Chapter 214: Identity
Frank took Svetlana to the Milkovich residence—Old Man Milkovich had some connections for this kind of thing.
"Frank, what'd you bring her here for? You trying to have a threesome with me or something?" Old Milkovich asked, puzzled.
He was a healthy, single man with certain needs. A regular at Sasha's place, he was familiar with Svetlana and often requested her specifically.
"She's with me now," Frank said. "But she's undocumented. I want to get her a clean ID—one that'll hold up to scrutiny. How much would that cost?"
"Getting Russian papers is easy," Old Milkovich replied, sizing Svetlana up, "but if you want a clean background that'll pass a real check... that's more complicated. It'll cost extra."
"How much?" Frank asked.
"Ten grand. Three up front. I'll have something for you within a week at most."
Normally, a fake ID would cost two or three thousand bucks—maybe even less—but quality varies wildly. Most fakes can't withstand any serious checking.
If all you want is a basic forged identity, a few hundred bucks can get it done.
But Frank was asking for a lot: a spotless background, fully traceable, and verifiable. That kind of thing is expensive and tricky to pull off.
Usually only federal fugitives want that level of cover. They often go as far as getting plastic surgery to avoid recognition.
Svetlana didn't need plastic surgery—she wasn't wanted by the feds. Frank just wanted her to help launder money.
"Ten grand?!" Svetlana couldn't help but exclaim when she heard the price. She knew Frank was trying to solve her undocumented status, but still, the cost shocked her.
She wasn't exaggerating—she really wasn't worth that much. Frank had literally bought her from Sasha for a single dollar.
Back when she was sixteen, her father sold her to Sasha for just a few hundred bucks.
So no, she really wasn't worth that much—even on paper.
"No problem. Here's the deposit," Frank said, handing over the money.
"Now that's what I like to see," Old Milkovich said, happily pocketing the cash.
"That's way too much..." Svetlana mumbled under her breath.
"Money's just paper—it's meant to be spent," Frank said casually.
"Hahaha, now that's my kind of philosophy!" Old Milkovich laughed heartily. He liked Frank more and more—after all, who doesn't like a generous man?
Just then, the front door opened.
"Company?" a voice called from the entrance.
It was Mandy. She'd returned home with a large plastic grocery bag and paused when she saw Frank in the living room.
"Perfect timing, Mandy's back," Old Milkovich said. "Frank, stick around. Mandy's dating your boy Ian—we're practically family now. Try her cooking, let's have a drink or two."
He'd made some good money off Frank lately. His opinion of him had skyrocketed. After all, no one dislikes a walking wallet.
Mandy shot a strange glance at her dad. She couldn't recall them ever being this chummy.
Still, she didn't say anything. She carried the groceries into the kitchen and, without missing a beat, began prepping dinner.
Old Milkovich grabbed some beers and snacks from the fridge.
"Feet up," Mandy said as she swept and mopped the living room, frowning at the peanut shells scattered across the floor.
"We're not done drinking yet. We'll clean up later," her father replied, sipping beer. He cracked a peanut, rubbed off the red skin, tossed it into his mouth, and waved her off.
Frank looked at Mandy with mild surprise, finding his impression of her starting to shift.
He'd never liked Mandy before.
She always dressed provocatively, with nose rings and heavy makeup, coming across as a typical delinquent. Nothing about her seemed wholesome or respectable.
Plus, despite dating Ian, she had also been hooking up with Lip—a fact that Frank couldn't stomach.
But now, watching her cook and tidy up, she seemed... different. Sure, she still dressed like she was ready for summer in January, but there was something oddly domestic about her.
Frank had dinner at the Milkovich house. He drank a bit too much and by the time he and Svetlana left, night had fallen.
Since Frank had taken Svetlana from Sasha's place, she had nowhere to go.
His own house was overcrowded with kids and had no spare room, so he couldn't take her in.
So he arranged for her to stay at Sheila's place.
After the recent custody fiasco, all the kids had been temporarily placed with Sheila. Now that they were back home, the rooms were free—perfect for Svetlana.
Since she was Frank's guest, Sheila and Karen didn't object.
As for Pinkman, Frank had kicked him out—told him to take some time off, find a hotel or something, just get lost for a while.
Frank didn't stay at Sheila's that night. He went home to spend time with his kids.
"Frank."
As he parked in front of his house and stepped toward the yard, a voice called out to him.
Frank froze.
That voice...
He turned around slowly.
It was Monica.
"Monica," he said, his voice dry and unsteady.
"It's been a while, Frank," Monica said as she approached. "I knew you weren't dead. The kids said you were gone, but I never believed it."
"What do you want?" Frank took a step back.
"Nothing," she said. "Just happy to see you alive."
"Cut the act. Fiona told me everything. I'll never let you take Liam," Frank snapped.
"What happened wasn't on purpose—it got out of control. You've got to believe me," Monica said quickly.
"Out of control?" Frank barked. "You vanished for two years. Liam was just two months old when you left."
"And when you came back, you tore this family apart. Do you even know what kind of places those foster homes are? Do you know how many psychos are in there?"
"You even took Ian to the army recruiter? You want him to die on a battlefield?!"
At first, Frank felt awkward facing Monica—he even flinched instinctively.
But the more he spoke, the angrier he got. His voice rose with every word.
Frank knew Ian dreamed of being a soldier. He'd wanted to go to military school—and Frank had fully supported that.
But enlisting? That was different. That was dangerous. And Frank would never agree to that.
---
(