He nods, no argument, no pushing.
Inside, his cut from last night is still where I left it after bringing it in—folded on my kitchen counter like a question I'm not ready to answer. He sees it, I see him see it, but neither of us mentions it. The leather just sits there, "President" patch facing up, witnessing whatever this is we're trying not to name.
At 3 AM, I find myself standing in my living room doorway, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this, without the weight of presidency and violence. Almost innocent, if you ignore the split knuckles and the gun on my coffee table.
I don't mean to move, but suddenly I'm beside the couch, reaching out. Just to hold his hand. Just to remember what connection feels like. His fingers close around mine immediately, like he was waiting.
"I'm so tired of being afraid," I whisper into the darkness.
"I know, baby. I know."
I don't go back to my bedroom. Can't. Instead, I curl into the chair across from the couch, pull my grandmother's quilt around me, and watch him pretend to sleep while I pretend not to need this—whatever this is. The apartment breathes around us, quiet except for the occasional car passing outside and Santiago's movements, like he's trying to find comfortable in a world that offers none.
Dawn comes gray and reluctant through my windows. I must have dozed because I wake to find Zane sitting up, checking his phone with a frown that makes my stomach drop before I even know why.
"What is it?"
He looks up, and I see him calculating whether to tell me. That pause, that moment of decision, tells me everything.
"Zane. What?"
He turns the phone toward me. Text from Carlito:Miguel's been shot. Retaliation for the truce. He's at St. Mary's.
The words rearrange themselves in my brain several times before they make sense. Miguel. Shot. Because he agreed to the truce.
The quilt falls as I stand too fast, the room spinning slightly. Zane's there, steadying me without being asked.
"How bad?"
"Carlito didn't say. Just that someone from another crew—not ours, not Talons—saw weakness in the truce."
My hands are already reaching for my keys, my jacket, my phone. "I have to—"
"I'll drive you."
"No, I—" But I'm shaking too hard to argue, and we both know I shouldn't drive like this. "Fine. But you don't come in. Not until I know..."
Not until I know if my brother is dying because of us. The thought sits in my throat like a stone.
The small progress we'd made—his hand holding mine in the dark, the quiet understanding, the possibility of maybe—crumbles like ash in my mouth. Every step forward costs blood, and it's never ours that gets spilled.
"This is what we do," I say, more to myself than him. "We destroy everything we touch."
He doesn't argue. Can't. Because Miguel's blood is spreading across some hospital sheet right now, and we both know exactly why.
Chapter forty
Blood and Boundaries
Zane
St. Mary's Hospital at 2 AM looks like purgatory—harsh lights trying to push back darkness that seeps in anyway. The waiting room's full of leather and denim, Iron Talons on one side, Coyote Fangs on the other, everyone pretending we're not all calculating who to kill if Miguel dies.
Lena's in there with him, has been for three hours. Through the small window in the ICU door, I can see her holding his hand while machines breathe for him. Izzy's with her, the two of them bracketing Miguel like guardian angels who've forgotten they can't actually perform miracles.
"This is my fault." The words taste like rust and regret.
Tommy doesn't contradict me. Can't. We both know the truce made Miguel look weak. Weak men don't survive in our world. Someone—still don't know who—put three bullets in him to prove that point.
