South Side mornings were loud even when the sun hadn't fully burned through the haze. MJ woke to the sound of Carl running through the house with a BB gun, Debbie screaming at him to stop, Fiona cursing over the coffeemaker. It was chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that felt like home.
For a second, MJ let himself pretend it was enough. That he wasn't bruised, that Tito wasn't breathing down his neck, that the Milkoviches weren't circling like vultures. Just family noise. Just breakfast and burnt coffee.
Then the knock came. Hard, heavy. Not the friendly kind.
Fiona froze mid-step. "Who the hell pounds on my door like that this early?"
MJ was already moving. He knew that knock. Knew it from alleys, from holding cells, from nights when everything went sideways. He opened the door to find two men in cheap suits, eyes cold, smiles sharp. Not cops. Not Tito's crew. Worse.
"Morning, sunshine," one of them said. "We were hoping to have a word."
Fiona's voice rose behind him. "Who is it?"
MJ stepped outside, closing the door just enough to block her view. "Not a good time."
The taller suit smirked. "It never is. But you made choices, and choices come with debt. Tito's dragging his feet, and we don't like waiting. So here's what's gonna happen—you're gonna deliver us something worthwhile, or next time, we knock a little harder."
MJ's jaw clenched. "Stay away from the house."
The short one leaned close, breath sour. "Then keep your shit away from the house, tough guy. You want your family safe? You pay your dues."
They left as quick as they came, sliding into a black sedan that looked wrong on the South Side. MJ watched until it vanished down the block, his stomach twisted tight.
When he turned, Fiona was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
"What the fuck was that?"
"Nothing," MJ said too fast.
"Nothing?" She stepped onto the porch, voice sharp enough to cut. "Two guys in suits show up at my house, threaten you on my front step, and you call that nothing?"
MJ tried to hold her gaze, but he couldn't. "I'll handle it."
"No," she snapped. "I'm done with that line. Every time you say you'll handle it, we end up cleaning up your blood or scraping together bail. This family's barely hanging on, MJ, and I can't afford to carry your bullshit too."
Her words stung, but he didn't fight back. He just nodded once, turned, and walked down the steps.
By afternoon, he was at Tito's garage again. Tito was in the middle of yelling at one of his guys when he spotted MJ.
"They came to the house," MJ said flatly.
Tito's grin dropped. "The suits?"
"Yeah. Said you're stalling."
Tito cursed under his breath, tossing his cigarette. "They're pushing harder than I thought."
MJ's fists tightened. "I told them to stay away from the Gallaghers."
Tito laughed bitterly. "You think they care about your family? You think they give a shit about anyone but the money? You wanna protect them? Then you get ahead of this, fast."
MJ stared at him. "And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"
Tito leaned close, voice low. "You hit back. Not at them. At their people. Send a message that the South Side doesn't roll over."
MJ knew what that meant—blood. Retaliation. War. He felt his stomach twist, but he nodded anyway. Because what choice did he have?
That night, Lip cornered him at the Alibi.
"I heard," Lip said, sliding into the booth across from him.
"Heard what?"
"That the Milkoviches are sniffing around, Tito's gearing up for something big, and you're right in the middle of it." Lip's eyes were sharp, voice low. "Jesus, MJ, you're dragging us into a war we don't need."
MJ rubbed his temples. "I'm trying to keep it away from the house."
"Yeah, well, newsflash—you're not. Fiona's ready to snap. Debbie's scared shitless. And Carl? He thinks this is cool. He thinks you're some kind of gangster superhero. You're turning him into you, and he's ten."
The words hit harder than any fist. MJ swallowed, unable to answer.
Lip leaned back, shaking his head. "You think you're protecting us, but all you're doing is painting a target on our backs. You need to figure your shit out before someone puts us in the ground."
Later that week, the target found them.
MJ was walking Debbie and Carl back from the store, plastic bags swinging from his hands, when a car rolled up slow. Windows tinted, engine too quiet.
"MJ," Carl whispered, eyes wide.
He didn't answer. Just dropped the bags and shoved the kids behind him.
The window slid down, and a voice called out. "Nice family you got there. Be a shame if something happened to them."
Debbie grabbed Carl's hand, pulling him back. MJ stepped forward, fists tight, heart pounding.
"You stay the fuck away from them," he growled.
The car laughed—three voices, cruel and sharp—and then it peeled off, tires squealing, leaving smoke and silence in its wake.
Debbie's face was pale, Carl's eyes wide with something between fear and excitement.
"MJ," Debbie whispered, "what's happening?"
He forced a smile he didn't feel. "Nothing you need to worry about. Let's get home."
But his chest burned. Because Lip was right. Because Fiona was right. Because the storm wasn't coming—it was already here.
That night, MJ couldn't sleep. He sat on the porch with another cigarette, staring at the dark street, listening for engines that didn't belong.
He thought about Fiona's words. Lip's warnings. Debbie's fear. Carl's dangerous admiration.
He thought about Tito's map, about the choice he'd made. About how there was no clean way out.
And for the first time, he wondered if he'd already doomed them all.