Chapter 44 The Waiting
Chapter forty-four
The Waiting
Zane
Thirty-seven weeks. We made it to thirty-seven fucking weeks through sheer will and enough medical intervention to stock a pharmacy. Lena looks like she's swallowed a beach ball, moves like she's navigating through quicksand, and hasn't slept more than two hours straight in days. But we made it.
"He can come anytime now," Dr. Morrison announced this morning. "Lungs are developed. Brain is ready. He's just choosing his moment."
Choosing his moment. Like his mother—strategic even in the womb.
I watch her from the doorway as she organizes the makeshift nursery we've set up in the room next to hers. Every onesie folded with military precision, every bottle lined up like soldiers. She's nesting, Izzy calls it, but it looks more like she's preparing for war.
"What if I'm a terrible mother?" Lena asks, not looking up from the tiny sock she's folding for the fourth time.
Izzy snorts from where she's assembling a crib that looks more complicated than a motorcycle engine. "Impossible. You've kept kids alive in crack houses with veterinary supplies. You'll be fine with your own kid in an actual nursery."
"That's different. Those weren't mine. I couldn't fuck them up with my genetics, my baggage, my—"
"Your love?" Izzy interrupts. "Because that's what he's getting. Love so fierce you've been fighting your own body for weeks to keep him safe."
Through the window, I can see both clubs gathering in the yard. Word spread that Santiago could come any day, and now we've got two dozen bikers on baby watch. There's even a betting pool—Joker's running it from the bar, odds updated hourly based on Lena's contractions.
Miguel's there too, leaning against his bike. Nine weeks since he nearly died, and he's still moving like a man held together by stubbornness and spite. But he's here. That means something.
"These pendejos are betting on my godson?" Izzy discovers the board when she goes for water.
"You want in?" Blade asks, grinning. "Still got the 15th open."
"Twenty on the 15th," she slaps the bill down. "And another twenty that he comes out swinging."
That's tomorrow. The thought makes my chest tight.
"You okay?" Lena's voice pulls me from my spiral. She's standing—barely—one hand on her back, the other on her belly.
"Shouldn't you be lying down?"
"Shouldn't you be running your club instead of lurking in doorways?"
"Ghost is handling—"
"Ghost is planning your overthrow." She waddles closer, and even massively pregnant, even exhausted, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "You know that, right?"
"Let him try."
"This isn't a game, Zane. When Santiago comes, you'll be vulnerable. Distracted. He'll make his move then."
She's right. Ghost has been too quiet since our fight, too cooperative. It's the calm before a storm, and we're about to have a baby in the middle of it.
That night, neither of us can sleep. She's too uncomfortable, I'm too wired, and Santiago is apparently practicing for the Olympics in her uterus. We end up on the roof of the clubhouse—probably violating seventeen bed rest rules, but Morrison said he could come anytime now, so fuck it.
"Do you understand what you broke?" Lena asks suddenly, staring at the stars. "With the surveillance?"
The question hits like a punch. We've danced around this for weeks, but never addressed it directly.
"I thought I was protecting you."
"You turned me into a performance." Her voice is calm, clinical. "Every conversation, every moment of vulnerability—I thought I was sharing with you. But I was sharing with your entire club."
"It wasn't like that—"
"Wasn't it?" She turns to me, and in the moonlight, I can see tears she won't let fall. "Tell me, when I cried in your arms about my father, were you thinking about me or about what intel you could gather?"
"You. Always you."
"But they were listening. Ghost, Blade, whoever had access. They heard me at my weakest and you let them."
There's no defense for it. No explanation that doesn't sound like an excuse.
"I fucked up." The words are inadequate. "I violated something sacred and I can't take it back."
"No, you can't." She shifts, wincing as Santiago adjusts position. "But I'm choosing to trust again. Not because you deserve it, but because he does." Her hand covers her belly. "He deserves parents who can at least try to trust each other."
"Lena—"
"I'm not saying I forgive you. I'm saying I'm choosing to move forward. There's a difference."
Before I can respond, she gasps, her hand gripping my arm.
"Contraction?"
"No. He just... dropped. I can feel it. He's lower."
"Should we go to the hospital?"
"Not yet. Morrison said I'd know when it's time." She leans into me, and I wrap my arm around her carefully. "Tell me about the clinic."
"What?"
"The mobile clinic. Our future. Tell me about it."
So I do. I tell her about the meeting with Dr. Reeves yesterday, the one she insisted I take even though she couldn't be there.
