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 thinksI'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.
