Chapter 47 Building Home #3
"I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting to." I kiss her forehead. "But I'll support you anyway. Because that's what love is—being terrified and supporting them anyway."
She kisses me then, deep and grateful and full of everything we can't quite say yet.
Santiago starts crying through the baby monitor. Izzy's back, perfect timing as always.
"Sounds like someone missed his parents," Izzy calls from the living room.
We break apart, heading to reclaim our son. The four hours of Izzy-granted freedom is over. Back to the beautiful chaos of parenthood.
But for a moment there—standing in our kitchen, Lena's clinic finally real, Tommy's words about legacy echoing in my head—I felt it.
Hope.
Actual, tangible hope for the future.
Not just survival.
Something more.
Something worth building toward.
Sunday dinner at Abuela María's house has become routine.
Every week, without fail, we show up at six o'clock with Santiago and whatever food Abuela has demanded we bring. This week it's tres leches cake from the bakery she likes, because apparently my cooking skills don't extend beyond bottles and boxed mac and cheese.
Miguel's truck is already in the driveway. Danny's bike parked next to it. The smell of pozole hits before we even get to the door.
"I'm going to gain so much weight at these dinners," Lena mutters, adjusting Santiago in his carrier.
"Abuela will be personally offended if you don't gain weight. That's how this works."
"Your metabolism can handle it. Mine is still recovering from pregnancy."
"Your metabolism created a human. It gets a pass."
She elbows me but she's smiling.
Miguel opens the door before we can knock. He's gotten better about this over the last three months—less tense, more present. Still watches me carefully, but there's something like acceptance in it now. Maybe even something like respect.
"You're late," he says.
"We're two minutes late because someone needed a diaper change," Lena responds, already moving past him into the house.
"Always blame the baby. Smart." Miguel focuses on me, voice dropping. "Need to talk to you. After dinner."
"Club business?"
"Something like that."
That's never good news, but I nod. "After dinner."
Inside, Abuela María has transformed into her Sunday dinner persona—hair perfectly styled, apron immaculate, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon of loving discipline.
"Mis ninos!" she calls when she sees us, immediately reaching for Santiago. "Let me see my bisnieto."
Santiago goes to her willingly. Three months old and already charming the women in his life. Definitely got that from me.
"He's getting so big," Abuela says, speaking Spanish to him like he understands every word. Maybe he does. Babies are weird like that. "Mira qué guapo. Just like his abuelo."
"Which abuelo?" Lena asks. "Dad or Zane's father?"
"Both. He has good genes from both sides." Abuela looks at me with that expression that's become familiar—assessment mixed with grudging approval. "You're feeding him enough?"
"Three times a night, every night," I say seriously. "He eats like a Cruz."
"Good. Family trait." She hands Santiago back to Lena, turns to the stove. "Dinner in ten minutes. Everyone wash hands."
The table is already set—seven places. Me, Lena, Miguel, Danny, Abuela, and two spots that seem excessive until I realize they're for Izzy and someone else.
"Who's the extra plate for?" I ask Miguel.
"Izzy's coming. And I invited someone." He looks uncomfortable. "From the club. Wants to meet you. Talk about the truce."
"Your President?"
"No. Another lieutenant. Fernando. He's been advocating for maintaining peace with Iron Talons. Wants to meet the President who knocked up Miguel's sister and somehow made it work."
"That's how he phrased it?"
"More or less."
Great. Sunday dinner with family and Coyote Fangs politics. My favorite.
Izzy arrives fifteen minutes later with wine and gossip, immediately taking over part of the kitchen because "Abuela needs help" (she doesn't) and launching into a story about a customer at her salon who wanted "motorcycle club wife hair" without understanding what that actually means.
Fernando arrives at six-thirty—tall, older, graying at the temples, Coyote Fangs cut with lieutenant patches. He shakes my hand with the grip of someone testing my measure.
"Quinn. Heard a lot about you."
"Probably nothing good."
"Some good, some bad. Interesting, mostly." He glances at Santiago, who's back in Lena's arms. "That the kid who's keeping the peace?"
"That's my son, yeah.
"Cute. Looks like Miguel." He says it like an observation, not a challenge. "Your President and our President should meet sometime. Negotiate terms properly instead of this informal truce we're operating under."
"I'm open to it. When your President is ready."
"He's getting there. Took three months to convince him the truce benefits us more than war. But he's coming around." Fernando takes the beer Miguel offers, settles into the conversation like he's testing waters. "Ghost has been making noise around our club."
