The morning air had that bite to it—cold enough to wake you up but not enough to keep you from moving.
Frank Jr. walked the sidewalk with the kids trailing behind him. Debbie was ahead with Liam tucked into her arms, chatting about some school project. Carl kicked a dented soda can down the street, chasing it like it was more interesting than class.
Lip and Ian walked on either side of Frank Jr., hands in their pockets, matching his pace.
He didn't start with small talk.
"I'm getting the Alibi."
Both heads turned toward him.
"You're what?" Lip asked.
"I'm buying it," Frank Jr. said flatly. "And before you ask—no, I'm not joking."
Ian frowned. "You even have a bar license?"
"Not yet," Frank said. "But that's the point. We make it legit. Full papers, no backroom whispers. A real bar that pays real bills."
Lip let out a short laugh. "You're serious? That place is—"
"A gold mine," Frank cut in. "Kev's basically running it already, but no one's steering the ship. I step in, take control, we clean it up just enough to keep the cops from sniffing too close, but not so much it scares off the regulars."
Ian looked at him sideways. "And you're telling us why?"
"Because you two are gonna help me with it. And Fiona's gonna be the manager."
Lip slowed his walk a bit. "You're just deciding that for her?"
Frank glanced at him, his voice calm. "It's not a favor. It's a way out. She's been running a household since she was a kid. Give her an actual business to manage, something she can put her name on, she gets options. A career if she wants it."
Ian nodded slowly. "So this is… like an investment in her future?"
"It's an investment in all of us," Frank said. "The bar turns profit, we've got steady income. No more scraping by. No more waiting for the next disaster."
Lip kicked at a crack in the sidewalk, thinking. "And what happens when the bills pile up there instead of at the house?"
Frank smirked faintly. "They won't. I know how to make money move."
Neither of them pressed him on that, though Lip's expression said he wanted to. Ian just kept walking, hands shoved deeper into his pockets.
They reached the corner where Debbie and Carl were already waiting for the light to change. Carl was balancing the soda can on his head now, ignoring Debbie's scolding.
Frank looked between his brothers. "This isn't a vote. I'm doing it. I just wanted you to hear it from me first."
The light changed, and they crossed. Lip and Ian didn't argue again, but the silence between them was heavy—like they both knew whatever Frank Jr. had in mind, it was already in motion.
And from the look on his face, there was no stopping it.
Back at the house
Fiona stood still for a moment, hands on her hips, still half-processing everything from the morning. The shine on the coffee table caught her eye again. It almost looked like it didn't belong in this house.
She reached for her phone, thumbed through her contacts, and hit V's name.
"Yo, it's me," she said when V picked up. "You busy?"
"Just folding laundry. Why?"
"You need to come over. Now."
There was a pause. "What happened? Somebody die?"
"No. Just—come. You'll see."
Fiona hung up before V could push more questions.
It didn't take long. A knock sounded, quick and sharp, before the front door opened.
V stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room—and then she stopped dead.
"Uh…" Her voice slowed, uncertain. "Did I… walk into the wrong house?"
Fiona leaned against the arm of the couch, arms crossed. "Nope. Same house. Same address."
V's gaze darted from the mounted flat-screen to the fresh paint on the walls, then to the spotless kitchen beyond. "The hell is going on? Last week your fridge was making death rattles. Now it looks like you robbed a showroom."
Fiona smirked a little, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Frank bought all this."
V's brows shot up. "Bought?" She stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the edge of the table like she didn't trust it to be solid. "With what money?"
"That's the thing," Fiona said. "He claims he 'worked for it.' Overnight."
V turned slowly, giving her a look. "Overnight? Girl, unless he's dealing organs or running a secret OnlyFans, that's—"
"I know," Fiona cut in. "Believe me, I know. But he's not saying anything else. Just… that he's handling things now."
V let out a low whistle, walking toward the kitchen. She opened the fridge and was met with a cold blast and neat rows of food. "Oh my God. You even have groceries that aren't about to expire."
"Yeah," Fiona said, watching her. "He replaced the washer and dryer too."
V closed the fridge, leaning on the counter. "Okay, so… what's the catch?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Fiona admitted. "Part of me wants to believe he just… I don't know, came into some money legit. But the other part? I've lived here long enough to know nothing's ever that simple."
V tilted her head, studying her friend. "You worried about him?"
Fiona hesitated. "I'm… unsettled. I mean, this is Frank we're talking about. He doesn't just change overnight without a reason. And whatever the reason is, I don't know if it's something we can live with."
V waved a hand toward the room. "Well, you've been keeping this place standing with duct tape and prayers for years. Maybe just… take the win for now. If it blows up later, you deal with it later."
"That's the problem," Fiona said, pushing herself off the couch. "Later has a way of showing up sooner than you think."
V smirked and shrugged. "Then enjoy the nice couch while you can."
Fiona let out a short laugh, but it didn't erase the crease between her brows. She knew V was trying to reassure her, but the unease in her chest wasn't going anywhere.
From the street outside, the faint sound of a soda can clattering against concrete drifted in, followed by the distant chatter of kids heading to school. The normal sounds of the South Side. But inside the Gallagher house, nothing felt normal anymore.