The sun had already started to set by the time the kids filtered back into the house. Debbie was carrying Liam, tired but still smiling. Carl ran in behind her, loud as ever, his sneakers squeaking across the floor. Ian was quiet, his eyes shadowed. Lip came last.
Francis caught sight of him first—his lip was split, his cheek swollen, faint bruises already blooming under his eye.
Francis's stomach tightened. He stepped out from the kitchen doorway, his gaze locked on Lip. "What the hell happened?"
Lip dropped his bag on the couch, shrugged like it was nothing. "Took a beating."
Francis's jaw tightened. "From who?"
Lip leaned against the wall, rubbing at his temple. "Wasn't about me. They wanted Ian. I wasn't gonna hand him over."
Ian shot him a look, guilt heavy in his face. "Lip—"
"Shut up," Lip muttered. "It's fine."
Francis's stare darkened, the frown on his face deep and heavy. He didn't need to ask twice. He knew. Milkovich. Those bastards.
"Alright," Francis said, voice calm but sharp as a blade. "All of you—go to the Alibi. Fiona's there. Help her out. Don't come back till I tell you."
Debbie looked up from the table, suspicion in her eyes. "Why?"
Francis pulled his jacket off the chair, slipping it on, his movements precise. "Because I said so. I'll handle dinner."
Carl perked up. "Pizza?"
"Yeah," Francis muttered. "Now go."
The kids hesitated, but the look on his face killed any argument. They shuffled out, Fiona still glaring but saying nothing. Francis waited until the door shut behind them.
The house was quiet now. Except the basement.
"Hey!" Frank's voice carried up through the floorboards, muffled but loud. "You forget about me? Where's my drink? My smoke? You ungrateful little bastard? You ain't shit without me, boy!"
Francis didn't even look down. He grabbed his keys, shoved them into his pocket, and left.
---
The night air hit sharp. Francis pulled his hood up and walked fast, his fists tightening with every step. He needed money. Quick. That meant one thing.
Grand Theft Auto time.
The South Side never slept, and neither did the cars. Francis spotted his first one on the corner—an old sedan, parked sloppy, windows cracked. He moved smooth, fast, eyes scanning the block. A quick punch to the lock, slide in, wires twisted. The engine coughed awake. He drove it two streets over, dumped it at a chop shop he knew. Cash.
Next one, cleaner. A shiny BMW parked outside a bar. He grinned. "Idiot." Ten minutes later, that too was gone. Another payout.
By the time he was done, he had a wad of cash in his pocket, his heart steady, his hands itching. He didn't need stolen rides, though. Not anymore. Steve's mistake was driving hot cars. Francis wasn't making that mistake.
He walked into a used lot, lights buzzing overhead, rows of beaters lined up like tired soldiers. The salesman came slinking over, fake smile plastered on. "Looking for something cheap?"
Francis's eyes roamed the lot. "Looking for something mine."
He spotted it near the back. A black '98 Chevy Impala. Big body, clean lines, engine that sounded like a growl even at idle. Not flashy, not suspicious. But strong. Dependable.
He slapped the cash on the hood, sharp and final. "I'll take it."
The salesman blinked. "You don't even wanna test drive—"
"I said I'll take it."
Papers signed. Keys handed over. The Chevy roared under him as he pulled off the lot. For the first time, Francis felt the weight of real ownership under his hands. His. Not stolen. Not borrowed. His.
---
Next stop: guns.
He started legit. Walked into a clean-cut shop on the edge of town, license paperwork ready, cash in hand. Picked up a 9mm pistol, simple and reliable. A shotgun too, pump-action, no questions asked. The clerk nodded, stamped, bagged. All clean.
But Francis didn't stop there.
Back in the alleys, in the shadows, he found the real dealers. A duffel bag of unmarked ammo. An unregistered Glock. A sawed-off tucked in newspaper. No serial numbers. No paperwork. Dirty, but effective.
He carried it all home in silence, his jaw set.
Back inside the Gallagher house, he stashed the legal guns in the hall closet, locked tight. The illegal ones? He found a hollow spot behind the basement wall, pried it open, slid the weapons inside, covered it back up. Hidden. Safe.
Downstairs, Frank was still yelling, voice hoarse now. "I know what you're doing, you little shit! You think you're a gangster? You ain't nothing but a coward without a bottle! Bring me a drink, or I'll—"
Francis slammed the door shut, cutting him off.
---
Night fell hard. The Chevy purred low as Francis drove through the South Side streets, mask tucked in his pocket, gloves tight on his hands. The city blurred past—streetlights streaking gold, alleys swallowing shadows.
He pulled onto Milkovich turf, the house standing grim and ugly at the end of the block. Lights burned in the windows. Voices echoed inside.
Francis parked half a block down, pulled the mask over his face, checked the clip in his gun. His pulse was steady, not racing. Cold. Controlled.
He stepped out. Boots hit the pavement soft. He moved like a shadow, the Chevy's engine ticking behind him as it cooled.
He reached the front yard, lifted the gun, and without a word—
The night exploded.
Bullets tore through the siding, shattered windows, splintered wood. Glass rained onto the porch, voices inside screaming. Francis sprayed the walls, precise bursts, the recoil sharp against his hands. Each shot echoed down the block, louder than thunder, sharper than lightning.
The Milkovich brothers scrambled inside, shouting, cursing. Mickey's voice cut through, high and furious: "What the fuck?!"
Francis didn't stop. He switched mags, kept firing, sparks flashing from the muzzle. Curtains ripped, plaster crumbled, a doorframe shattered.
Then his voice, loud, raw, cutting through the chaos:
"Never mess with a Gallagher!"
The whole block heard it.
Silence followed. Just the hiss of broken pipes, the crackle of a busted light. The Milkovich house smoked with dust, riddled with holes, windows bleeding glass.
Francis lowered the gun, breathing even. He stepped back, slid into the Chevy, and started the engine. The growl filled the street.
He pulled off slow, deliberate, the mask still on his face, the Milkovich house shrinking in his rearview. Neighbors peeked through blinds, whispers running through the block. A message had been sent.
Gallagher blood. Untouchable.