The South Side air was cold that night, carrying the smell of damp concrete and the faint bite of cigarette smoke from the corner. Francis flicked his half-burnt cigarette into the gutter, his boots steady on the cracked sidewalk as he turned down his block. The Gallagher house came into view, lights glowing faint through the windows, the hum of family still awake somewhere inside.
But there was someone standing out front.
A hood pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight but too restless to start one.
Mickey Milkovich.
Francis slowed his pace, smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. "Didn't expect you here."
Mickey looked up, his jaw tight, lip still split from earlier. His eyes burned, but his voice came sharp and even. "I wanna hear it. Your pitch. This… deal you're running your mouth about."
Francis came closer, stopping a step in front of him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mickey sniffed, spat to the side. "You talk big about making real money, about running shit. Fine. I'll listen. But I got a problem."
Francis raised a brow. "Terry."
Mickey's expression flickered—like the name alone carried weight. He nodded once, slow. "He ain't letting me do shit unless it's under his boot. He don't just run our house—he runs us. You know what that's like?"
Francis's smirk thinned into something sharper. "I know what it's like to have a man think he owns you." He leaned closer, his voice low, calm, dangerous. "Leave him to me."
Mickey frowned, confused. "What's that mean? You gonna—"
Francis waved a hand, cutting him off. "Don't worry about what it means. I'm not putting a bullet in him. But a life sentence? That wouldn't hurt him. Or me."
The words hung heavy in the air, smoke without fire. Mickey blinked, caught between curiosity and suspicion. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
For a moment, neither spoke. The South Side night pressed in, quiet except for the rumble of a train rolling somewhere distant.
Finally, Mickey scoffed, shaking his head. "You're a crazy bastard."
Francis smirked again, stepping toward the house. "Takes one to know one. Come in. Let's talk business."
---
Inside, the house was warm, faint smell of Fiona's earlier cooking still hanging in the air. The floor creaked as Francis pushed the door open, motioning for Mickey to follow. Mickey stepped in, his eyes darting over the clutter—old furniture, coats hanging by the door, Debbie's art projects spread out on the table.
"Place looks like shit," Mickey muttered.
"Better than yours," Francis shot back, tossing his jacket over a chair.
Mickey snorted, sinking onto the couch. "Fair."
Francis went to the fridge, grabbed two beers, and tossed one across the room. Mickey caught it quick, popped the cap with his teeth, and spat the metal into the ashtray.
Francis sat opposite him, leaning forward, bottle dangling from his hand. His eyes stayed locked on Mickey. "Here's the deal. You and your brothers got the muscle. You got fear. People hear the name Milkovich, they cross the street."
Mickey smirked faintly. "Yeah. That's about right."
"I've got the brains," Francis continued. "The front. A bar that cleans money without anyone blinking twice. I know the routes. I know who to push, who to pay off, who to bury. You and me? We build something bigger. Not petty theft, not corner store stick-ups. Empire."
Mickey leaned back, drinking deep, his eyes narrowing like he was testing the weight of the words. "And what? I just hand you my crew? Let you call the shots?"
Francis shook his head. "Not my crew. Ours. You handle your brothers. Keep them in line. I handle the rest. Together, we run this side of Chicago."
The room went quiet again. The hum of the fridge filled the gap, the old house groaning faintly.
Mickey stared at him, lips twitching like he was holding back a grin. "You talk like a boss already."
Francis smirked. "That's 'cause I am."
Mickey barked a laugh, short and sharp. "Cocky bastard."
Francis shrugged. "Confident. There's a difference."
Mickey tilted his head, eyes still locked on Francis. "And Terry?"
"I told you. Leave him for me."
Mickey studied him for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out whether Francis was bluffing or insane. Finally, he downed the rest of his beer, set the empty bottle on the table with a loud clink, and smirked.
"Alright. Show me you can do what you say. Then maybe I'm in."
Francis leaned back, calm, cigarette already between his fingers. He lit it, exhaled smoke slow. "You'll see soon enough."
Mickey smirked, shaking his head again. "You're dangerous, Gallagher."
Francis's eyes glinted sharp under the dim light. "You've got no idea."
Reynolds' Home
The front door clicked open, hinges groaning like they hadn't been oiled in years. The sound of keys hitting the counter followed, a tired sigh trailing after it.
Reynolds stepped into the house, loosening his tie with one hand, his briefcase hanging heavy from the other. He kicked the door shut with his heel, muttering something under his breath about traffic and idiots who didn't know how to drive.
Jessica sat in the living room.
The lamp glowed soft against her face, but her posture was stiff, her hands folded too neatly in her lap. She didn't get up. Didn't smile. Just sat there, eyes fixed on him as he walked in.
Reynolds noticed it quick. He always did when the air shifted. He straightened, brows furrowing. "What's this? You waiting up for me?"
Jessica's voice cut sharp through the quiet. "I want a divorce."
The words dropped heavy between them, no hesitation, no tremor.
Reynolds froze halfway to setting his briefcase down. He stared at her, the tie still half-loosened in his hand. "What?"
"I said I want a divorce." Jessica's tone didn't waver. She leaned back slightly in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, her eyes locked on him. "I'm done, Reynolds. We're done."
He let out a small laugh, dry, disbelieving. "You serious? After the day I've had, this is the welcome home I get?"
Her frown deepened. "Don't play tired with me. I know. About the late nights, the perfume on your shirts. The lies you don't even bother polishing anymore."
Reynolds finally dropped the tie, his jaw tightening. "So you've been snooping. Jesus, Jess. You could've just asked me."
"I did ask you," she shot back. Her voice cracked sharp against the walls, sharper than it had in years. "I asked a hundred times, and every time you looked me in the eye and fed me another excuse. You think I don't know when I'm being lied to?"
Reynolds's face darkened. He stepped closer, setting his briefcase down harder than he meant to. "And what, you're just done now? Just like that? Because you're mad about a couple late nights?"
Her laugh came bitter, nothing like the woman she'd been years ago. "You don't even deny it."
For a second, the silence in the room pressed like a weight. Reynolds rubbed at his temple, muttering curses under his breath, then looked back at her. His voice came lower, slower, like he was trying to steady himself. "Jess, listen. We've got kids upstairs. You're angry now, fine. But divorce? You really want to blow this whole house apart?"
Jessica's eyes softened for a flicker when he said "kids," but her face hardened again just as quick. "You blew it apart already, Reynolds. I'm just finally admitting it."
His mouth opened, then shut, teeth grinding. He looked around the room like he was searching for something to latch onto—the photos on the wall, the half-empty whiskey glass on the table, the familiar smell of home. But none of it settled him.
"You don't mean this," he said finally, voice quieter now.
Jessica stood, slow and deliberate, her robe tied tight around her. She looked him dead in the eyes. "I've never meant anything more."
For the first time in a long while, Reynolds had no comeback.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Upstairs, one of the kids shifted in their sleep, the faint sound of bedsprings groaning.
Downstairs, Jessica walked past him toward the kitchen, not giving him another look.
Reynolds stood frozen in the living room, tie hanging loose, the word divorce echoing in his head louder than anything he'd heard in court.