Frank Jr. wandered further than he meant to, cutting through streets that slowly got cleaner, quieter, and richer. The South Side grit faded behind him, replaced by tree-lined blocks, lawns clipped so sharp they looked fake, and houses that could fit three Gallaghers' places inside them.
And there it was.
Parked at the curb, gleaming like a diamond in the morning sun — a black Maserati Quattroporte, showroom perfect. Even from a few steps away, he could smell the leather. Chrome rims that probably cost more than Fiona made in three months, tinted windows polished enough to see himself in.
He stopped on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, looking it over the way a hunter sizes up prey.
"Yeah," he murmured to himself, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I want that."
He'd told Fiona he was getting a job. He hadn't told her what kind. In this city, making money legally was like trying to catch smoke — hard, slow, and always in someone else's hands. And he didn't have time for slow. Bills were already breathing down their necks.
Besides… this wasn't just any city.
This was this world. The one he knew like the back of his hand. The people. The shortcuts. The scams. Who could be pushed, who could be played, who to stay clear of. And most importantly — how to get away with things you shouldn't.
He could do what Steve did in the show, sure. Steal cars, flip them clean, make cash quick. But he could do it better. No dumb mistakes. No getting too attached.
With enough cash flow, he could move into something legal eventually — some kind of front. Maybe a garage. Maybe a bar. Something to keep the money looking clean while it kept rolling in.
He glanced around. The street was quiet. No one walking dogs. No joggers. A delivery truck was idling two blocks away, the driver busy with a clipboard.
Frank Jr. stepped off the sidewalk, slow and casual, like he belonged there. His shadow stretched across the Maserati's door as he came up alongside it.
From the outside, it was perfect. But the real beauty was under the hood — a twin-turbo V6 that could take him out of the city and into another life before most people even realized their car was gone.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch. Inside — a slim jim, a tension wrench, and a pick. Not the cheap crap you'd buy online. Good tools. Tools that worked fast.
Crouching slightly, he slid the tension wrench into the door's keyway, feeling for that sweet spot. His fingers moved like they'd done this a hundred times before. He hadn't — not in his old life, anyway — but in this body, in this world, the muscle memory came easy.
Click.
The lock popped. He opened the door just enough to slip inside.
The cabin smelled like new money — that faint scent of leather and polish, mixed with the hint of cologne from whoever owned it. He shut the door gently, glancing up at the rearview mirror. Street still quiet.
He pulled out the ignition bypass tool, slid it into place, and worked quickly. No wasted movements. No fumbling.
The engine purred to life like it had been waiting for him.
Frank Jr. let out a slow breath and grinned. "And we're off."
He eased the car away from the curb, not flooring it, not drawing attention. Just a smooth, confident pull into the street like he'd borrowed it with permission.
---
By the time he hit the expressway, the city skyline stretched behind him in the rearview. Wind rushed against the car, sunlight flashing off the hood. Every gear shift felt like a victory.
The plan was simple — find a buyer, flip it quick, no fuss. He already knew a guy three neighborhoods over who dealt in cars that "fell off the lot." No paperwork, no questions, just cash.
But as he drove, he couldn't help running numbers in his head. This one was worth more than just a quick flip. He could strip it, part it out for more than double the fast-sell price. Or he could run it for a while, use it for jobs until it got too hot, then dump it clean.
Options. That's what this world was full of, if you weren't scared to take them.
---
He pulled into a warehouse lot on the edge of the industrial district, a place shielded from the street by rusted freight containers stacked three high. The Maserati's engine went quiet, leaving only the faint hum in his chest from the drive.
A man stepped out from the shadows of the loading dock — mid-40s, shaved head, thick arms under a grease-stained hoodie. His name was Donny, one of those guys who never asked where something came from, only what it was worth.
"You weren't kidding," Donny said, walking around the car with slow appreciation. He whistled low. "This is a beauty."
"Clean as they come," Frank Jr. said. "Not a scratch."
Donny peered through the window, then looked back at him. "You want quick cash or you want me to take my time and get you top dollar?"
Frank Jr. leaned against the hood, pretending to think it over. He already knew the answer. "Quick. I've got bills."
Donny nodded. "I can move it in an hour. Half now, half after the drop."
"Deal."
The man disappeared into the warehouse and came back with a fat envelope. Frank Jr. took it, flipped through the bills. It wasn't everything the car was worth — not by a long shot — but it was enough to cover the gas bill, the electric, and still have something left over.
Frank Jr. slid the envelope into his jacket, the paper warm from Donny's hands.
He didn't move right away. He let the hum of the warehouse settle in—forklifts beeping somewhere in the back, the faint smell of oil and hot rubber hanging in the air.
Donny was still looking at the Maserati like he might climb in and take it for a spin himself.
"I'm gonna get another one," Frank Jr. said suddenly.
Donny's head tilted. "Another one?"
"Yeah. Today. You can take your time with that one. Polish it, dress it up, find the right buyer. We'll talk price when it's ready."
A slow grin spread across Donny's face. "You're ambitious."
Frank Jr. shrugged. "I've got bills. And I'm not in the habit of sitting around waiting for things to happen."
Donny stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make it sound like he was letting him in on something. "If you're planning on making this a habit, you need to think bigger. The South Side? That's scraps. You want real money, you hunt in the North, West Loop, River North. Places where they don't notice a missing toy until the valet tells them it's gone."
"I know," Frank Jr. said. "That's where I started my walk today."
Donny chuckled. "Figures. You've got the look. Calm. Not twitchy like the usual guys I see." He jabbed a thumb toward the Maserati. "And you work clean. That's important."
Frank Jr. kept his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. "Clean's the only way you stay in the game."
"That, and knowing when to walk away," Donny said, giving him a long look. "Get greedy and this city will eat you alive. Fast."
Frank Jr. smirked. "I'm not greedy. I'm building something."
Donny seemed to like that. He scratched his jaw, thinking. "Alright. You bring me another one today, I'll put you on my list. That means priority buyers, better cuts, and jobs you can't do on your own. You keep it steady, and I can feed you more work than you'll know what to do with."
Frank Jr. nodded slowly, like he was considering it for the first time. In reality, the plan was already half-formed in his head. He'd seen how this world worked on screen, but being here in the middle of it—feeling the weight of the cash in his jacket, the rush of the drive—it was different. Better.
"Alright," he said. "I'll be back before dark."
Donny grinned, stepping back toward the warehouse. "I'll keep a spot warm for you."
Frank Jr. turned toward the street, the smell of motor oil fading as fresh air hit his face. The sun was higher now, glaring off the tops of buildings. He tightened his jacket around him and started walking, his mind already scanning through mental maps of the city, street by street, block by block.
This wasn't just about another car. This was about planting a flag. Showing people like Donny—and everyone else—that Frank Jr. Gallagher wasn't just another South Side screw-up.
And if that meant bending every rule in the book until it snapped? So be it.