The South Side felt lighter that week.
No one said Terry Milkovich's name out loud, but everyone knew—he was gone. The whispers carried through bars, alleys, street corners. Some said the cops had him locked up for good, others swore he'd been set up. Didn't matter which was true. Terry was out of the picture, and that meant one thing: the Milkovich boys were free to move without a chain dragging behind them.
Francis knew it, and so did Mickey.
---
At the Alibi, Kev wiped down the counter half-heartedly, the jukebox still silent this early in the day. Francis pushed through the door, Mickey at his side, both of them moving like men with purpose.
Kev glanced up. "Well, well. South Side's golden boy with his shadow." He nodded toward Mickey. "You two playing nice now?"
Francis slid onto a stool, smirking faint. "We're past that. Business."
Mickey snorted, popping the cap off a beer with his teeth. "Don't make it sound soft."
Kev raised a brow, skeptical. "Business, huh? And what business is that?"
Francis leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice low but steady. "With Terry gone, the Milkovich name is mine to point where I need it. But muscle without a product? That's just fists swinging for no reason. I want something steady. Clean enough to run. Dirty enough to pay."
Kev frowned, rubbing at the back of his neck. "And what, you think I got that?"
Francis's eyes sharpened. "I know you do."
Kev froze, the rag in his hand falling still. For a second, silence stretched between them. Then Kev chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "Lip tell you?"
Francis smirked. "No. I have my own way of finding things."
Kev sighed, resigned. He leaned down, pulled a key from under the bar, and gestured for them to follow.
---
Down a narrow hall, past crates that smelled faintly of stale beer, Kev unlocked a heavy door that led to a set of steps. They descended into the basement, the air thick and damp. Another locked door waited. Kev opened it, flicked on the lights.
The glow spread across rows of green. A greenhouse tucked underground—plants lined in neat rows, humming under grow lamps, the scent of marijuana thick in the air.
Mickey let out a low whistle. "Well, shit."
Kev spread his arms like a guilty priest showing his altar. "Me and V set this up years ago. Low-key. Kept it small enough no one noticed. Sold just enough to cover bills when the bar dipped."
Francis stepped forward, eyes scanning every row. He bent down, ran a hand over a leaf, then straightened. His smirk was sharper now. "This isn't just bills, Kev. This is foundation."
Kev frowned. "You're talking about something bigger, aren't you?"
Francis looked at him. "Empire."
Mickey grinned, wild. "Now you're speaking my language."
Kev hesitated. He was a good man, too good sometimes, but even he knew opportunity when it stared him down. "So what—you want me in?"
Francis's tone softened, but the steel stayed underneath. "I don't leave friends behind. You've been solid, Kev. Heart in the right place. This—" he gestured to the greenhouse, the green glow bathing his face—"this puts us into business. And you're part of it."
Kev rubbed his face, muttering, then finally nodded. "Alright. But if this blows up, it's all our asses."
Francis smirked. "It won't blow up. Not if we play it smart."
---
And so it began.
The first step was easy—repurpose what Kev and V had already grown. The Milkovich brothers started moving it, repackaging, slipping it into hands that mattered. Small gangs first, corner dealers. The kind of business no one blinked at. But soon enough, demand grew.
Francis scaled it. Reinvested quick. Lights doubled, plants multiplied, shipments went from ounces to pounds. The Alibi became the front, transactions hidden between rounds of beer and bad karaoke.
Mickey kept the brothers in line, making sure no one pocketed more than their cut. "You steal," he told them, cracking his knuckles, "you deal with me." No one tested him twice.
---
But Francis wasn't satisfied with just weed.
He created problems. Paid a few reckless kids on the north, west, and east sides to stir shit up—slashed tires, broken windows, loud threats. Enough to make businesses sweat.
Then, like clockwork, the Milkovich boys rolled in to "help." They diffused the trouble, ran off the punks, and offered protection for a price. No one wanted to argue. South Side fear carried weight.
In a month, Francis had rackets running across three corners of Chicago. Protection money flowed steady, thick, feeding back into the bar, into the greenhouse, into his pocket.
---
One night, back at the Alibi, Francis sat with Kev and Mickey at a corner table. Cash spilled out across the surface, stacks of bills piled high. Kev counted with steady hands, Mickey grinned like a wolf, and Francis smoked calm, the glow of his cigarette steady.
Kev shook his head, laughing under his breath. "This is insane. I've never seen money like this. And we're just getting started."
Mickey leaned back, smug. "Told you Gallagher wasn't just talk. Man's a psycho, but he's got the brain."
Francis exhaled smoke slow, eyes sharp as he looked at both of them. "This is step one. Drugs, protection—it makes us local kings. But I'm not stopping there. I want bigger."
Kev frowned. "Bigger than this?"
Francis nodded. "Much bigger. But for now? We build the base. The Alibi is our cover. The Milkovich name is our edge. And Kev—" he pointed his cigarette toward him—"you're the heart. People like you. They'll trust you when they wouldn't trust us."
Kev blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled faint, nodding. "Guess I'm in deeper than I thought."
Mickey snorted. "Too late to back out, man."
Francis smirked, crushing his cigarette out. "There's no back out. Not anymore."
---
By the end of that week, the Gallaghers, Kev, and the Milkovich crew weren't just scraping by anymore. They were running an operation. Weed pushed into local gangs, protection money stacked in hidden drawers, and the Alibi thrived as both bar and mask.
The South Side had shifted.