Chapter 27: Ian
"I'll let you off this time."
Mickey and his two buddies exchanged glances, then decided to retreat. None of them wanted to mess with Frank while he was holding a gun.
"Stop right there."
Frank's voice rang out as he saw the trio trying to flee.
Bang!
Without hesitation, Frank fired a shot at them.
His aim was poor—the bullet struck the ground a few meters in front of them. Still, it was enough to scare the hell out of them. Frank actually pulled the trigger.
"You crazy bastard! What the hell, Frank?!" Mickey cursed, visibly shaken.
If it had been the old Frank, he never would've dared do something like this. That time he pulled a gun on Gus, it was because he was drunk—liquid courage, as they say. Even then, he hadn't meant to fire; the gun had simply gone off by accident.
But ever since Frank accepted his cancer diagnosis—whether you call it resignation or simply coming to terms with death—his mindset had changed drastically.
Especially now that he was desperate for money, he'd stopped caring about rules. Even the law was no longer sacred.
In his past life, Frank lived in law-abiding China. He was a model citizen—never even ran a red light, let alone did anything illegal. The closest he'd come to breaking the law was a parking ticket.
But lately, Frank had been crossing legal lines again and again. It wasn't just about the money—there was a thrill to it, a twisted kind of transformation. The rush of breaking taboos was intoxicating, like the thrill of sneaking around with a high school sweetheart behind everyone's backs—dangerous, exhilarating, and addictive.
Ever since then, Frank had grown bolder. He had nothing left to fear. He had cancer. He was going to die anyway. What difference did a firing squad make?
Some people say, "If you don't go crazy now, you'll regret it when you're old."
For Frank, it was more like: "If I don't go crazy now, I'll die anyway."
That's why he dared to shoot. He'd shoot again if needed. Hell, even if it was the President of the United States standing in front of him—if that man so much as touched his kid, Frank wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through his skull.
Faced with the barrel of Frank's gun, Mickey and his buddies didn't dare run. They obediently returned.
"Ian is my son," Frank growled. "If I ever see any of you bullying him again… if I so much as see a bruise on him, I'll come looking for payback. Next time, the bullet won't hit the ground."
"Even if your asshole father gets out of prison and comes after my kid, I'll shoot him too. As long as I'm alive, no one hurts my child. Got it!?"
"…Got it," the three muttered in reply. They were clearly frustrated, but had no choice but to back down.
"Now beat it!" Frank barked.
After the trio ran off, Frank turned and asked gently, "Ian, are you okay?"
"…Yeah, I'm fine."
Ian looked at Frank with unfamiliar eyes—as if seeing him for the first time.
Frank returned the gaze, his expression complex.
Because deep down, Frank knew Ian wasn't truly his son. More precisely, he wasn't Ian's father. And Frank was painfully aware of that.
The old Frank was a drunk, a junkie, and a walking disaster—especially when it came to sex. His ex-wife Monica, who gave birth to six of his supposed kids, was no better.
Between them, they'd slept with at least a thousand people—men and women alike. That included Frank's own brothers.
Several of Frank's biological brothers had slept with Monica. Sometimes they even shared a bed, literally.
Ian… was actually the son of one of Frank's brothers. It had been obvious for a long time. Ian looked exactly like Frank's brother—uncannily so.
But Frank had never said a word. He never kicked Ian out. He just raised him like one of his own. Just like Liam.
Liam, with his darker skin tone, clearly wasn't Frank's either—both Frank and Monica were white. Frank always suspected Liam was the child of his first AA sponsor… which, in hindsight, didn't work out so well, considering the drinking.
Aside from Ian and Liam, Frank had no doubts about the paternity of his other children, like Fiona.
In a strange way, Frank, as unreliable and chaotic as he was, had managed to retain a shred of fatherhood. He never left. He didn't abandon the kids like Monica had. He stayed.
Sometimes, even the most disappointing parent—if they're there, if the kids can see them, touch them—that alone can be a form of support.
The kids had plenty of resentment toward Frank. They didn't trust him, especially when it came to money. But they never cut ties with him.
In fact, when Frank went missing—smuggled into Canada by Steve—everyone searched for him. The Gallaghers never gave up on family.
Even though Frank treated Ian and Liam like his own sons, he still occasionally showed unconscious favoritism.
Lip and Ian were close in age, maybe a year or two apart. But whenever Frank dealt with the two, he always leaned toward Lip—while Ian was often overlooked.
Ian noticed. Kids always notice. He'd long suspected that Frank didn't like him.
But today… Frank had stood up for him. Protected him. For the first time in Ian's memory.
"Let's go home," Frank said softly.
"Okay," Ian nodded.
"How's the training camp going lately?" Frank asked, trying to make conversation.
"It's alright," Ian replied.
In an effort to reconnect with his kids—to undo years of damage—Frank had started paying attention. Really getting to know them.
Ian was diligent, driven. He had long dreamed of joining the military—specifically becoming a paratrooper. He trained at the Junior ROTC program and held himself to a soldier's standards.
After school, he worked part-time at a corner store to earn a little extra money.
His idol was Captain America. Posters of him were all over Ian's bedroom. He'd even collected a whole set of trading cards.