The bar on the North Side was nothing like the Alibi. Glass chandeliers glowed soft, the walls were polished wood instead of cracked plaster, and the servers moved smooth, like they'd been trained for months just to set down a drink without a sound. Francis sat across from Reynolds in a leather booth, a glass of whiskey already burning his throat.
Reynolds had started light, one or two neat pours. But the man liked to talk, and Francis knew how to listen. Every laugh, every story, every toast—it all led to another round. By the third glass, Reynolds was leaning back, tie loose, eyes watery with that smug kind of warmth that only came with being drunk and thinking you still looked sharp.
Francis matched him sip for sip. Not because he wanted to—because it was part of the game. His body felt heavy, heat curling through his chest, but his mind stayed sharp, slicing through the haze like a blade. His "gift," whatever it was, wouldn't let him drown in the drink.
"Kid," Reynolds said, pointing at him with the rim of his glass, "you remind me of me when I was your age. Only difference is, you're sober enough to know when to shut the fuck up. That's… that's rare."
Francis smirked faintly, swirling the amber in his glass. "Guess I'm just a quick learner."
They laughed together, loud enough that people glanced over but not loud enough to matter. Round after round hit the table until Francis finally leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Enough," he said. "We're done."
Reynolds squinted at him, drunk but still holding that cocky smirk. "You callin' it? Thought South Side boys could drink me under the table."
Francis shook his head, slow. "No point proving what I already know."
Reynolds snorted but didn't argue. He was swaying now, shoulders slumped, the whiskey finally chewing through his control.
Francis pulled out his phone. One text. Minutes later, a car pulled up out front. Not a cab. Not an Uber. A service where you called someone to drive your own car home—safer, cleaner, left no trail.
Francis slid Reynolds's keys across the table. "C'mon."
They stumbled out together, the cool night cutting through the booze heat. Reynolds laughed at nothing, leaning too heavy on Francis's shoulder. The driver nodded once, taking Reynolds's car from the valet and pulling it to the curb.
Francis guided Reynolds into the passenger seat, sliding in beside him. The driver glanced back. "Where to?"
Francis turned to Reynolds, steady voice masking the real purpose. "Address?"
Reynolds grunted, fumbling with his wallet before mumbling out the street and number. Francis repeated it to the driver, locking it in his mind as clean as ink on paper.
That was what he wanted. The address. Home. The real leverage.
The ride was quiet except for Reynolds humming tunelessly beside him, head tipping back against the seat. Francis stared out the window, the city streaking past, every turn memorized.
Finally, they pulled up to a brick house on a cleaner block, a porch light glowing soft. Curtains drawn tight but not enough to hide the neat furniture inside. Not the South Side. Not even close.
Francis slid out first, then leaned in to help Reynolds. The man groaned, half-conscious, muttering curses at the weight of his own limbs.
"Easy," Francis said, voice flat, calm. He slung Reynolds's arm over his shoulder, hauling him to the porch.
The air smelled different here. No piss, no burnt grease, no smoke. Just trimmed hedges and laundry detergent drifting from the vents. Francis adjusted his jacket, straightened his shoulders, then reached out and pressed the doorbell.
The chime echoed inside.
A moment later, the door opened.
She stood there—Reynolds's wife. Mid-thirties, hair brushed neat, a robe tied around her waist. Her eyes widened at the sight of her husband slumped against Francis.
"Oh my god. He's drunk again?" she asked, voice sharp with a mix of worry and frustration.
Francis gave her the faintest smile, calm and smooth. "Yeah. He had a long night. Thought I'd make sure he got home safe."
She sighed, stepping aside quickly. "Bring him in. Set him on the couch."
Francis helped Reynolds over the threshold, easing him down onto a leather sofa that looked more expensive than the Gallagher kitchen. Reynolds groaned, already half-asleep, mumbling nonsense.
Francis straightened, looking around with calm interest. The house was warm, polished, smelling faintly of vanilla candles. Pictures lined the walls—Reynolds smiling in suits, family vacations, the kind of life Francis knew he'd never had.
His eyes lingered, then shifted back to her. She was still watching Reynolds, arms folded tight. Frustration edged her expression, but so did tiredness. Years of this, Francis guessed.
"You must be the one he talks about," she said suddenly, glancing at Francis. "The Gallagher kid. The one he keeps bragging about fixing."
Francis smirked faintly. "He brags?"
Her lips twitched into a half-smile. "When he's sober, yeah. Says you've got more sense than most of the men he supervises. That's… rare for him."
Francis stepped closer, lowering his voice just slightly. "Guess he's not wrong."
Her eyes flicked to him, then away, a faint blush rising before she shook her head. "You want some water? Coffee?"
Francis tilted his head, letting the silence hang just a moment longer than comfortable. Then he smirked, calm, steady. "Water's fine."
She nodded, slipping toward the kitchen. Francis watched her go, the sway of her steps, the way she moved in her own house like she was both in charge and trapped at the same time.
He sat on the arm of the couch, lighting a cigarette, blowing smoke into the warm air. Reynolds snored beside him, useless, dead weight. Francis leaned back, eyes narrowing.
This is how it starts, he thought. First the house. Then the family. Step by step, piece by piece. I am going to take everything he ever holds dear and make it his, well except for the wife and kids, he would discard them after he was done.
The sound of running water clinked faintly from the kitchen. Francis tapped ash into an empty coaster, his smirk faint but unshakable.
Good things ended, sure. But sometimes, the end was just the beginning of someone else's game.