The South Side never let you breathe for long. One day you felt untouchable, the next the ground shifted and you were knee-deep in trouble you didn't even see coming. MJ knew that rhythm too well—it was the same song that had put him in a cell the first time. And right now, every verse of it was playing on repeat.
The morning after the SUV rolled past, the Gallagher kitchen was alive with noise. Fiona was flipping pancakes with a ferocity that suggested she was stabbing the skillet more than cooking. Debbie tried to braid her own hair while feeding Liam applesauce. Carl was practicing knots on a piece of rope, muttering about traps and "guerrilla tactics." Lip sat at the table, head bent over a textbook he wasn't reading.
MJ leaned against the fridge, sipping bad coffee from a chipped mug, eyes scanning the room like he always did. He couldn't stop thinking about that SUV, about how quiet it had been rolling by, how deliberate.
Fiona noticed his distraction. "You gonna help, or just stand there looking suspicious?"
"Suspicious is my natural state," MJ said, smirking faintly.
"Then you'll fit right in when the cops come knocking," Fiona shot back, sliding a stack of pancakes onto the table.
Carl perked up. "Are cops coming?"
"No," Fiona said, glaring at MJ. "Not if everyone keeps their shit together."
MJ didn't argue. He just pushed off the fridge and took a seat, mind already somewhere else.
By midday, he was back with Tito. The garage reeked of oil and sweat, the radio playing low in Spanish. Tito was elbow-deep in the hood of a busted Ford, grease streaked across his shirt.
"You look spooked," Tito said without looking up.
"Maybe I am," MJ answered flatly. "Who were those guys in the suits?"
Tito chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. "Competition. They think they own every corner of this city. But they don't own me, and they sure as hell don't own you."
"Competition doesn't show up at bars to talk," MJ said. "They show up to start wars."
Tito shrugged. "Then maybe it's time for one."
MJ stared at him. Tito's grin was wide, too wide, like he was enjoying the heat. And that's when MJ knew: Tito wasn't worried because Tito wasn't the one being hunted.
Back on the block, MJ ran into Kev unloading boxes of beer outside the Alibi. Sweat dripped down his face, shirt sticking to his back.
"Hey, man," Kev puffed, dropping a case on the sidewalk. "You hear about last night?"
MJ's pulse quickened. "What about last night?"
"Couple blocks over," Kev said. "Guy got jumped. Suits. No one saw much, but they roughed him up bad. Word is, they're asking around about you."
MJ's jaw tightened. He helped Kev drag the last case inside, but his head was spinning. This wasn't a warning anymore. They were making moves.
Veronica leaned over the bar as he came in, chewing gum, eyes sharp. "You're dragging something in with you, MJ. I can feel it."
He gave her a tired smile. "Maybe I'm just heavy company."
"Uh-uh," she said, snapping her gum. "You walk like a man who knows the wolf's already at the door."
MJ didn't answer. Because she was right.
That night, Lip cornered him outside on the porch. The streetlamps buzzed overhead, moths circling like they had nowhere better to be.
"You gotta stop this shit," Lip said, voice low but fierce. "I don't care if you're putting food on the table. If these guys come for you, they come for all of us."
MJ leaned against the railing, arms crossed. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then why are you still running with Tito?"
"Because the bills don't pay themselves," MJ snapped, sharper than he meant to. "Because Fiona's killing herself trying to hold this family together, and the little cash you pull tutoring ain't gonna cover rent. Somebody's gotta make the big plays."
Lip's eyes burned. "Big plays get you dead."
They stared at each other, silence heavy, until finally Lip shook his head and stormed back inside.
MJ lit a cigarette, hands steady even though his chest felt tight. He hated fighting with Lip. But he hated being cornered even more.
Two nights later, it all boiled over.
MJ was walking back from Tito's, pockets stuffed with cash, when he felt it—the quiet shift of footsteps behind him. He turned a corner, eyes scanning, and there they were. The SUV. Parked half a block down. Engine off. Waiting.
"Fuck," MJ muttered under his breath.
He turned down another street, quicker this time, but the SUV rolled forward, silent as a shark in dark water. Then the doors opened.
Two suits stepped out. Then a third.
MJ's pulse spiked. He ran.
The South Side streets blurred around him—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, the distant sound of a barking dog. He cut down an alley, vaulted a trash can, heart slamming against his ribs. But the suits were fast. Too fast.
A hand caught his hoodie, yanking him back. MJ twisted, throwing an elbow, catching one in the jaw. The man staggered, but another grabbed him from behind, slamming him against a brick wall.
"You think you can move in our city?" one hissed, breath hot against his ear. "You think Tito protects you? Tito don't mean shit."
MJ fought, fists swinging, but they were three and he was one. A punch caught him in the gut, another across the face. Stars burst in his vision, knees buckling.
"Last warning," the tall one said, voice calm like they weren't breaking his ribs. "Walk away. Or next time, you don't get up."
They dropped him like trash and disappeared back into the SUV. Tires screeched, taillights vanishing into the night.
MJ lay there, gasping, pain ricocheting through his body. He spat blood onto the pavement, forcing himself upright.
He'd been warned. Twice now.
Next time, there wouldn't be a warning.
When he limped into the Gallagher house, Fiona's eyes widened. "Jesus Christ, MJ—what happened?"
"Wrong place, wrong time," he muttered, collapsing onto the couch.
"Bullshit," Lip snapped from the doorway. "This is exactly what I said would happen."
Fiona knelt by him, dabbing at the blood on his lip with a rag. Her hands shook, just barely. "You can't keep doing this," she whispered. "You'll get yourself killed. And I can't…" Her voice broke. "I can't carry another weight on top of everything else."
MJ caught her wrist, eyes burning. "I'm not going anywhere. Not yet."
But as the room fell into silence, every Gallagher watching him with a mix of fear and anger, MJ knew something had shifted.
The storm was here.
And there was no walking away now.