Rain hammered the window of Victor's room, turning the glass into a blurry waterfall.
Downstairs, Michael and Jason were yelling at each other again—another layer of noise that made Victor want to punch a wall.
He trudged down, slumped into the farthest corner of the kitchen, and stared at the giant green slop in front of him. One month of this crap every meal. He was ready to puke just looking at it.
His finger traced the rim of a whiskey glass he hadn't touched.
DING-DONG!
Doorbell. Michael didn't look up. Jason grabbed a baseball bat and stormed to the door like he was about to crack skulls. "Let's see who's dumb enough to show up now!"
Door swung open. Jason's voice died.
Only Veronica: "Little Jason, still stealing my panties? Planning to knock me out?"
Jason laughed awkwardly and let them in.
That voice snapped Victor's head up so fast he nearly spilled his drink.
Fiona stood right there—black hair shinier than he remembered, catching the kitchen light like liquid obsidian.
Tight black dress. Curves sharper than two months ago—especially the belly.
Veronica barged in next, deep-brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. Waist still tiny.
Victor's throat went dry.
They looked… different.
Not just rounder. The whole vibe had shifted—Fiona's wild, guarded edge softened into something gentler. Veronica moved with a lazy, sexy confidence.
"Long time no see," Victor croaked, brain spinning every possibility. His body stirred. They're here for round two. Maybe a threesome to "strengthen the friendship." His "special gift" had never let him down in bed.
"You… came together?"
"Victor," Veronica said, plopping down with exaggerated flair, "I heard you blamed your thrown fight on low blood sugar. Real original. Might catch on in a decade. But damn, you do look sick."
Fiona slid onto the stool right next to him. Veronica took the other side.
Suddenly he was the meat in a sandwich he couldn't move in.
Fiona smelled like citrus and jasmine. Veronica: thick vanilla. The mix hit him like a memory—he felt himself twitch.
"We need to talk," Fiona said, tapping the counter with blood-red nails. Warning lights.
Victor's eyes bounced between them.
His iron-kidney superpower made him a champ in the sack, so he was usually cocky. But now? He was sweating. All the hammer-swinging and hustle in the world hadn't taught him how to talk to women. It was always smash-and-go.
His brothers? Cowards.
Michael and Jason grabbed car keys and bolted the second Veronica looked at them—like they'd rehearsed it.
Assholes. Bros my ass.
Victor cursed internally. Leaving me with this soap-opera mess?
"What's up?" he tried, straightening his back.
Veronica pulled a manila envelope from her purse. Fiona did the same.
Before he could blink—SMACK—both envelopes slapped the table, slid, and one nailed him right in the rising situation.
"Open them."
Veronica's voice was soft but steel.
His hands shook.
Fiona's first: hospital ultrasound. Black-and-white blob. His blood froze.
Veronica's: same thing. Same result. Just a week later.
"No way… we used… I'm careful…" His voice sounded far away. "I do this for a living, damn it."
"Shut up," Fiona cut in, calm. "We went three rounds that night. House had three condoms."
Veronica shrugged. "I never use them. Doc said I couldn't get pregnant. So… better ride."
Yeah. Great ride.
Victor's head spun.
His superpower—super sperm count—was now a curse.
He stared at the scans. Dates lined up perfectly.
"Does Sean know?"
First thing out of his mouth.
Fiona's face hardened. "Why we broke up. He thought I cheated. Technically… just drunk sex."
Drunk sex my ass. Slut's a slut.
Victor chugged whiskey. Burned his throat, not the ice in his gut.
"What do you want?"
Straight to it.
"I don't want the kid," Fiona said, flat. "But I need you to pay. Two grand—procedure and follow-ups."
Pain stabbed his chest.
Accident or not, hearing someone end his kid hit hard.
"We can talk other options…"
"No other options."
Fiona's eyes were iron. "I just crawled out of the Gallagher dumpster fire. I'm not letting a mistake chain me back."
"No alternatives?"
"None."
"I'll raise it. You don't have to."
"I pay child support every month?"
Fiona didn't flinch. "Born without a mom? That's torture. And we're not together. I'm not picking you."
Cold. Brutal.
Victor's hard-on died. His heart felt stabbed.
"Your body, your call. I'll pay."
Turned to Veronica. "You?"
She rubbed her belly—unconscious. His heart skipped.
"I'm keeping him," she said softly. "I've got three already, but this might be my only shot."
"Kevin know?"
Swallowing was hard.
Veronica and Kevin weren't legally married, but South Side knew they were endgame.
"That's what we need to discuss."
Deep breath. "I need you with me when I tell Kevin. If he accepts the baby, you just pay support. If not—"
Her voice hardened. "Kid's mine. You step up more."
Victor laughed—absurd. "You're serious? What guy takes his wife's kid with another dude?"
Veronica smiled, mysterious. "Kevin's not most guys."
True. But he was a guy.
Victor didn't fight it. Couldn't stop them.
So he went with both to get paternity tests.
Results: both kids 100% his.
---
That night, Victor stood outside Kevin and Veronica's place, revolver tucked in his waistband—just in case.
