Chapter 47 Building Home
Chapter forty-seven
Building Home
Zane
Three months into fatherhood and I've learned several universal truths:
One: Sleep is a myth propagated by people without children.
Two: Babies have the worst fucking timing in human history.
Three: Santiago inherited his mother's stubborn streak and my ability to be loud at the most inappropriate moments.
Four: I'd die for this kid without hesitation.
It's 5 AM. Santiago is crying. Again. Third time tonight. I'm moving before Lena even stirs—she handled the 1 AM and 3 AM wake-ups, this one's mine.
"I got him," I mutter into the darkness.
Lena makes a sound that might be gratitude or might be unconsciousness. Hard to tell anymore. We communicate mostly in grunts and half-sentences now, our entire vocabulary reduced to baby-related emergencies and the eternal question: "Whose turn is it?"
I pad down the hallway of our rental house—small, two bedrooms, neutral territory that belongs to neither Iron Talons nor Coyote Fangs.
Just ours. The nursery door is cracked open, nightlight casting soft shadows across walls painted a blue that Izzy insisted was "calming for infant cognitive development. "
Santiago's cry escalates from "mildly annoyed" to "the world is ending and only you can fix it, Dad."
"Coming, little man," I say, already reaching into the crib.
He's warm and solid in my arms, face scrunched up in that expression that's pure Lena—indignant about the injustice of existence. His dark hair sticks up in all directions. Cruz hair with Quinn coloring. The perfect combination of everything I never knew I needed.
The crying stops the moment I pick him up. Like magic. Like he just needed to know someone was coming.
"Diaper or hungry?" I ask him, because I've started talking to my three-month-old like he can answer. "Let's check the diaper first."
The changing table is second nature now. Three months of this and I can change a diaper in the dark, one-handed, while half-asleep. It's not a skill I expected to develop, but here we are.
Clean diaper secured, I head to the kitchen for a bottle. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Santiago's small sounds of impatience. Phoenix is still dark outside the windows, but dawn is threatening on the horizon—that purple-gray that comes before sunrise.
I prep the bottle on autopilot. Warm water, formula, shake, test temperature on my wrist. Another skill added to the unlikely list of things Zane Quinn knows how to do.
Santiago latches onto the bottle like he's been starving for days instead of fed three hours ago. His dark eyes focus on my face with that intense baby concentration that makes everything else disappear.
This is my favorite time. Just him and me. The world reduced to this small person and the weight of responsibility that sits heavier than any club duty ever did.
I count his breaths between swallows. Old habit. Grounding mechanism.
One: Bottles today (this is number one, probably won't be the last).
Two: Diaper changes (lost count yesterday, starting fresh today).
Three: Months of this beautiful chaos we call parenthood.
Four: Hours of sleep total last night (generous estimate).
"Your mom's a superhero," I tell Santiago quietly. "You know that, right? She does this and everything else. Clinic work, club politics, keeping us all alive. Meanwhile I'm over here proud of myself for successfully making a bottle."
Santiago's response is to keep eating and grip my finger with surprising strength.
"Yeah, I know. She's out of my league. But she said yes anyway. To me, to this, to the whole impossible thing." I adjust my hold, settle deeper into the rocking chair. "Your Tío Miguel still can't believe it. Neither can I, honestly."
The door opens softly. Lena appears in the doorway, backlit by hallway light, wearing one of my t-shirts and exhaustion like a second skin.
"You're up," I say.
"Your turn to sleep," she responds, but makes no move to go back to bed.
"Can't sleep anyway. My breasts are angry and my brain won't shut off."
I try not to smile at the clinical description. "Medical terminology for 'uncomfortable'?"
"Engorgement. Oversupply. General postpartum bullshit." She moves into the room, winces slightly. Still healing. Still recovering from the violence of creating life. "Want me to...?" I make a vague gesture toward the pump sitting on the dresser.
"You offering to pump my breasts? That's very progressive of you."
"I'm offering to help somehow. Even though I have no idea how."
Lena sits carefully in the chair next to mine, pulls her knees up. "Just being here helps."
We sit in comfortable silence. Santiago eating, Lena's breathing evening out, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains. This is our life now—stolen moments of peace between crises, building a family one exhausted morning at a time.
"Joker called yesterday," I say quietly. "While you were at your first clinic appointment with Dr. Reeves."
