated by this transaction is one of our branch's most important expected revenues for the fourth quarter? Many year-end budgets and projects are counting on it."

Most importantly, if Director Hopkins wants to advance further, his resume must be flawless.

“I made this clear to him and emphasized my position that I could not afford the tax risks associated with delayed payments.”

Viktor stated calmly, "But he doesn't seem to fully grasp the urgency of it, or perhaps he chooses to underestimate it."

"I understand."

Chief Hopkins' voice regained its bureaucratic calm, but beneath that calm lay an undeniable force: "Thank you for informing me beforehand, Victor. You've upheld your duty as a taxpayer. As for Mr. Trump..."

Rest assured, we will proceed as planned, 'assisting' him in understanding the importance of fulfilling his financial obligations on time. The Atlantic City tax officials and our Chicago team have maintained excellent...working communication.

"Thank you very much, Director. Have a pleasant evening."

"You too, Victor. I can agree to help you, but you need to pay back the taxes of the companies you've acquired."

"Don't worry, Director. While tax revenue in other regions is shrinking significantly, keeping your jurisdiction unchanged is the best policy."

"That's great. I hope you can put on a great game for Atlantic City tomorrow night."

Victor walked to the window and looked down at the dazzling yet cold night view of Atlantic City.

The distant sea was pitch black and unfathomably deep.

In Chicago, Director Hopkins put down the phone and rang the call button.