Veronica knocked. Kevin opened.
His eyes went from joy to confusion to ice-cold rage.
He'd seen the paperwork.
"Well, well—South Side champ's here!"
Kevin's voice was low, dangerous. Eyes flicked between them.
Veronica cut in: "Kevin. The baby's Victor's."
Time stopped.
Kevin went pale, then red. Veins popped in his neck.
Victor stepped back, hand near the gun.
"The fuck did you say?"
Veronica repeated it. Handed over the ultrasound and paternity report.
Kevin stared. Hands shook.
Next second—he charged like a bull.
Victor was ready. Sidestepped the first punch, landed two clean shots—jaw, gut.
Kevin stumbled, slammed the wall, slid down.
"Listen to her, Kevin."
Victor panted, fists up. "I know it's a lot. But fists won't fix this."
Kevin sat there… and started crying. Silent tears.
Veronica knelt, held his face, explained—years of infertility, what this pregnancy meant.
"We can raise him together. Like your own. Like the other three. Like we always planned."
Her voice begged. "You know how bad I wanted a family with you."
Kevin's sobs slowed.
He looked up at Victor—rage mixed with something broken.
"The fuck you got to say?"
Victor breathed deep. "Didn't plan this. But it's done. I'll pay support. Be in the kid's life—if that's what you want."
Long silence.
Then Kevin shattered Victor's worldview:
"Fine."
Wiped his face. Stood, shaky. "One condition—on paper, I'm the dad. Kid gets my last name."
Victor stared. This guy let his mother-in-law carry a kid for them. Of course.
He stuck out his hand. Hesitated. Shook.
"Deal."
But inside? Gutted. His blood, another man's name.
Kevin's anger didn't fade: "You're not my friend anymore."
---
Next day, Victor took Fiona to the clinic.
Before surgery, she was quiet. Fingers clenched the hospital gown.
"You sure?"
Last chance.
She nodded. Something unreadable in her eyes. "Best choice."
Paused. "Thanks for coming."
When the nurse called her name, Victor grabbed her hand. "If you change your mind—now's the time. I'll help. Anything."
Fiona looked at him. Tired smile. "You're a good guy, Victor. But you're a fat kid with no future. Even threw a fight with a lame excuse."
She let go. Walked into the OR.
Victor sat in the waiting room.
Empty.
Angry.
Sad.
Two women. Two choices.
Life was heavier than any punch he'd ever taken. All that reckless fun? The bill was brutal.
---
Neon at the Alibi Bar flickered in the rain like a bloodshot eye.
Old Joe pushed through the door. Wet air hit him—whiskey, sweat, cheap perfume.
He shook rain off his black trench coat. Scanned the room. His usual spot—third table left of the bar—was open.
"Usual, Joe?"
Veronica didn't look up, already pouring bourbon.
He nodded, heading over—then froze.
Kevin at the end of the bar. Left eye swollen purple-black. Ugly under the dim lights. Not working. Just sitting. Defeated.
"Jesus, Kevin—who'd you fight?"
Old Joe slid in beside him, frowning.
Not friends, but neighbors. Basic concern.
"You just gonna let Veronica work alone?"
Kevin turned slow. Eyes glassy. Twisted grin.
"Oh, look—Joe-Joe Lee. Here to laugh at my misery?"
Voice hoarse. Booze-heavy.
Old Joe's frown deepened.
"Just asking, kid. You look like hell. If you don't want it, forget I said anything."
"Kid?"
Kevin barked a laugh—sharp, ugly. Heads turned. "What right you got to call me kid? Your family's poison in the veins!"
Old Joe's face heated.
He set down his glass. Knuckles tapped the bar.
"Watch your mouth, Kevin. I don't care what crap day you had—don't take it out on me."
Kevin shot up. Chair scraped loud.
Leaned in—booze and rage in Old Joe's face. "Your damn nephew—Victor—he fucked my wife!"
Voice cracked. Tears in bloodshot eyes. "Got Veronica pregnant! She's keeping it! It's a bastard!"
Old Joe's head spun like he'd been cracked in the skull.
Victor?
Veronica's face went dark. Silent. Been like this for days. Kevin wasn't that chill.
Bar erupted in laughs, piling on:
"Winter's here, Kevin—Victor gave you a hat?"
"Kill Victor! I'll buy the bullets—he cost me a grand!"
"Shut up!"
Old Joe roared. Bar went quiet.
Then low: "Kevin, you're drunk. Sleep it off. We'll talk tomorrow—"
"Fuck tomorrow!"
Kevin smashed a glass. Shards flew. "Your bastard nephew ruined everything in one night!"
Grabbed Old Joe's collar. "Your people do this for fun? Wreck lives?"
Old Joe moved fast.
One sharp kick—right to Kevin's groin.
Kevin folded like a rag doll, dry-heaving.
Old Joe straightened his collar. Pulled bills from his wallet. Tossed them on the bar.
"Veronica, get someone to take him home."
Voice cold as ice. "And… is it true?"
Veronica didn't answer. "Old man, this ain't your business."