The next morning, the Gallaghers scattered. Debbie had Liam strapped in her arms with a scowl still left over from last night, Carl dragged his feet like school was a death sentence, and Ian and Lip walked ahead like they weren't in a hurry but also weren't waiting. Fiona rushed out behind them, coffee mug in hand, hair pulled back, already balancing a list of errands in her head.
Frank Jr. watched them peel off toward the bus stop, the block swallowing their voices one by one. He waited until the quiet sat in again, then his phone buzzed.
Kev.
"Yo, you might wanna get down here," Kev's voice was rough, like he'd already yelled twice today. "Stan's in one of his moods. Keeps saying something about cashing out. I don't know, man, but he's waving papers around like confetti."
Frank didn't need more. He was already moving, hoodie pulled up, hands tight in his pockets, that cold Gallagher fire in his chest. He'd been waiting for this.
The Alibi stood the way it always did—brick chipped, neon sign humming like a drunk bee, the inside smelling like spilled beer and smoke even before he pushed the door.
Kev stood behind the bar, wiping a glass that wasn't going to get clean in this lifetime. He looked up. "Man, he's upstairs. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Frank just gave him a nod, then climbed the back steps two at a time.
Stan's room was half-lit, curtains drawn enough to make the air feel stale. Cigarette smoke curled from an ashtray already full. Stan sat in his chair, undershirt stretched, veins in his arms standing out like old wires. His face had that red-brown tone it got when the morning beer already met the morning rage.
"You're late," Stan barked before Frank even spoke.
"I wasn't invited," Frank said, shutting the door behind him.
Stan's eyes narrowed. "What the hell you want?"
Frank moved closer, calm, almost slow, like he had all the time in the world. "The bar. I'm here for it."
Stan let out something between a laugh and a cough. "You? You think you can buy me out? What are you, twelve? Get the hell out before I break your teeth."
Frank didn't flinch. He sat down across from him, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, voice flat. "You're done, Stan. And you know it. Bar's running on Kev's sweat and your bitterness. You can't carry it anymore."
"Bullshit," Stan snapped, pointing his cigarette like a weapon. "I built that place. My sweat. My money. My name. It stays mine."
Frank let the silence stretch. Then he smirked, the way his old man would when he was about to twist the knife. "You built it, sure. But now it's dead weight. You want out. You wouldn't have called Kev if you didn't."
Stan's hand shook just enough to betray him before he stubbed the cigarette out hard. "Even if I did, why the hell would I give it to you?"
Frank leaned back, calm as stone. "Because I'll give you what nobody else can."
Stan squinted, lips curling. "And what's that?"
Frank's eyes glinted. "I'll make your life easier. Specifically—your son's."
Stan's face changed. Just for a second. A flicker. Then the rage doubled. "I don't have a son, you little shit. I got a daughter. And she's worthless."
Frank tilted his head, casual. "Yeah. Your daughter. Who you call a son because he's gay. That's what you meant, right?"
Stan froze. Kev had followed partway up the stairs, and his head popped into the doorway, eyes wide. "Wait, what? You got a son?"
Stan snarled. "No, I got a daughter. But he thinks he's a man. It's all—" He waved his hand in disgust. "All garbage."
Kev blinked like someone had smacked him with a wet rag. "Jesus Christ, Stan. I've been here ten years and you never—"
"Shut up, Kev," Stan barked.
Frank didn't look at Kev. He kept his eyes on Stan, sharp and steady. "Here's the offer. You sign the bar over to me, today, and I'll do what you can't. I'll torment your gay son for you. Every damn day, until you die, I'll make sure he feels it. Mock him, break him down, remind him what a disappointment he is—exactly the way you'd do it if you had the energy."
The room went dead quiet. Smoke hung heavy. Kev's jaw literally dropped.
Stan's lip curled into something ugly, but his eyes—his eyes lit up. For the first time in the whole conversation, there was real interest.
"You'd do that?" he asked, voice low, testing.
Frank's voice didn't waver. "Every damn day. You can rot easy knowing I'll keep the flame of your hate burning for you. That's my price. You sign. I take the Alibi. You rest."
Stan stared. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, jagged and mean. He pushed his chair back, pulled open a drawer, and yanked out a folder thick with papers. "Fine. You got yourself a deal."
Kev blinked hard, stepping inside. "What the hell, man? This—this is crazy. Frank, you can't—"
"Shut up, Kev," Stan barked again, shoving the papers across the table.
Frank pulled a pen from his pocket like he'd known this moment was coming. He slid the papers toward himself, flipped to the back, and signed in a clean, practiced hand. Then he pushed them back.
Stan grabbed the pen, scratched his name like he was carving it into bone, then slammed the folder shut. He sat back, chest heaving, grinning like he'd won something.
"There," he said. "The Alibi's yours. You torment my fag son for me, every day. Don't you forget it."
Kev's face twisted in disgust. "Jesus, Stan." He turned to Frank. "You seriously agreed to that?"
Frank stood, folding the papers, slipping them into his hoodie. He looked down at Stan, voice cool, steady. "I don't forget anything."
Stan laughed, the sound rough and broken. "You're your father's son."
Frank's eyes flickered, hard as glass. "Not exactly."
He turned and walked to the door. Kev followed, still reeling. "Man, what the hell was that? What did you just sign us into?"
Frank pulled his hood up as he stepped into the hallway. "Ownership, Kev. That's what."
Kev shook his head, muttering. "You Gallaghers are insane."
Frank didn't answer. He walked back down the stairs, papers pressed flat against his chest like a weapon, the hum of the Alibi below already sounding different—like it knew whose hands it had just fallen into.
And Stan, back in his chair, lit another cigarette, grinning through the smoke.