Weeks slid by in the South Side like smoke drifting through alleys—thick, clinging, impossible to ignore.
Francis kept his head down but his mind sharp. Ever since that deal at the Alibi, everything had moved faster than he expected. The PO—who finally gave his name as Reynolds—made good on his word.
Court dates lined up like dominoes. Papers got filed. Signatures appeared that Francis hadn't seen anyone write—his mother's name, his father's scrawl. Clean. Legal. Untouchable. Francis didn't ask how; he didn't need to. He just recognized the handiwork of a man who'd been bending the system longer than Francis had been breathing.
Frank never showed. Reynolds made sure of that. Kept him drunk, kept him lost, maybe even kept him locked somewhere on the nights that mattered. Whatever the trick was, Francis didn't care—what mattered was the court saw what they wanted to see: Francis Gallagher, legal guardian.
The gavel cracked, and just like that, the fear that had been stalking the kids for years—the fear of foster care, of being split, of losing everything—was gone.
The day they walked out of the courthouse, Fiona was glowing. She grabbed Francis by the arm, pulling him close. "Do you realize what this means? They can't touch us anymore. We're together. All of us."
She hugged him hard, tighter than she had in years. Francis stood stiff for a second, then let himself ease into it. Debbie clung to Fiona's side, Carl ran ahead like he owned the courthouse steps, and even Lip allowed himself a crooked grin. Ian, still quiet, kept his shoulders straight like he finally believed they were safe.
Fiona's eyes were glassy, her voice catching as she said it again: "We're together."
Reynolds lingered in the background, lighting a cigarette like he wasn't the reason all this worked. Fiona turned to him, her gratitude spilling over. "Thank you. Seriously. You didn't have to do this for us."
Reynolds shrugged, blowing smoke. "Don't thank me. Thank him." He jerked his chin at Francis. "Kid did more of the heavy lifting than you know."
Fiona hugged Francis again, tighter, long enough that he felt the tremble in her arms. Then V showed up, laughing, dragging Fiona off down the street. "C'mon, girl. Drinks are on me tonight. We're celebrating."
They disappeared into the crowd, their voices trailing bright against the Chicago gray.
That left Reynolds and Francis standing side by side on the courthouse steps.
Reynolds flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out. His tone dropped, quiet but sharp. "Don't forget your end, Gallagher. Twenty-two percent. That leash stays tight."
Francis slid his hands into his jacket pockets, his face flat. "Yeah. I remember."
But then he tilted his head, voice calm, almost casual. "You want a drink?"
Reynolds gave him a curious look. "Another Alibi run?"
Francis shook his head. "Nah. I know a spot. Fancy joint on the North Side. Thought you might like it. Could give me some ideas for upgrades at the Alibi."
Reynolds considered it, then smirked. "Why the hell not."
"Hop in, then," Francis said, nodding toward the black Chevy parked across the street.
The drive cut through the heart of the city. Streetlights smeared across the windshield, traffic humming like a restless beast. Reynolds talked most of the way—stories about courtrooms, crooked deals, half-jokes about cops too dumb to notice their own paperwork missing.
Francis listened, silent behind the wheel, his eyes sharp on the road. Every turn of the city felt familiar, yet his mind was already somewhere else—spinning, calculating.
Enhanced intellect. That's what it felt like, anyway. Something in him had sharpened over the past few months. His thoughts clicked faster, plans branched out like maps, contingencies layered on contingencies. He didn't just react anymore—he anticipated. Predicted. Played out scenarios before they even happened.
It was why Reynolds hadn't scared him with all the dirt he'd dug up. Francis had known someone was following, cleaning, managing. He'd laid bait, left trails, tested boundaries. And every step proved the same thing: Reynolds needed him alive.
The PO thought he was holding the leash. But Francis already saw the cracks in the chain.
Reynolds leaned back in the passenger seat, exhaling smoke out the cracked window. "This bar better be worth it. I don't drink martinis with olives, Gallagher."
Francis's mouth curved in the faintest smirk. "Don't worry. They serve whiskey just fine."
The Chevy rolled into the brighter streets of the North Side, where neon was clean and storefronts didn't sag. Francis parked on the corner, the reflection of a polished bar glowing in the windows. Inside, people laughed in pressed shirts, music soft instead of loud.
Reynolds whistled low. "Fancy."
Francis cut the engine, his voice even. "Thought you could use a change of pace."
Reynolds grinned, stepping out of the car. "Lead the way."
Francis lingered a moment longer in the driver's seat, his fingers drumming once on the wheel. His eyes narrowed on the reflection of Reynolds in the glass—already walking ahead, confident, like he owned the world.
Francis lit a cigarette, the flame small, steady.
Inside, his thoughts clicked, cold and clear. You think you've got me tied. But I don't wear leashes. Not for long.
He exhaled smoke, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the glow of the North Side.
At that moment, back on the South Side, Fiona and V raised their glasses in celebration. The kids laughed in a house that was finally theirs. For the first time in a long time, the Gallaghers felt safe.
But Francis?
He wasn't celebrating.
He was already planning.