Chapter 227: The Diary
Because of everything that had happened in the past, Frank had taken time to reflect.
He wasn't going to make the same mistakes again. This time, he would respect the kids' choices and thoughts.
Lip had expressed that he didn't want to go to college right now—there had to be a reason. Until Frank understood what Lip was thinking, he wouldn't push him.
If this had been six months ago, Frank—now with enough money for tuition—would have dragged Lip straight to college, regardless of what Lip wanted.
"Got plans tonight?" Frank asked, watching Lip fiddle with a police tracker.
"What's up?" Lip replied.
"Nothing special. Just dinner. Steak sound good? Just the two of us—father and son night." Frank suggested.
"Tonight's fight night. One of my fighters is going up," Lip said.
Fight night was when underground boxing matches were held—not official matches, but street-level bouts.
Still, it wasn't the kind of brutal cage-fighting that broke bones. Most participants were teenage boys like Lip. The venues were usually abandoned warehouses or parks, with maybe a few dozen to a hundred spectators at most.
There was no protective gear, but the worst injuries were bruises, black eyes, and maybe a few lost teeth.
Lip acted as a manager—bringing in fighters from local boxing gyms or dojos. He'd even run betting pools. Win or lose, he usually made some money—at least a hundred or two dollars a night.
So yeah, Lip genuinely didn't have time tonight.
Summer was always the money-making season. Lip stayed especially busy during the summer, always thinking up new ways to hustle.
"How about tomorrow? Got time then?" Frank asked.
"Forget it," Lip replied, not interested.
"Come on, it's just dinner. A little fun," Frank said.
"If it's lobster and whiskey, I might be able to find some time," Lip said, glancing at Frank.
"No problem," Frank agreed without hesitation.
"What are you two talking about? Looks like you're having fun." Fiona walked in just then, stripping off her dirty work clothes at the door and heading to the kitchen for a big gulp of water.
"Tommy and the others done?" Frank asked.
"Yeah. They work fast. Two more days and that house will be ready. Then we can move everything in and start renovating this one," Fiona nodded.
"Hmm? Lip, have you started packing your stuff?" she asked, raising a brow.
"Uh... fight night's about to start. I gotta find my fighter. Don't worry about dinner for me tonight." Before Fiona could say more, Lip was out the door.
"Hey!" Fiona shouted after him, then sighed and went upstairs to pack Lip's things herself.
"No rush on moving. Take a break. We can pack when the time comes. Just throw out anything we don't need," Frank stopped her.
Fiona had spent all day monitoring things and was clearly exhausted. She sank into the sofa, lit a cigarette, and finally relaxed.
"How's Grandma?" Fiona asked.
"She's alright. She misses you guys," Frank replied casually.
They kept chatting. Eventually, Fiona dozed off. When Frank turned to check on her, she had already fallen asleep, leaning against the sofa.
Frank gently covered her with a blanket and left the house.
He headed over to the Milkovich place, looking for Old Man Milkovich.
The elder Milkovich was a man of many talents, with connections in all kinds of shady places—including getting things smuggled into prison.
Frank had promised to bring Grandma cigarettes every week, so he needed Old Man Milkovich's help.
Grandma said one pack a week was enough, but Frank wanted to send more. In prison, cigarettes were currency. They were money. And no matter where you were, having more money was never a bad thing.
Even though Frank had already greased the right palms with the prison warden, he still wanted to keep sending smokes inside.
Grandma's early release shouldn't be a problem. For a young, healthy guy, maybe not, but for someone pushing eighty, pulling some strings wouldn't raise many alarms.
Still, even if the warden was willing, it would take some time. In the meantime, sending extra smokes would help make Grandma's stay a bit more comfortable.
Despite Frank's generous payment, Old Man Milkovich said three packs a week was the absolute limit.
Frank had brought more "payment" today, which pleased Old Man Milkovich greatly. He invited Frank to stay for drinks—and they ended up drinking until nightfall.
"Dad!" Frank had barely stepped through the door when Debbie and Carl came running.
"Dad, I want to hear this one! Tell us this story!" Carl exclaimed, holding up a book excitedly.
"Alright, alright," Frank said, smiling, soaking in the rare joy of being surrounded by his kids.
"This story is called Fiona's Untold Secret. Junior year... Today I flirted with Craig Heisner—" Frank read the first line, then paused, frowning.
He looked more closely. The expression on his face twisted.
This... this was Fiona's diary. From her high school days.
It was full of her inner thoughts—like a walking, talking teenage hormone bomb.
After reading just a few entries, it was no mystery how Fiona, barely in her twenties, had racked up a "triple-digit kill count." This diary was basically a steamy novel, overflowing with adolescent fantasy.
"Come on, Dad! Read more!" Carl urged, seeing Frank stop.
"Carl, where did you find this diary?" Frank asked, headache forming.
"In the box under the stairs. Fiona told me to clean up there," Carl replied.
"Next time you find someone else's stuff, don't just go snooping through it. And definitely don't go reading it! Return it to the owner," Frank scolded.
Fiona had probably forgotten all about this diary—this damning record of her wild youth.
Carl, however, had dug it up and clearly read through it all. Worse, he treated it like a bedtime story, asking Frank to read it aloud and air Fiona's dirty laundry. That little brat.
His motivation was obvious: payback for Fiona making him do chores.
If this were the old Frank, he probably would've gleefully read every juicy page.
Even now, just from glancing at it, he felt a maddening curiosity tug at him—what else did the diary say? That voyeuristic thrill... it was such a strange feeling.
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