Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Territory
Zane
Sister Margaret's church smells like old incense and fresh violence—twenty leather-clad bikers from each club packed into pews meant for prayer, not peace negotiations.
The santos watch from their alcoves, painted eyes judging us all.
Five weeks since the bleeding started, since she almost lost our kid in that hospital bed.
Five weeks of tentative texts and avoided eye contact.
Five weeks of my kid growing inside her while we pretend we know how to fix this.
Tommy sits to my right, solid and steady like always. Ghost flanks my left, radiating the kind of tension that says he thinks I've lost my fucking mind. Across the aisle, the Coyote Fangs mirror our formation—Carlito in Miguel's spot
"Gentlemen." Sister Margaret's Irish accent cuts through the testosterone fog. She's seventy pounds soaking wet, but every man here straightens like she's holding a gun instead of a rosary. "We're here because a baby's life hangs in the balance. Not your pride. Not your territory. A child."
The laptop she sets on the altar feels sacrilegious, but then again, so does everything about this situation. Lena's face fills the screen when the video connects, and my chest does that stupid thing where it forgets how to work properly.
She looks like shit. Beautiful shit, but shit nonetheless. Dark circles under those brown eyes, skin too pale, hand resting on the bump that's more pronounced now at twenty-four weeks. The apartment behind her—the one I haven't been invited to in over a month—looks sparse. Lonely.
"Hi," she says to the room but looking at no one.
"Tell them what the doctor said," Sister Margaret prompts, gentle but firm.
Lena's jaw works, that stubborn set I recognize from every fight we've had. "The baby's heartbeat is irregular. My blood pressure won't stabilize. The stress is..." She stops, hand pressing harder against her belly. "If this war continues, we'll lose him."
Him. We're having a son. The information lands like a punch I didn't see coming.
"Miguel sends his regards," Carlito says, and I want to break his fucking jaw for the mockery in it. "Says to tell you the terms."
"Miguel can—" I start, but Tommy's hand on my arm stops me.
"The terms," Carlito continues like I didn't speak, "are simple. Cessation of hostilities. Territory lines return to pre-war boundaries. Medical costs split between clubs for the pregnancy. The kid—" He pauses, swallows. "The kid knows both families."
"And Lena?" I ask, because that's all that fucking matters.
"Is Iron Talons territory now." The words taste like battery acid. "My crew protects her as one of ours. No Coyote approaches without permission."
Carlito's face twists. "She's still his blood."
"She's carrying mine."
The silence that follows could choke a man. On the screen, Lena closes her eyes, and I catch the way her shoulders shake. Just once. Just enough for me to know she's breaking while we measure our dicks in God's house.
"These are the terms," Sister Margaret interrupts. "Not peace. Not forgiveness. Just a cessation of violence for the sake of an innocent child. Do you accept?"
I look at Ghost, see the disgust there. He thinks I'm weak.
Thinks pussy has made me soft. Maybe he's right.
But then I look at Lena, at the way she's curled around our kid like she's the only thing standing between him and a world that wants him dead before he's born, and I know there's only one answer.
"Iron Talons accept."
"Coyote Fangs accept," Carlito says, then adds quieter, "Miguel wanted me to tell you something else."
I wait, already knowing it'll be designed to cut.
"She's dead to him. The sister he raised died the moment she chose you. This truce is for the baby, nothing more. Don't mistake it for forgiveness."
On the screen, Lena's composure finally cracks. A sob escapes before she can catch it, hand flying to her mouth. "I have to go."
The laptop goes dark.
Sister Margaret closes it with the kind of care usually reserved for holy relics. "You have your truce, gentlemen. Don't waste it. That child deserves better than inheriting your war."
The clubs file out in practiced formation—no mingling, no acknowledgment beyond the necessary. Ghost waits until we're outside before he speaks.
"You're thinking with your dick instead of your brain."
"I'm thinking about my son."
"Same fucking thing." He spits tobacco juice onto hallowed ground. "That pussy has you wrapped so tight you can't see straight. Giving up territory, splitting medical costs, letting Talons near your kid—"
"You got something to say, say it."
He steps closer, and I smell the whiskey on his breath. It's not even noon. "I'm saying you're weak. And weakness gets clubs killed."
Tommy moves between us before it escalates. "Enough. It's done."
Ghost backs off, but the damage is clear. The seeds of something that'll grow if I'm not careful. Problem is, I don't have time to be careful. Not with Lena falling apart four miles away.
"I need to go," I tell Tommy.
"Zane—"
"I need to see her."
He sighs, already knowing he can't stop me. "Don't push. She's hanging by a thread."
Like I don't fucking know that. Like I haven't been watching her unravel through apartment windows she doesn't know I can see from the building across the street. Not surveillance, just... checking. Making sure she's still breathing. Still fighting.
The ride to her apartment is muscle memory. Park the bike two blocks away—don't spook her with the engine. Take the stairs because the elevator's too loud. Stand outside her door like a fucking teenager, trying to figure out what to say.
I don't knock. Instead, I pull off my cut—the one with "President" stitched across the back, the one that means everything and nothing—and fold it carefully, setting it on the floor against her door where she can't miss it.
Then I text:
Left something outside your door. Not asking you to wear it. Just want you to know it's there.
I wait five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
The door doesn't open.
But the cut doesn't come flying back out either.
It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's not rejection, and right now, that's enough.
My phone buzzes as I'm heading back to my bike. Tommy.
Rival crew sniffing around our territory. They smell weakness.
Of course they fucking do. Because wars don't end with truces. They just pause long enough for everyone to reload.
I start my bike, the engine roar echoing off abandoned buildings.
Somewhere in this city, Miguel's probably planning my death.
Somewhere else, Ghost is probably planning a coup.
And four miles behind me, Lena's probably staring at my cut on her floor, trying to decide if she wants to burn it or hold it.
But our son is alive. His heart is still beating, even if it's irregular. Even if it's struggling.
That's enough.
It has to be.