The Gallagher house
The Gallagher house looked like it always did after a night out—dim lamp still on, empty glasses on the table, and the faint smell of booze clinging to the air. Francis stepped inside, shoulders heavy from the drive, cigarette smoke still trailing off his jacket.
First thing he saw was Fiona. She was sprawled across the couch, head tilted back, a half-finished drink sweating on the table beside her. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted in soft breaths—the kind of sleep only liquor could buy.
Upstairs, faint footsteps. Steve appeared at the landing, Liam balanced against his shoulder, Carl dragging behind him, yawning but fighting it like a soldier. Steve gave Francis a nod on his way past.
"Putting them to bed," Steve said quietly.
Francis just gave a curt nod back. "Thanks."
While Steve disappeared down the hall with the kids, Francis set his jaw and looked at the mess. Empty bottles, crumbs across the counter, Fiona's shoes kicked halfway across the room. He rolled up his sleeves, started putting things in order. Plates into the sink. Bottles into the recycling bin. Couch pillows set straight.
It wasn't long before the house looked halfway decent again. That was how Francis liked it—controlled.
He moved back to Fiona, crouched low, slipped one arm under her knees, another at her back. She stirred but didn't wake, head falling against his shoulder. Her breath was warm with whiskey.
He carried her carefully up the stairs, each creak of the old wood loud in the quiet house. When he pushed into her room, Steve was there, setting a blanket at the foot of her bed, tidying like he belonged.
Francis laid Fiona gently down, pulling the covers over her. She murmured something incoherent, then settled, her hair spilling across the pillow.
Steve lingered by the dresser, rubbing his hands together nervously. Francis looked at him for a long moment, then sighed.
"I know we haven't talked much," Francis said finally, his voice steady but low. "And you know I don't like you that much."
Steve opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Francis kept going. "But from all I've seen, you're the least-worst guy she's had around. Which, believe me, says something. So do the right thing." He paused, his eyes sharp now. "Tell her the truth, Jimmy."
Steve froze. His whole body went rigid. His lips parted, but no words came out.
Francis stepped past him, adjusting his jacket, his tone final. "Whatever happens, I'll stand by your side with her. But it has to be the truth."
He left Steve standing there in shock, staring after him, the name echoing in his head like a gunshot.
Downstairs, Francis grabbed a beer from the fridge. The crack of the cap echoed in the kitchen. He dropped into the old chair by the table, the cushions sinking under his weight.
The beer was cold, sharp against his tongue. He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, his mind spinning like gears he couldn't shut off.
Reynolds.
The man had him boxed. Or thought he did. Twenty-two percent of the Alibi, a leash disguised as a handshake. Custody papers forged like favors. Smiles that always had a knife hidden behind them.
Francis tapped his fingers against the bottle, slow and steady.
The truth was, he couldn't let Reynolds keep running this. Not forever. The man knew too much. He'd been in the shadows of every move Francis made—watching, covering, laughing. And men like that never stayed quiet. They grew bolder. Hungrier.
Francis stared at the dark window, his reflection faint in the glass. He thought about the Milkovich house, bullets splitting the night. He thought about Reynolds sitting in his passenger seat, smug grin, lighting cigarettes like nothing could touch him.
A plan started to form. Sharp. Clean. Efficient. Like dominoes lining up in his head.
Step one: Learn his patterns.
Step two: Strip his cover.
Step three: Take him off the board.
His beer bottle dripped onto the table, condensation pooling like a clock ticking. Francis didn't blink.
The scary part? It felt natural. Easy.
Like he'd been waiting his whole life to think this way.
His father had been a drunk, a parasite, a man who clawed for scraps without ever seeing the bigger picture. Francis had sworn he'd never be like Frank since he came to this world. But tonight, as he mapped out a man's death in his head, he realized he wasn't like Frank at all.
He was something else.
Something colder.
Something closer to men like Aizen—the ones who didn't just play the game, they rewrote it.
Francis took another sip, the bitter burn sliding down his throat. His eyes never left that faint reflection in the glass.
This wasn't survival anymore.
This was control.
And Reynolds?
Reynolds was the first obstacle.
But not the last.
Upstairs, Fiona stirred in her sleep, unaware. Steve sat at the edge of her bed, still shaken by the name Francis had dropped, still wondering how much he really knew.
But downstairs, Francis leaned back in his chair, beer in one hand, plans spinning in his mind like storm clouds gathering.
The night was quiet. Too quiet.
And in that quiet, Francis smiled.
It was small. Dangerous.
The kind of smile that came before everything changed.