Chapter 46 — How to Earn the Reward
Whether Fiona broke down or not didn't really matter to William.
If anything, her collapse worked in his favor.
What truly occupied his mind right now was how to complete the system task.
Make Frank understand a father's true responsibility.
That wasn't an easy lesson to teach—
at least not with the Gallagher kids, who Frank would never give a damn about.
But the task… didn't say which children.
It didn't even say the responsibility had to be toward his six kids.
And that gave William an idea.
Without a word, he grabbed Frank by the collar and lifted him up.
The Self-Healing Factor had strengthened William's body significantly—
lifting a grown man was as effortless as picking up a shopping bag.
"Let me go! Fuck! Where the hell are you taking me?!
This is MY house! If someone should leave it's those ungrateful brats!"
Frank struggled wildly.
Against William, the struggle was pathetic.
One-handed, William dragged him out of the house—
snatched his cane on the way—
and carried him all the way to the curb before finally letting him down.
Inside the house, the moment Frank was gone, quiet returned like oxygen.
Fiona collapsed into the sofa, covering her face, sobbing uncontrollably.
Any normal person would break if their father spoke to them like that.
But for someone like Fiona — proud to the bone —
it was catastrophic.
Veronica rushed to comfort her.
Her brothers and Debbie sat frozen, a mess of anger and guilt.
---
Outside.
William handed the cane back to Frank and finally spoke.
"Frank, do me a favor. Just for tonight — don't go back in there.
I'm taking you somewhere. If you cooperate, this money is yours."
He pulled a wad of Franklins from his jacket —
actually from his storage space.
The transformation on Frank's face was immediate.
"W-Well… the house won't grow legs and run away anyway.
Say it, young man — where's my future son-in-law taking me?
And… eh, don't take what I said earlier too seriously. Fiona's not that dirty.
I mean, no STDs as far as I know —
maybe some lice at worst."
There it was —
the shamelessness South Side Chicago had crowned him for.
William didn't even blink anymore.
"Follow me. You'll understand soon."
He walked ahead.
Frank hesitated for just a second — then limped after him.
---
South Side — "Massage Row"
A notorious street lit in neon.
A parade of "massage parlors,"
and women in skimpy outfits waving at passing men, luring them inside for a "relaxation session."
Say what you will about America — but the regional cultural differences were real.
At least here in Illinois,
this borderline business was perfectly legal.
And the biggest boss of this street?
A Russian named Sasha.
Tonight, business was booming —
laughter, music, catcalling, the smell of cheap perfume —
a carnival of desperation.
Frank's face lit up immediately.
William didn't slow down.
He already had the perfect plan.
As soon as Frank realized William had brought him to,
the man instantly perked up like someone plugged him into a generator.
"Woo-hoo! Looks like Sasha brought in a new batch of girls!"
Frank wasn't exactly a regular here—but he sure knew his way around.
He rubbed his hands together in excitement as he scanned the women lining the street.
William didn't bother looking at him.
He was busy picking a target.
It didn't take long.
At the corner stood a woman in a neon-pink micro-dress and heavy makeup, leaning against the wall and smoking.
Cheap perfume.
Cheap dress.
Cheap life.
Perfect.
Someone desperate was someone who would say yes.
William approached.
Up close she looked even older—late thirties, maybe early forties.
"Hey. There's a job tonight. You want it?"
He spoke in fluent Russian.
Her name was Karina.
A girl from rural Western Siberia who once believed in the American Dream.
At eighteen she spent seventeen miserable days in a sealed shipping container to get to the U.S.
The first time she saw sunlight again, she was already in Chicago — South Side.
She followed Sasha, the matriarch of the massage rackets, thinking she had finally made it.
It didn't take long for reality to knock her teeth out.
In America, the dreams come true only for the oligarchs' children back home—
not for girls like her.
Ten years later she was discarded, replaced, and pushed out to the curb to survive on scraps.
A single client usually paid her ten dollars.
If he only wanted a handjob? Three dollars.
Tonight she thought God had finally remembered her.
A handsome green-eyed blond man with cheekbones like a Greek statue— speaking her mother tongue.
Her dead heart flickered with warmth for the first time in forever.
And then life laughed in her face again.
"So you're telling me… the client tonight is this old man?"
They had turned into a dark alley.
Her rundown basement apartment was just ahead.
William held out five hundred dollars in crisp Franklins.
Karina's brain shut down.
Five hundred.
For her, that was a miracle.
A whole month of survival.
"Of course there's payment. Besides keeping him company, there's a special request."
William's explanation barely registered.
Her mind was drowning in the sight of money.
She forced herself to breathe.
"…No danger to my life, right?"
Because five hundred dollars wouldn't matter if she never lived to spend it.
"Don't worry. No violence. No letter-kink stuff."
William shook his head.
She finally exhaled.
She led them forward.
Frank didn't need convincing. Free service and a place to crash?
He was practically humming.
Soon they reached the bottom of a narrow stairwell.
Karina unlocked a rusting metal door.
Inside was nothing but a bed, a few plastic shelves, and the smell of old cigarettes and mold.
A fat rat darted out.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
Frank jumped like his soul left his body.
Karina took a drag of her cigarette, exhaled a cloud, then looked at William.
"So. Handsome. What's the special request?"