"How's the club?"
"Stable. He's a good VP. Not Tommy, but good."
Tommy. The name sits heavy between us. Our former Road Captain, my mentor, currently serving five years in state prison for club business that went sideways.
His sentencing happened two weeks ago. I went.
Lena stayed home with Santiago. We don't talk about it much—too raw, too complicated, too much guilt.
"You miss him," Lena says. Not a question.
"Every day. He should be here. Meeting Santiago properly. Giving me shit about diaper duty. Instead he's—" I stop. Can't finish that sentence.
"He knew the risks," Lena says gently. "That's what he told you, right? That he'd do it again?"
"Doesn't make it easier."
"No. It doesn't."
Santiago finishes his bottle, milk-drunk and content. I lift him to my shoulder for burping, the motion automatic now. Pat, pause, pat, pause. Wait for the inevitable burp that sounds impossibly loud from such a small person.
"We're doing okay though, right?" Lena asks, and there's vulnerability in her voice that makes me look at her. Really look.
She's beautiful in the dawn light. Exhausted, yes. Changed by pregnancy and childbirth, absolutely. But beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with strength.
"We're surviving," I say honestly.
"That's not the same as thriving."
"No. But it's something. Three months ago, we were in the hospital wondering if we could do this. Now we're here, both alive, Santiago healthy. I call that a win."
"Such high standards."
"I'm setting the bar low so we can feel accomplished." I get the burp, adjust Santiago back to cradling position. He's already falling asleep again, that boneless baby relaxation that comes after a good feeding. "But yeah. We're okay. Tired as fuck, but okay."
"Eloquent as always."
"You knew what you were getting into when you chose me."
"Did I though?" But she's smiling. "I thought I was choosing a dangerous enforcer with good texting game. Turned out I was choosing the President of Iron Talons, a father, and a man who can change diapers in the dark."
"Plot twist."
"The best kind."
I stand carefully, move to put Santiago back in his crib. He fusses slightly at the transition but settles once I lay him down, tuck Abuela María's hand-knitted blanket around him. The one she made after Miguel told her about Santiago. The one that smells like prayers and hope.
Lena's behind me, close enough that I can feel her warmth. We stand there watching our son sleep, this tiny person who somehow changed everything.
"Come back to bed," she says quietly. "We have maybe two hours before he wakes up again."
"You should sleep."
"So should you. Come on. Let's be unconscious together while we have the chance."
Two hours later—exactly two hours, because Santiago has impeccable timing—we're both awake and immediately exhausted again. The cycle continues.
Lena's in the shower. I'm making coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead and watching Santiago do tummy time on a play mat that Izzy bought. He hates tummy time. Makes his feelings about it very clear through aggressive fussing.
"I know, buddy. Life's hard. But you gotta build those neck muscles."
My phone buzzes. Joker.
"Yeah?"
"Morning, Prez. Got a situation."
My shoulders tense immediately. "What kind of situation?"
"The Ghost kind. He's been making noise again. Talking to the Vipers about territory negotiations. Positioning himself as alternative leadership for brothers who aren't happy with current management."
"Current management being me."
"Yeah. Thought you should know."
Ghost. Three months since he left Iron Talons, three months of radio silence, and now he's surfacing again. I knew this was coming. Men like Ghost don't just fade away quietly.
"How many brothers is he talking to?"
"Hard to say. Torch and Diesel are definitely in contact. Maybe a few others. Nothing organized yet, but he's planting seeds."
"Keep me updated. And Joker?"
"Yeah?"
"Make sure everyone knows—Ghost left of his own choice. He challenged, he lost, he walked. Anyone who wants to follow him out the door is welcome to. But they don't get to do it halfway. In or out. No divided loyalties."
"Copy that. How's the kid?"
"Perfect. Loud. Exactly like his mother."
"Lena's gonna hear you said that."
"I'm counting on it." I hang up as Lena emerges from the bathroom, hair wet, wearing jeans that actually fit again and a look of triumph.
"I put on real pants," she announces. "Witness this moment."
"Documented for history." I pour her coffee, add cream the way she likes it. "Joker called. Ghost is making moves."
Her expression shifts immediately from playful to tactical. "What kind of moves?"
"Talking to other clubs. Positioning himself as alternative Iron Talons leadership. Same shit he was doing before, just external now."
"Is it a real threat?"