The Alibi was alive in a way Fiona hadn't seen before. Music thumped low from the jukebox, not crackling but clean, steady. The floor wasn't sticky anymore. People were drinking cocktails and beer side by side, laughing like they'd stumbled into some hidden gem in the middle of South Side. Fiona stood behind the counter with Frank Jr., moving glasses back and forth, their rhythm almost natural now. Kev leaned on the bar, watching them with a grin like he couldn't believe his own luck.
But of course, luck didn't last long.
The front door creaked open and in came the hurricane—Frank Gallagher himself. Hair wild, coat hanging off one shoulder, stumbling in like the place had been built just for him. He took a long sniff of the air and squinted at the lights.
"Smells wrong," he said immediately, as if insulted. "Too clean. This ain't my Alibi."
Kev sighed, muttering, "Here we go."
Frank waltzed up to the counter, palms already slapping against the polished wood. "Two shots of whiskey. On the house. Daddy's home."
Fiona didn't even look up. She was drying a glass, her voice sharp. "Not on the house. You pay like everyone else."
Frank froze, blinking at her. "Excuse me? Did my ears just betray me? Did my first-born daughter forget the sacred rule of Gallagher life? Frank drinks free at the Alibi."
Frank Jr. stepped forward before Fiona could bite back. His jaw tightened, voice steady, too calm. "Not anymore. New rules. You pay, or you don't drink."
The old man's eyes widened, outrage flashing across his face. "New rules? Who the hell do you think you are?"
Frank Jr. didn't flinch. "The one keeping this place standing. The one making sure Kev doesn't have to duct-tape taps every Friday. The one cleaning up after you left this bar to rot."
The words hit harder than a fist. The regulars nearby went quiet, beers halfway to their mouths. Even Kev's smirk died.
Frank's lips curled. "You ungrateful little bastard. I built this place. Me and Stan—this was ours before you could spell liquor."
"You drank it into the ground," Fiona shot back, finally slamming the glass down. "Stan's gone. You're broke. And Frank Jr. actually gives a damn about this bar. So yeah, you're paying."
The tension snapped like a whip. Frank leaned over the bar, face red, spit flying. "You think you can erase me? This is my legacy!"
Frank Jr. leaned in too, eyes sharp, voice cutting. "Your legacy is debt and hangovers. This is mine now."
The room held its breath. For a moment it looked like Frank might throw a punch. But he just snarled, grabbed the nearest bottle of peanuts off the counter, and stormed to a booth, muttering curses under his breath.
Kev let out a low whistle. "Well… that was something."
Fiona shook her head, shoulders tense. "It's always something with him."
Frank Jr. stood straight again, brushing off his shirt like dusting off the past. "He'll learn. Or he'll leave."
---
By the end of the night, the bar had survived its first Gallagher storm. But Frank wasn't done. He came back the next day, and the next. Every time demanding a free drink, every time shot down by Fiona and her brother. Every time, he left angrier.
But the Alibi kept growing.
Kev noticed it first, standing behind the bar one afternoon as sunlight cut across the floor. He leaned toward Frank Jr. and Fiona, rattling off with a grin. "You realize you already ticked off half the stuff I begged for? New taps? Done. Cooler doesn't wheeze like a dying dog? Done. Ice machine that doesn't require a hammer? Done. Bathroom door locks? Hallelujah. Hell, even the towels are new. And you two put in that kitchen corner I joked about—chili fries, sliders, nachos. People are eating like it's the goddamn Ritz."
Fiona smirked, proud but trying not to show it. "And we're not stopping there."
She pulled out her notebook, flipping to a page full of scribbles. "We need a bouncer. Not a meathead, just someone who can stop fights before they start. We need better lighting over the booths so people don't feel like they're hiding in a cave. And we need live music nights—local bands, cheap pay, brings in more bodies."
Frank Jr. nodded. "We can do all of that. And more. Poker nights upstairs. Rent the room for birthdays or bachelor parties. The bar becomes more than a bar—it becomes the place."
Kev whistled again. "Look at you two. Mr. and Mrs. Business. South Side won't know what hit 'em."
But Fiona only leaned closer to her brother, eyes serious. "This isn't just about business. It's about proving we're not just any Gallaghers. We can make something that lasts. Something better."
Frank Jr. looked at her, really looked, then nodded once. "We will."
---
Word spread fast. The Alibi stopped being just a pit-stop for old drunks. Younger crowds started coming in, drawn by the cleaner look, the cocktails, the food. Even couples came, and not just to fight. The jukebox played louder, the air buzzing with life.
And in the middle of it, Fiona and Frank Jr. moved like they belonged—side by side, managing tabs, calming customers, keeping the flow.
But every night, Frank Gallagher sat in the corner booth, glaring like a king dethroned. Sometimes he'd pay, slapping crumpled bills on the table just to prove he could. Sometimes he'd sneak a bottle when no one was looking. But no matter what, he made sure everyone knew he was still there.
One night, Fiona finally broke. She slammed down a tray, stormed over to his booth, and stared him down.
"Why are you here, Frank? You don't like the changes. You don't like us running it. So why keep coming?"
Frank smirked, leaning back with that old swagger. "Because it's mine. Always will be. You can scrub the piss off the floor, paint the walls, dress it up like a prom queen. But it's still the Alibi. And the Alibi belongs to me."
Fiona shook her head, fury in her chest. "Never yours to even begin with."
She turned, walking away before she exploded. Frank Jr. slid into her place, leaning over the booth, his eyes like steel.
"You wanna sit here, fine. You wanna drink, pay for it. But don't you dare take credit for what we built."
For once, Frank had no comeback. He just sat there, silent, staring at the son who suddenly felt like a stranger.
---
Weeks passed. The Alibi flourished. The fridge was stocked, the taps flowed smooth, the kitchen sizzled. A small stage went up in the corner. Local bands started to play. Even the cops started dropping by—not to raid, but to drink.
And every time Fiona stood behind the bar, she saw the future stretching just a little further. Not perfect, not clean, but theirs.
Her brother wasn't just fixing a bar. He was rewriting the Gallagher name, one drink at a time.
And for the first time in her life, Fiona started to believe it might stick.