The Alibi was alive in that way only the South Side could make it—low jukebox hum, laughter bleeding through cigarette smoke, glass clinks that always sounded like they might break the table before the night was over. Kev was behind the bar wiping down the counter, Kermit hunched over his usual, Tommy talking too loud about something no one cared about.
Francis and his PO slid onto stools at the far end. Kev gave them a nod, poured two whiskeys without being asked.
The PO swirled his glass before speaking, voice low but clear enough that Francis caught every word.
"You've been busy," he said, eyes steady on the amber in his glass. "Busier than I expected."
Francis didn't answer. He just sipped slow, his face unreadable.
The PO continued, almost casual. "When you got the Alibi, I thought—huh. Kid's trying. Turning a dump into something people actually wanna drink in. Then you started… moving differently. Cleaning house, teaching Kev how to shake drinks like some downtown bartender. You drew my attention."
Francis finally glanced at him. His expression didn't shift, but his voice came quiet. "You been following me."
The PO smirked. "Every second. Every minute. Every hour. Since the day you walked out of County." He leaned in slightly. "I even got you on camera. Boosting cars like it's second nature. Fast hands, clean jobs. I'll give you that. Kept those chop shops happy."
Francis exhaled slow through his nose, calm even at the mention of jail time hanging over him. "And?"
"And," the PO said, setting the glass down with a soft thud, "those guns. The legal ones, sure, I saw the paperwork. But the illegal ones? Yeah, I know. Saw where you bought 'em. Saw where you hid 'em. And don't think I missed the fireworks at the Milkovich house."
For the first time, Francis tilted his head. Not defensive. Just curious.
The PO grinned. "Relax. You don't gotta say thank you. I cleaned up most of your tracks. Little nudge here, little file missing there. Covered it all. Just doing my part for the good citizens of Chicago."
Francis's eyes narrowed slightly. He stayed cool, voice low. "Nothing is ever free."
The PO raised a brow.
"Even in Freetown," Francis muttered, "nothing is free."
That made the PO laugh. Loud. Too loud. His laugh rang across the bar, drawing the attention of Tommy and Kermit, who leaned in like vultures sniffing blood. Kev stopped wiping, eyes flicking over, ears wide open.
Francis didn't flinch. Inside, his mind spun through the plan he'd been working since the first night he noticed a shadow on his tail. He had known someone was cleaning up after him, too perfect to be coincidence. So he left crumbs—loose ends, "mistakes" for someone to catch. His first GTA run, the Alibi purchase, even the Milkovich shooting—bold, deliberate. A test. If they wanted him dead, Terry Milkovich would've been given the chance. But no. His shadow had made sure the Gallaghers didn't burn.
Now the mask was off.
The PO cleared his throat, straightened, and looked Francis dead in the eye. "You want custody of those kids."
Francis didn't move. His chest was calm, his face colder than the whiskey in his glass.
The PO leaned in. "I can get it for you. Judges, caseworkers—they listen to me more than you think. You want to be their guardian? I can make that happen."
That was the hook. The thing Francis had been grinding toward for months. Inside, the weight pressed harder in his chest, but outside—stone. He let the silence stretch, then finally spoke. "And what's the cost?"
The PO smirked, tapping the rim of his glass. "Fifty percent."
Francis's brow twitched.
"Half of the Alibi's earnings," the PO went on. "And half of whatever future ventures you get your hands dirty with. You're smart. You're not gonna stop here. And when you rise, I rise with you."
Francis let out a quiet sigh, like he'd expected it all along. He stared into his drink, then back at the man. "Fifty's a joke. You want me working for you, not with you. Not happening."
The PO shrugged. "Negotiate."
Francis leaned in slightly, his voice even but sharp. "Ten percent."
The PO barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Ten? Kid, that's pocket lint."
Francis's eyes didn't shift. "Fifteen. For life. You don't lift a finger, you still eat good. More than fair for a man who just erases papers."
The PO smirked. "I erased felonies, Gallagher."
Francis took another sip, then spoke low. "And I'll erase you if you keep pressing for fifty."
The words hung in the smoke between them. Not shouted. Not barked. Just… there.
The PO watched him for a long beat, then chuckled. "You got balls, I'll give you that." He drummed his fingers on the counter. "Twenty-five."
Francis tilted his head. "Twenty."
The PO narrowed his eyes. "Twenty-two."
Francis nodded once, the deal struck. "Done."
The PO lifted his glass, clinked it against Francis's, and downed the rest in one shot. "I like you, Gallagher. You've got edge. I respect edge."
Francis set his own glass down, empty now. His face never broke its calm. Inside, though, his mind clicked through possibilities, contingencies, outcomes. The PO thought he had him tied. Maybe he did—for now. But Francis had already started building the exit before the contract was even written in smoke.
Tommy leaned in from his stool, squinting. "What the hell was all that?"
Kermit chuckled dry, scratching his chin. "Looked like a goddamn job interview."
Kev muttered from behind the bar, "More like a marriage. And I don't like it."
Francis didn't answer. He just pushed his stool back, stood, and adjusted his jacket. "We done here?"
The PO smiled, easy. "For tonight."
Francis walked out of the Alibi, the cold South Side night wrapping around him again.
He lit a cigarette, the flame cutting against the dark.
He had bought himself time. Custody dangled in front of him like a prize, and twenty-two percent was the leash.
But Francis Gallagher never wore a leash for long.