"Partnership," I say. "Sixty-forty split after expenses. You're the majority owner."
"I didn't earn—"
"You earned it with every life you saved, legal or not. He wants to call it Reeves-Cruz Mobile Health."
"Legal. Licensed. Legitimate." She says the words like a prayer.
"A real future. Not just for us, but for the community."
"And you're okay with that? Your baby mama running a legitimate business while you run an outlaw club?"
"My baby mama can do whatever the fuck she wants as long as she's happy."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "What if what makes me happy is you?"
The words hang between us like a challenge and a promise.
"Then we figure it out. Day by day. Like normal people."
"We're not normal people."
"No," I agree. "We're better. We're survivors."
The next two days pass in a surreal bubble.
Lena organizes and reorganizes the nursery.
I deal with club business while never being more than thirty feet from her.
The brothers take shifts on baby watch. Even Miguel shows up, awkward and tentative, bringing a stuffed rabbit that probably cost more than most people's rent.
"For my nephew," he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Thanks," I manage, equally uncomfortable.
We stand there, two men who love the same woman different ways, who've hurt her different ways, trying to find common ground in the child about to arrive.
"If you fuck this up," Miguel says quietly, "if you hurt them—"
"You'll kill me. I know."
"No." He looks at me then, really looks at me. "She'll kill you herself. I'll just help hide the body."
It's not forgiveness, but it's something. A détente for Santiago's sake.
That night, Lena can't get comfortable. She tries the bed, the chair, standing, walking—nothing helps.
"Like trying to sleep with a bowling ball on your bladder," she mutters, shuffling to the bathroom for the tenth time.
I make her tea—some herbal shit Izzy swears by—and we sit together in the quiet.
"Scared?" she asks.
"Terrified."
"Good. Means you give a shit."
"I give all the shits. Every possible shit."
She laughs, then gasps, her hand going to her belly. "Oh."
"What?"
"I think... my water just broke."
I stare at the puddle forming at her feet, my brain short-circuiting. "Now? Like right now?"
"No, next Tuesday. Yes, now!" But she's smiling, calm in a way that terrifies me more than panic would.
"Hospital. We need—"
"Contractions first. We time them, wait until they're regular and close together." She's already grabbing towels, so fucking calm while I'm having an out-of-body experience. "Could be hours still."
"Hours?"
"Or minutes. Santiago's been unpredictable from conception."
The first real contraction hits twenty minutes later. She breathes through it like she's done this before, like her body knows what to do even if her mind is racing.
"Five minutes," she says after the third one. "We should go."
I've driven dangerous routes my whole life—running from cops, racing rivals, chasing death like it owed me money. But nothing compares to driving Lena to the hospital while she's in labor. Every bump feels like assault, every red light like a personal insult from the universe.
"Call Izzy," she manages between contractions.
"Already did. She's meeting us there."
"And Dr. Morrison—"
"On her way."
"The bag—"
"In the back."
She looks at me, something soft in her eyes despite the pain. "You've been ready."
"For weeks. Made lists, packed backup bags, mapped multiple routes to the hospital."
"You made lists?"
"Don't tell the club. I have a reputation."
She laughs, then groans as another contraction hits. "Fuck, he's coming fast."
We make it to the hospital just as the contractions hit two minutes apart. They whisk her into delivery while I'm still parking, and I have to run to catch up, my heart hammering like I'm going into battle.
"Three centimeters," the nurse announces after checking. "Moving fast for a first baby."
"He's impatient," Lena pants. "Like his father."
The next four hours are a blur of contractions, ice chips, and Lena crushing my hand with strength I didn't know she possessed. She refuses the epidural at first—"I've handled worse"—but by six centimeters, she's reconsidering.
"There's no medal for suffering," Morrison reminds her.
"Get the fucking epidural," Lena finally gasps.
The relief on her face when it kicks in makes me want to kiss the anesthesiologist.
"Better?"
"I can think again." She touches my face, traces the bruise Ghost left. "You look like shit."
"You look beautiful."
"Liar."
"Never about that."
Izzy arrives just as Lena hits nine centimeters, takes one look at the situation, and starts ordering everyone around in rapid Spanish.
"You," she points at me. "Stop looking like you're going to pass out. You," to the nurse, "she needs more ice chips. And you," to Lena, "stop trying to be brave. Scream if you need to."
"I love you," Lena tells her.
"I know, mija. Now let's have this baby."