Chapter 32: Even Frank Has a Weakness
"Fuck you, Frank!"
Fiona's voice rang through the living room like the crack of a whip. "Take Aunt Ginger's pension and burn in hell with it! We're done with your mess — figure it out yourself!"
She flipped him the middle finger for good measure.
William didn't say a word, but he smiled faintly. Her anger — sharp, focused, decisive — was exactly what he'd been cultivating. For the first time in a long while, Fiona wasn't crumbling under her father's chaos. She was pushing back.
"Hey! You can't just abandon me like this!" Frank shouted, panic creeping into his tone. "I've got a broken leg! I'm disabled! You can't just walk out on a crippled old man who needs help!"
Classic Frank Gallagher — pathetic, manipulative, and shameless all at once. Jail time didn't scare him; he'd survived worse. But losing Ginger's pension? Losing his daily drinking fund? That was unacceptable — a tragedy beyond endurance.
"Go. To. Hell."
Fiona didn't even look back. She just flipped him off again and grabbed William's hand. "Let's go."
William followed her out, amused. Behind them, Veronica shrugged at Kevin.
"Well, guess that's that. Sorry, Frank, you're on your own."
"You can't treat an old man like this! It's immoral! Un-American! You heartless bastards!" Frank howled, trying to stand — only to be reminded that his leg was still in a cast. Pain shot through him, and he collapsed back onto the couch with a scream that echoed down the hall.
Outside, the winter wind cut sharp and cold. Veronica caught up to Fiona, worry lining her face. "So… what now?"
Fiona stopped on the porch, exhaled a cloud of white breath, and shook her head. "I don't know. For now… I'll forge Aunt Ginger's will. If we don't, we'll lose the house for sure."
Her voice trembled, but her resolve didn't. She remembered what William had told her — his calm, logical tone still in her head. Secure the property first. Clean up the morality later.
Veronica gave a small nod. "Alright. Just… call me if you need anything, okay?"
With that, she and Kevin headed home, leaving Fiona and William standing alone beneath the flickering streetlight.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Fiona turned and wrapped her arms around him.
"Thank you, William." Her voice was soft, almost breaking.
He rested a hand on her back. "You're welcome. But if you're really going to fake a will, you'll need a matching death certificate — which means you'll need a body."
Fiona froze, then pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.
"I'm serious," William continued. "Without a corpse, no death certificate. Without that, no legal will. You'll need a white female cadaver — similar age and build. Get the paperwork, make it official. Otherwise, Patrick's going to eat you alive in court."
He wasn't exaggerating. Patrick Gallagher had the morals of a sewer rat and the persistence of a vulture.
The moment he caught a whiff of opportunity, he'd strip them bare — legally, financially, emotionally.
Fiona nodded weakly. "I'll… think about it. Thank you. Really."
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
For her, it was gratitude. For William, it was confirmation — his conditioning was working perfectly.
---
Later that evening, at the Alibi Bar, the usual crowd of washed-up regulars were gathered around the pool table.
Terry Milkovich stood among them, his left hand still wrapped in thick bandages.
"Bloody hell," he muttered when he spotted William walking in. "It's him."
The room went still.
Everyone remembered what happened last time — the madness, the gun, the screaming. Terry and his crew had seen plenty of killers in their day, but William… William was something else.
He didn't kill out of rage or money or pride. He killed because it amused him — and because he wasn't afraid to die trying.
That kind of man terrified even the worst of them.
William smiled politely as he approached the bar.
"Evening, Terry," he said, his tone disarmingly calm. "Don't worry — I'm not here for a rematch."
Terry snorted, but he didn't argue. He just tightened his grip on his cue stick and tried not to look nervous.
William took a seat, ordered a beer, and glanced casually at the older man's bandaged hand.
"Relax," he said, smirking. "Actually, I came here to talk business. I think I might need your help with… a small problem."
Terry frowned. "What kind of problem?"
William leaned forward, eyes glinting like polished glass.
"The kind that involves teaching a certain man a lesson," he said. "A man named Frank Gallagher."
Terry blinked. "Gallagher? That bum who drinks here sometimes?"
"Exactly." William's voice was smooth as silk. "He's about to learn that actions have consequences… and that even parasites have soft spots."
He took a sip of beer, the corner of his mouth curling upward.
"Let's just say," he whispered, "I've finally found Frank's weakness."
Terry blinked. "What? You sure you mean Frank? I thought you were… involved with his daughter?" Confusion flickered across his face.
"You heard me," William said. Then, calmly, he laid out the rest of his terms. Terry's eyes widened as the plan unfolded.
"So, you in?" William asked.
Terry shrugged — the work wasn't beyond them, but it wasn't charity either. "Pay more."
William considered for a second. "Name your price."
Terry thought, then hedged: "Three hundred."
"One fifty."
"Two fifty."
"Two hundred."
"Deal."
---
Outside, at 2119 North Wallace, Frank hobbled along on his crutch, pushing a wheelchair with a shabbily dressed man slumped in it. With Veronica's nursing-home angle cut off, Frank had resorted to desperate measures: a charity shelter had provided an old, crippled man he figured he could groom into "Aunt Ginger." Frank was a con man who'd never quite learned shame.
He muttered to himself as he pushed the wheelchair. "These ungrateful bastards… if it weren't for me, they'd be on the street…"
Then Terry stepped out from the side of 2119, flanked by a handful of Milkovich men. "Frank Gallagher!" Terry called.
Frank tried to bluff: "Hey, Terry — long time. Move aside, I'm getting home."
Terry, who'd already been paid, didn't bother with niceties. He planted his baseball bat across Frank's path. "Sorry, man. I take orders."
With a curt nod, Terry signaled. Two of his guys rushed forward and slipped a burlap sack over Frank's head, rough hands working fast. Frank screamed as they cinched it tight; the makeshift gag muffled his protests.
"Wait! What are you—?" Frank spat, flailing uselessly against the rope at his wrists. But the men were efficient; this wasn't a barroom brawl — it was a job with a pay packet and a plan.
From the doorway, William watched without blinking, like a man observing a machine that did exactly what it was designed to do. The job was ugly, the money clean. To him, that was enough.