r18novel Page 111
Page 111
She poured two glasses of whiskey herself, her movements elegant. "First of all, congratulations again on your victory over Razor Rudock. I watched that match live; it was fantastic."
Victor took the glass: "Thank you. But it wasn't easy to win, and I still feel terrible about it."
Ivana smiled: "That's precisely why it's so valuable."
She took a sip of her drink. "I think Jimmy has already explained our proposal to you?"
Jimmy chimed in, "I understand roughly. It involves returning the stake and taking a cut of the betting pool, right?"
Ivana pulled a document from under the coffee table. “Specifically, when you win in a game designated by our casino, we will return your initial investment and take 15% of the pool as a service fee. In return, you will receive 5% of that.”
Victor frowned.
A glint of shrewdness flashed in Ivana's blue eyes: "Considering we need to take the risk of having to return the principal, this percentage is already quite generous. And..."
She leaned forward, “We will provide you with exclusive suites, training facilities, and VIP treatment. This is not just a monetary transaction, but a symbol of status.”
Jimmy interjected: "Ms. Trump, Victor is a hot new star right now, and he wouldn't lie to the gamblers, so we refuse this kind of profit-sharing return."
Ivana glanced at Viktor, and for some reason chuckled softly, "Really? Then why are you still sitting here?"
She turned to Victor, “Listen, young man, Trump Casino represents top quality. Partnering with us will elevate your image to a whole new level. It’s something those second-rate casinos can’t match.”
Viktor felt a wave of unease, his mind churning with memories, including Ivana's transformation.
Ivana's aura was so strong that he felt suppressed. He looked to Jimmy for help.
Jimmy cleared his throat: “We understand the value of the Trump brand. But Victor’s commercial value is also growing rapidly. Perhaps we can compromise: you pay him a fee so that Victor will participate in the game on September 5th out of respect for Franklin.”
Ivana looked at Viktor in shock: "You can participate?"
Victor spread his hands: "It will take at least three hundred thousand US dollars."
She stood up and walked to the window. "Three hundred thousand it is. Atlantic City has more than twenty casinos, but only one is Trump. Now the choice is yours."
Viktor sensed the balance of the negotiation was shifting—although he had achieved his goal, he was still being suppressed by this woman.
"I will play the last three games as required for $300,000, but I need a written guarantee of VIP treatment and exclusive training facilities."
Ivana turned around, a victorious smile on her face: "A wise decision."
She pressed the bell on the table, and her assistant immediately came in. "Prepare the contract, according to the terms we just discussed."
After the assistant left, Ivana said to Jimmy, "I have some private information to discuss with Mister Lee."
Victor was surprised, but nodded, and Jimmy left.
Ivana suddenly asked, "I heard you recovered in ten days after your injury? The doctors said it was a miracle."
Viktor's heart tightened: "I have a strong recovery ability."
"interesting."
Ivana looked at him meaningfully and raised her glass: "We've met more than once, but you seem to have forgotten me?"
Viktor was surprised because he also felt that Ivana looked familiar.
Ivana reminded me: "I spent some time in Chicago, and I saw you at the Governor's wife's dinner party and observed you."
Viktor was stunned.
Ivana's eyes sharpened as she raised her glass: "But you were nothing like you back then, so I had no interest in you. Now that you've become smarter, I'm quite interested in you."
As Viktor clinked glasses, he noticed a glint in Ivana's eyes that he couldn't decipher. On a sudden impulse, Viktor said, "If one day Trump doesn't want you anymore, you can come to me. I can help you change back to Ivana Marie Zelnikova."
Ivana's eyes narrowed, but she only drank her wine.
As Jimmy left the casino after signing the contract, he sighed, "We could have gotten more."
Victor looked at the brightly lit Trump Casino sign: "It's okay, this is just the beginning."
He touched his ribs, which no longer hurt, and pulled Jimmy along:
“I called Blair and told him I was treating him to fish at the Trump Casino Hotel in the Atlantic.”
Chapter 90 Watching His Tower Rise, Waiting for Its Collapse
Jimmy pushed open the oak door and stepped aside to let Blair into the room.
Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, the night view of Atlantic City unfolding behind him like a tapestry woven from money and desire.
He skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the point.
“Blair,”
Victor turned around, the ice cubes in his whiskey glass clinking gently. "Let's get straight to the point. What's the state of the American financial world right now? And that Donald Trump—everyone's talking about him. What kind of foundation is he standing on? Granite or quicksand?"
Blair adjusted his tie, carefully choosing his words.
He described the spreading desolation:
The savings and loan crisis was like a slow-moving superstorm, the clouds of which had begun to gather as early as the late 1970s.
How well-intentioned yet disastrously Congress dismantled the barriers—the 1980 Act and the 1982 Act—unleashing savings banks into the Wild West of commercial real estate and junk bonds.
“This is more than just a crisis,”
Blair's voice carried a hint of weariness. "This is a systemic rot. FSLIC's insurance created perfect moral hazard—managers gambled with taxpayers' money, winning meant luxury models at nightclubs, losing meant working in the sex industry, and the Empire State Building suffered terribly! It was like raining down on the Twin Towers."
