"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.
Chapter thirty-nine
Wolves and Grief
Lena
