Chapter 58 — Patrick Cuts In
Muttering angrily under his breath, Frank limped into the Probate Certification Office with his cast clacking against the floor.
Outside in the parking lot, T-Bag's partner — the tall, hulking one — stared at the building suspiciously.
"Hey, T-Bag, is that bastard really gonna pay up?"
T-Bag let out a snort through his teeth.
"Hell. Damn no. If he handed us money voluntarily, he wouldn't be Frank Gallagher."
For all his depravity, T-Bag understood scum — because he was scum.
If there was one thing he knew, it was that Frank would never give up money without pulling every dirty trick first.
"So what's the plan then?" his partner asked.
T-Bag lit a cigarette, unfazed.
"Frank's a cripple right now. He can't get far. Relax."
---
Inside the Certification Office
Frank slapped a will down on the counter.
"Hey there, beautiful. I'm here to submit a will."
The heavyset blonde clerk ignored his sleazy grin and took the document.
Her eyes narrowed at the name.
"Ginger Gallagher? This is the second Ginger Gallagher today."
She rummaged through a stack of papers and lifted another will.
"This one was submitted earlier than yours."
Frank froze.
"What? That's impossible! Who submitted it?!"
The clerk didn't bother answering — she simply held the earlier will up against the glass so he could read the name.
Patrick Gallagher.
Frank's jaw dropped.
"Patrick? What the hell?! How would he even know?!"
He had expected Fiona — that "ungrateful daughter" — to beat him to the punch.
But the situation had just turned ten times uglier.
"Anything else?" the clerk asked flatly.
Frank just stood there, staring blankly.
"Next!" she barked, and Frank stumbled away to the waiting benches.
His head was spinning.
Damn it. What now?
If that psycho finds out I'm not getting the house, he'll kill me.
He looked down at the cast still wrapped around his leg.
Running wasn't an option.
After a long moment of panicked thinking, Frank dragged himself toward the window and peeked outside.
T-Bag was still sitting there in his pickup — smoking, relaxed, smiling like a psychopath who didn't believe Frank could escape even if he tried.
God damn it…
Frank cursed silently.
He was trapped between two bad options:
Call the cops, get T-Bag off his back, and hope to escape before they returned.
Or keep using T-Bag to handle the corpse problem — and risk being butchered the moment the truth got out.
For once in his life, Frank tried using his brain rather than liquor.
He decided to gamble.
---
Parking Lot
Frank hobbled toward the pickup — cast, crutch, and all.
Seeing Frank actually return had both T-Bag and his partner momentarily stunned.
"Well? All done?" T-Bag asked without looking up.
He flipped open his butterfly knife and casually carved a slice from an apple, smirking as juice dripped across the blade.
T-Bag peeled his apple slowly, eyes fixed on Frank.
"We ran into a little problem," Frank muttered.
The knife stopped mid-slice.
"What problem?"
"Someone submitted Ginger's will before I did. I need you two to sneak in, steal that will, and replace it with mine."
Frank held up his own document.
For a moment T-Bag simply stared—then burst into laughter.
"Hehehe—Frank! You actually— I— HAHAHAHA!"
He doubled over, laughing like a lunatic.
But halfway through the hysterics, he suddenly hurled the apple to the ground.
In a flash, the blade was pressed against Frank's throat.
"You know something? On the black market, your kidney alone—bare minimum—gets me ten grand."
Frank immediately threw up his hands.
"Whoa! Bro! Chill! I'm an Irish alcoholic, remember? My kidneys are ruined. You sell them and you'll be lucky to get pocket change… and if I die, that six grand disappears with me!"
It was exactly what Frank had prepared for.
He knew there were only a few things T-Bag could sell off his body… and he came ready with excuses.
Sure enough, the knife eased back—just a little.
T-Bag stared at him without blinking.
"Listen, man… if you don't want to help me, then maybe there's another way."
Frank swallowed hard.
"What way?" If annoyance were gasoline, T-Bag could have burned the parking lot down.
"My daughter. She's loaded. Well—her new rich boyfriend is loaded. All we gotta do is kidnap her, ransom the boyfriend, and that six grand is guaranteed."
Frank was already trying to drag William and Fiona into the mess…
completely unaware William is the one who handed him over to T-Bag.
And T-Bag?
The idea of provoking William—a man who radiated the same danger he did—did not excite him.
"Frank… has anyone ever told you… you are a piece of absolute human garbage?"
Frank grinned proudly.
"Well… thanks for the compliment."
The way Frank said it made T-Bag feel like he had become the good guy for a second.
A very uncomfortable realization.
"…Fine," T-Bag finally groaned. "Explain. What do you need us to do?"
---
Meanwhile — The Motel
Svetlana returned exhausted, keys in hand, ready to open the door.
Her entire day had been spent recruiting other immigrant girls—women who, like her, came to America chasing a "dream" only to discover survival wasn't free.
William had given her just 20 Beretta M9s and 20 boxes of 9mm Parabellum ammo.
Not much—around ten thousand dollars' worth.
Svetlana understood immediately: this was a test.
With her network, she could move that inventory within days.
She was already planning her next step when—
the door opened from the inside.
"…Huh?" Svetlana froze.
William stepped out.
"Well, what a coincidence, Svetlana. Let me introduce someone."
Perfect timing.
William introduced Mandy, quickly explained she would be assisting Svetlana from now on, and—because he had an appointment with Amanda—left without further small talk.
The door shut.
Only Mandy and Svetlana remained.
The Russian woman looked at the young South Side girl standing in the motel room and muttered in Russian:
"Stupid Americans."
She wasn't dumb—she immediately understood Mandy was planted here to watch her.
Mandy narrowed her eyes.
"This is America. Stop speaking barn-talk from whatever village you crawled out of.
And listen, Russian bitch—you better behave."
She didn't finish the sentence.
She just smiled.
A dangerous smile.
Svetlana said nothing.
She simply swallowed her pride.
Because she understood something crucial:
She was living under someone else's roof now.
And in America—especially the South Side—pride doesn't stop bullets.
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