He discussed how Volcker's aggressive interest rate hikes killed S&L's traditional profit model, and how the commercial real estate bubble subsequently burst, leaving behind unfinished buildings and astronomical amounts of bad debt.
"More than 500 institutions have collapsed, a sight unseen since the Great Depression, and... it is draining the lifeblood of the economy; the credit crunch is just the beginning."
Viktor listened quietly, his fingers unconsciously stroking the rim of the glass.
He didn't speak again until Blair finished speaking, his gaze sharp: "So what about Trump? What role does he play in this quagmire?"
Blairton paused, sketching out how the New Yorker cleverly used his heritage and fame to build a pedestal: the gleaming Trump Tower, the renovated Hyatt Hotel, and the hustle and bustle of the Atlantic City casinos.
How he packaged himself as the Midas touch from "The Art of the Deal," a superhero living at the intersection of gossip and financial headlines.
“But everyone on Wall Street knows that his empire is built on leverage,”
Blair hit the nail on the head: "Airlines, football, casinos... banks are scrambling to lend to him, not because his financial statements are so healthy, but because of his father's name and the halo of his own brand. That's the most typical illusion of 'greed'—as long as you look like a winner, money will keep flowing in."
“Even with the most profitable casino, he was just walking a tightrope, barely managing to stay afloat. That glory, Victor, was almost entirely a mirage; we all knew his business wouldn’t last.”
Finally, Blair revealed the truth with a hint of pity: "If he asks you to put your money in, then I don't recommend you do it! Because it's a complete scam."
There was a brief silence in the room.
Victor slowly walked to the desk, put down his wine glass, and placed his hands on the smooth mahogany table.
"I understand."
He looked up, his eyes showing no surprise, only a hunter's focus. "I don't think someone as arrogant as him has a solid foundation. When the storm comes, the tallest tree is often the first to break. I want to know, when will he fall? Or to put it more bluntly... when he's finished, what price would it cost to buy his Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino?"
Blair and Jimmy exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with shock.
He was shocked, even chilled, by Victor Lee's keen sense of spotting gold in the ruins.
“Victor, based on current profits alone, I’m afraid we’re not qualified. That’s not just a matter of a few million dollars.”
Blair took a deep breath, knowing that number would sound like a fantasy. "Even in his most wretched state, to retrieve the most dazzling crown from the ruins... he would at least need to prepare..."
He paused deliberately, making the number sound incredibly heavy in the silent room.
"One hundred million dollars. And that's just the entry ticket! Trump has always wanted to build his gambling empire!"
Even after the talks ended, the sharp glint in Viktor's eyes did not dim.
He leaned back on the leather sofa, his fingers tapping lightly on the solid wood armrest, making a soft, rhythmic sound.
“Blair,”
He suddenly spoke, his voice so calm and steady that it didn't sound like that of a boxer who was only twenty years old, "Buy all 221 million in my account into Nike."
Blair raised his meticulously manicured eyebrows slightly: "All of it? Victor, that's most of what you just earned from the last game."
"Exactly, I just kept a million dollars to keep betting on myself to win!"
Victor stood up, his muscles visibly defined beneath his shirt. "Nike just signed that North Carolina basketball prospect, Michael Jordan. I've looked into their stock performance; this is an opportunity."
He walked to the window, gazing at the New York cityscape as it began to twinkle. "You're in charge of the trading. Know when to take profits. I trust your judgment; his stocks are worth holding for the long term."
Blair nodded slightly and deftly jotted down the instructions in his notebook.
He knew that although Victor was young, he had an almost beast-like intuition for business.
Victor himself, however, turned and threw himself into another battlefield.
The training hall was filled with the scent of sweat, leather, and dreams.
Ethan was adjusting the angle of the punching bag, Frankie was wiping his gloves, and old Jack was muttering to himself while looking at the tactical board.
Upon seeing Viktor enter, the three of them simultaneously looked up.
"The Mercedes data has been retrieved."
Old Jack slapped a stack of documents onto Viktor's chest. "Height 198cm, wingspan 214cm, weight 102kg. A typical heavy gunner, but slow-moving."
While bandaging himself, Viktor browsed the documents, his gaze lingering on the "VS Tyson" section for a long time—it clearly stated "First round, 1 minute 47 seconds, KO loss."
Tyson broke his jaw.
Frankie handed him the water bottle. "But that's all in the past, Victor. Don't underestimate them."
Victor recalled the bloody battle with "Razor" Radok.
In several rounds, due to a momentary lapse in concentration, he was hit by an uppercut from Radok, causing his vision to go black.
At that moment, he seemed to see the sledgehammer smiling at him.
"I will not underestimate my opponent."
Viktor's voice seemed to come from deep within his chest, "It was because I fought Radok that I knew that in the boxing ring, a moment of distraction is enough to ruin everything."
The training that followed was almost brutal.
Viktor ran in temperatures of forty degrees Celsius, practiced punching in a specially designed deep pool, and repeated dodging maneuvers countless times under Frankie's urging.
At night, he would watch Mercedes game videos repeatedly until his eyelids became so heavy that he needed to use toothpicks to prop them open.
Did you notice?
One night, Viktor suddenly pressed the pause button, and the screen froze on Mercedes' starting stance for his left hook. "Before each left hook, he would move his right foot an extra half inch."