The morning had been quiet, the kind of quiet Francis didn't trust. Fiona was still sleeping off a hangover, Debbie was painting the bridge bright blue again, and Lip was hunched over the second-hand PC upstairs, muttering to himself about lines of code. Francis leaned against the doorway, cigarette burning slow, and gave him the run-down.
"Keep at it," he said flatly. "I'll be back in a couple hours. Make sure the prototype doesn't blow up the damn computer."
Lip barely looked up. "Yeah, yeah."
Francis flicked the cigarette into the tray, grabbed his jacket, and called out, "Carl! Let's go."
The nine-year-old tore down the stairs like a soldier on command, his BB gun slung over his shoulder, that wild grin plastered on his face. "Where we going?"
"Convenience store," Francis answered. "Check on Ian."
Carl pumped his fist like they were heading into battle. On the walk, he chased stray cats, barked at dogs, and scared two little kids by jumping out of a bush. The kids screamed and ran back to their mother. She spun around, glaring.
Francis didn't miss a step. He looked straight at her, voice calm, sharp. "Your kids are weak. He's just toughening them up."
The woman clutched her children and hurried off without another word. Carl giggled like it was the best thing he'd ever heard.
"See? Even you back me up."
Francis smirked, ruffling his hair. "Don't push it, soldier."
By the time they hit the block where the convenience store sat, Francis spotted him. Mickey Milkovich. Head down, hood up, swagger loud as ever. He shoved through the door, muttering something under his breath. Francis smirked.
He crouched slightly, looking at Carl. "When we get inside, grab anything you want. Snacks, drinks, whatever. But if things heat up? You stick to Ian. Got it?"
Carl's eyes gleamed. "Sure."
Francis ruffled his hair again. "Good man."
They pushed inside. The bell over the door rang, and the smell of cheap floor cleaner hit them. Carl darted straight to the candy aisle, already scooping chips into his arms.
Francis's eyes moved to the counter.
Ian was there, stiff as a board, arms crossed. His boss—the timid guy whose name Francis could never bother remembering—stood next to him, wringing his hands. Across from them, leaning over the counter, was Mickey.
"Outta milk. And smokes. Write that down," Mickey said, his voice hard, almost mocking. "Make sure they're here next time."
Ian glared. His boss just nodded quickly, fumbling for a pen.
Mickey turned, ready to walk out, a bag of chips and a soda tucked under his arm.
Francis stepped forward. "You pay for that?"
Mickey froze, turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "What's it to you?"
Francis's stare didn't waver. "If you didn't pay, it's my problem."
Mickey laughed, sharp and ugly. "Oh, look. Ian's brother wants to play store security." He shoved the chips higher under his arm. "What're you gonna do? Call the cops?"
"Not my style," Francis said evenly. "But you're not walking out without paying."
The air shifted. Ian's eyes widened, his boss stepped back. Mickey sneered. "You really wanna do this?"
"Try me," Francis said.
That was all it took. Mickey lunged, swinging wild.
Francis slipped the punch, grabbed him by the jacket, and slammed him into the shelves. Bags of chips and candy bars rained down. Mickey spat, snarling, and swung again, catching Francis in the shoulder. Francis barely flinched. He drove his fist straight into Mickey's gut, folding him over, then hooked him in the jaw.
Mickey staggered back, dazed but still spitting curses. He swung again, desperate. Francis caught his arm, twisted it behind his back, and dragged him toward the door.
"Get off me, you piece of—"
Francis shoved him outside, the doorbell clanging as it slammed shut. But before he did, he tossed the chips and soda back onto the counter.
"Ian," he called. "Watch Carl. Take him home after. And tell your boss's boyfriend to learn how to stand up for himself."
Ian's jaw dropped. His boss blinked like he'd been slapped. Carl, holding two candy bars, just whispered, "Cool."
Then Francis yanked Mickey outside and threw him against the wall.
Mickey wiped the blood from his lip, grinning through the pain. "You're dead, Gallagher. You hear me? Dead."
Francis lit a cigarette, calm as ever. Smoke curled into the air between them. "You've got fight in you. I'll give you that."
Mickey spat to the side, chest heaving. "You think I need your approval?"
Francis stepped closer, voice low, sharp. "I think you need direction. Right now, you're just throwing fists, running your mouth. But you? You've got potential. You and your brothers. You know muscle. You know fear. I know business."
Mickey blinked, caught off guard for half a second. "Business?"
Francis leaned in, eyes locked. "Work for me. You'll make more money than stealing chips from corner stores. Real money. Drugs, guns, protection. The Milkovich name carries weight. I'll sharpen it. You'll get paid."
Mickey scoffed, but his voice wasn't steady anymore. "Why the hell would I work for you?"
"Because you don't have a choice," Francis said flatly. "Keep going like this, you'll end up in a ditch or behind bars. But if you run with me? You'll be untouchable."
The words hung heavy. For the first time, Mickey didn't fire back right away. His fists clenched, then loosened. He looked at Francis like he was trying to read him.
Francis smirked. "Think about it. I'll be at the Alibi."
He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and turned.
Mickey stayed against the wall, blood dripping from his nose, eyes burning but his mind already working.
Francis walked off down the block, the faint sound of Carl's laughter spilling from inside the store.
The South Side was full of punks who thought they were wolves.
Francis knew better.
He was building a pack.