My shoulders tense. "What kind of noise?"
"Proposing alliance. Says if we help him take over Iron Talons, he'll split your territory with us.
" Fernando takes a long drink. "Our President told him to fuck off.
We're not interested in starting a war over internal Iron Talons politics.
Especially when the current President's baby mama is our lieutenant's sister. "
Miguel shifts uncomfortably at the phrasing but doesn't argue.
"Ghost won't take no for an answer," I say carefully.
"Probably not. But he's not our problem. He's yours." Fernando looks at me directly. "But I'm telling you as courtesy. And as insurance. If Ghost does make a move, we're staying out of it. The truce holds."
"Appreciate that."
"Don't thank me yet. Our President could change his mind tomorrow. Truces are fragile."
"I'm aware."
Abuela calls us to the table before the conversation can get heavier. Dinner at Abuela María's house operates under specific rules—no club talk at the table, no disrespect, no refusing food. We sit, we eat, we pretend we're normal families having normal dinners.
Santiago fusses halfway through the meal. Lena takes him to another room to nurse, leaving me with Miguel, Fernando, Danny, and Izzy's pointed commentary about motorcycle club politics that she definitely shouldn't know about but somehow does.
"Your woman's a healer," Fernando says, watching Lena leave. "Heard she treats everyone. Both clubs."
"Everyone who needs it," I correct. "She doesn't take sides."
"Useful. Neutral ground is hard to find." He pauses. "Our President respects that. It's part of why he's open to maintaining peace."
Miguel speaks up. "Lena saved a Coyote Fangs member last year. Knife wound. Probably would've died without her. Word got around. She's got protection from our side."
I didn't know that. File it under "things Lena does without telling me because she's simultaneously the most incredible and most infuriating woman alive."
"She's getting her clinic legal now," I say. "Operating as legitimate medical practice. Dr. Reeves is providing oversight."
Fernando nods approvingly. "Smart. Keep her out of legal trouble while maintaining the neutrality. Good move."
The rest of dinner passes in relative peace.
Abuela tells stories about Miguel and Lena as kids—Miguel getting into fights defending his sister, Lena trying to save every injured animal she found, both of them grieving their parents and trying to survive.
It's the most I've heard about Lena's childhood, and I file every detail away like treasure.
When Lena returns with a sleeping Santiago, the sight of her in Abuela's house, surrounded by family, holding our son—it hits different. This is what I fought for. This impossible peace, this fragile family, this chance at something better.
After dinner, Miguel and I step outside. The Phoenix night is cooling off, stars visible despite the light pollution.
"Fernando's being straight with you," Miguel says without preamble. "Our President is considering formalization. Actual treaty instead of just informal truce."
"What changed his mind?"
"Economics. The war was expensive. Retaliation, medical costs, funeral costs, lost business opportunities. Peace is profitable. Plus..." He glances back at the house. "Santiago helps. Hard to maintain hatred when there's a baby bridging both sides."
"Your position secure?"
"For now. As long as the peace holds and I don't fuck up, I'm good.
" He lights a cigarette, offers me one. I quit years ago but tonight I take it.
"Ghost approaching us was actually helpful.
Showed our President that internal Iron Talons drama isn't our problem.
That getting involved would just restart the war. "
"So, I owe Ghost one for being predictably stupid."
"Basically." Miguel smokes in silence for a moment. "You taking care of them? Really taking care of them?"
"Every day."
"Good. Because if you don't, club politics won't save you. I'll come for you myself."
"Understood."
"And Lena going back to work—you supporting that?"
"She needs it. Her purpose, her identity. Yeah, I'm supporting it. Even though it scares the shit out of me.”
Miguel nods slowly. "She's always been like that. Needing to save people. After our parents died, she tried to save everyone—injured birds, stray dogs, me when I was drowning in grief. Can't change who she is."
"Wouldn't want to."
"Then you're smarter than I gave you credit for." He flicks ash into the dirt. "Abuela wants to host your wedding here. Did Izzy tell you?"
I nearly choke on smoke. "What wedding?"
"You haven't asked yet?" Miguel looks genuinely surprised. "Huh. Thought that would've happened by now."
"We've been slightly busy with the whole 'keeping a tiny human alive' thing."
"Fair. But think about it. She deserves that. The commitment, the celebration, the family moment. Not just baby mama status."