The South Side always smelled like smoke after midnight—smoke from grills, smoke from busted-out cars still burning in alleys, smoke from fires that never quite got put out. MJ walked with it clinging to his clothes, his hood up, the cash from Tito stuffed deep in his pocket.
He hated that weight. Not because of what it meant for him, but because he already knew what Fiona would say if she found it. Blood money. Dirty bills. And maybe she'd be right. But the Gallaghers needed it more than Tito ever did.
When he got back to the Gallagher house, the porch light was on. Fiona sat on the steps, hair tied up, a cigarette glowing between her fingers.
"Where the hell were you?" she asked before he could even reach her.
MJ shrugged, trying to play it off. "Out."
"Out." Her laugh was bitter. "You think I don't see it? You come back with cash in your pocket, bruises on your face, and lies in your mouth. Same old shit, MJ."
He leaned against the railing, staring at the cracked street. "It's not the same."
"Yeah?" She flicked ash, eyes sharp. "Then tell me what's different."
He couldn't. Not without dragging her deeper. So he said nothing.
Fiona stood, shaking her head. "You wanna kill yourself, fine. But don't you dare take this family down with you."
The door slammed behind her, leaving MJ alone with the smoke and the silence.
Morning came fast, too fast. The kids swarmed the kitchen, arguing over cereal, chasing each other with spoons. Lip sat at the table, hunched over textbooks, half-asleep. Fiona moved like a storm, frying eggs, barking orders, already late for work.
MJ slid a few folded bills onto the counter beside her. Enough to cover groceries, maybe rent.
"What's this?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Consider it help," he said.
She didn't touch it. Didn't even look at him. "I don't want your kind of help."
Debbie, wide-eyed, grabbed the money before Fiona could swat her hand. "We need it, Fi."
"Debs—" Fiona started, but stopped when she saw the way Debbie clutched the bills like they were treasure.
The kitchen went quiet. Finally, Fiona just sighed, snatched the money back, and shoved it into a jar on the shelf. "Fine. But don't think this makes up for anything."
MJ didn't answer. He just grabbed a piece of toast and walked out before the silence could swallow him whole.
By afternoon, MJ was back at Tito's. The garage reeked of oil and sweat, men moving like ants around busted cars. Tito clapped him on the back, grinning.
"You ready for tonight?"
MJ frowned. "What's tonight?"
Tito's grin widened. "Making a statement."
That statement turned out to be a drive through Milkovich turf with a trunk full of stolen goods. Tito's crew moved fast, swapping plates, loading up, handing out instructions. MJ sat in the driver's seat, heart pounding. He knew this road. Knew where it led.
But when the door opened and Tito slid in beside him, there was no turning back.
They rolled through the South Side with music blasting, windows down, laughter spilling into the night. But underneath it, MJ felt the tension. Every corner could be an ambush, every set of headlights behind them could be trouble.
Sure enough, it came.
Two blocks in, an SUV swung out of nowhere, headlights blinding, engine roaring. Milkoviches.
"Go, go, go!" Tito shouted.
MJ slammed the gas, tires screeching as the Chevy tore down the street. The SUV followed close, voices shouting from the open windows. A bottle smashed against the trunk, glass spraying.
Bullets followed.
MJ ducked low, swerving hard, heart hammering. Tito leaned out the window with a pistol, firing back. The SUV veered but didn't stop.
They cut through alleys, bounced over potholes, clipped trash cans. Finally, MJ spotted a narrow gap between two buildings—too tight for the SUV.
"Hold on," he muttered, yanking the wheel.
The Chevy scraped through with inches to spare, sparks flying from brick walls. The SUV slammed to a halt, tires screaming, unable to follow.
MJ didn't stop until they were five blocks away, car smoking, Tito laughing like a madman.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Tito roared, slapping MJ on the shoulder. "You got ice in your veins, hermano!"
MJ just sat there, hands still shaking on the wheel. He wasn't sure if it was adrenaline or dread.
When he stumbled into the Alibi later, Kev and Vee knew without asking. One look at his face, the blood on his sleeve, the way he carried himself—it said everything.
"Jesus, MJ," Kev muttered, sliding him a shot. "You look like a man who's already halfway to his grave."
MJ downed it in one go. "Feels about right."
Vee leaned in, eyes sharp. "You need to get out. Now. Tito's war ain't yours."
MJ didn't answer. He couldn't. Because deep down, he knew Vee was right. But there was no clean way out anymore.
Back at the Gallagher house, Fiona was waiting again.
"You think I don't hear things?" she said, blocking the doorway. "You think this neighborhood doesn't talk? Milkoviches, Tito, cars, gunshots—your name's in the middle of all of it."
MJ stared at her, exhausted. "I'm doing what I have to."
"No," she snapped. "You're doing what you've always done—dragging everyone else down with you. I can't, MJ. I can't keep letting you bring this shit into my house."
The words cut, sharper than any blade. He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing left to say.
For the first time, MJ wondered if Fiona was right.
For the first time, he wondered if maybe he didn't belong here at all