Tony's brain was running on pure horniness now, so the second Fiona showed even a hint of interest he flipped straight into full gossip mode.
He dropped his hand back on the table, face turning serious. "Oh yeah, that thing. Happened a couple nights ago."
He leaned in close, voice dropping low.
"The whole precinct's been eating shit over it. Guy got away clean, and during the chase they wrecked a couple patrol cars—tires blown out, slammed into barricades, the works. Traffic cams were either busted or only caught black shadows. Couldn't make out faces or plates. The getaway car turned up later down by the riverbed, torched to a goddamn shell."
Tony shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"Brass has been screaming at each other for days. Some brand-new alderman heard about it and started pushing for a special budget—more high-def cameras and smart surveillance in all the high-crime zones. Campaign slogan's 'making Chicago safer.'"
He gave a dry little laugh, clearly not buying the political theater for a second.
Fiona kept twirling creamy pasta on her fork, but inside she felt a heavy weight lift. No clear faces. No plates. No direct trail. They were safe.
She let out a small smile. "That messy, huh?"
Tony saw her perk up and kept going, feeding her every detail he had.
But somehow he circled right back to her, like always.
"Fiona, if any of this has you spooked, don't worry—I can talk to dispatch, get extra patrols around that subway stop where you guys set up the breakfast van."
Fiona shook her head fast. "No, no, it's fine, Tony. We shut the van down anyway."
She looked at him sitting there like a loyal golden retriever ready to rip his own heart out for her, and a wave of pure exhaustion hit. For a second she actually considered it—just once, to pay off the debt, to let her wired nerves unwind a little.
The thought flickered and died. She pushed it down deep.
"Still… thanks, Tony. You're always so solid."
Tony lit up like she'd handed him the keys to heaven. Back straight, eyes shining, that big dumb satisfied grin plastered across his face. He was already picturing himself on the Gallagher couch, arm around Fiona, the rest of the kids calling him brother-in-law.
While Fiona was finishing lunch downtown, Frank Gallagher was crouched at the mouth of an alley in one of the nicer red-light stretches. Neon flickered even in broad daylight, the air thick with cheap perfume and that unmistakable fuck-scent everybody knew on sight.
Frank waited with the patience of a man who'd spent decades dodging consequences. His eyes stayed locked on a plain back door halfway down the alley while he flipped through a ratty notebook full of his own chicken-scratch city-permit diagrams and coded notes only he could read.
He muttered curses under his breath the whole time.
"Housing safety inspection—fat-ass Dirk's probably jerking off somewhere next Tuesday afternoon. Environmental permit—Lisa, that fake-ass saint… everybody knows she's banging the guy in Planning—"
The back door creaked open. A middle-aged fat guy stepped out, face still flushed, glancing around like he'd just robbed a bank.
Frank's eyes lit up. He stepped out of the shadows wearing his warmest, most fatherly smile.
"Hey, Mike! Long time no see, buddy. You're looking good!"
Mike flinched hard at the voice. The second he recognized Frank his face went white, then straight to beet red. He checked both ways, then rushed over, yanked a few bills out of his wallet, and shoved them into Frank's hand.
"Take it and fuck off. Don't let me see your face again."
Frank rubbed the cash between his fingers, checking the thickness, and his smile turned genuine.
He pocketed the money but didn't move. Instead he leaned in closer, voice even lower than Mike's.
"Nah, Mike, I'm not here for cash this time. Got a friend trying to open a legit little store. Everything's ready except that environmental impact form. You think you could grease the wheels, speed it up a little?"
Mike's face went purple. He grabbed Frank by the collar, spit flying. "The fuck you want? You coming after me now?!"
Frank didn't even blink at the spit or the rage. He just patted Mike's hand like they were old pals.
"Easy, Mike. Just remembered something. What summer was it—Blue Parrot? Guy did some shit in there. Oh, and I bumped into your wife the other day. She asked if I knew where all your 'overtime' was happening. Damn near told her before I caught myself."
Mike let go like he'd been electrocuted, panic flashing across his face. He glanced around again, then dragged Frank deeper into the trash-strewn alley.
Through gritted teeth he hissed, "Frank, this is the last goddamn time. You pull this shit again, I swear to God—"
"Okay, okay, I hear you." Frank raised both hands in surrender, face screaming I'll disappear after this. "Soon as that stamp hits the paper, Frank Gallagher swears on the family name—he'll vanish from your world like he never existed."
They hammered out a time and a vague "expedited" promise right there in the garbage.
Mike practically ran out of the alley like he was escaping dog shit.
Frank strolled out after him, smiling bright under the sun. He patted the fresh cash in his pocket, already calculating.
Heard Shane tell Fiona sometimes you gotta use a little Franklin to open doors. This rush job I just handled personally? Gotta be worth five hundred easy. Nah—family discount. Three hundred. Fiona's paying me back.
He could already taste the top-shelf whiskey burning down his throat.
The fantasy lasted about ten seconds before a random shiver hit him. He scanned the street exactly like Mike had.
"Fuck… feels like somebody's watching me."
Nobody there.
But the feeling stayed. That exact same feeling he got when Shane looked at him—like the kid could see every slimy little thought crawling around in his head.
Frank shivered again.
"Shit… Shane better not be around here."