Ghost sits across from me, watching with eyes that miss nothing. "War's not over. Just paused while everyone reloads."
"War's done," I say, but even I don't believe it.
"Tell that to whoever shot him. Tell that to crews circling our territory like vultures." He leans forward, voice dropping. "You're thinking with your dick instead of your head. Gonna get us all killed for pussy."
Tommy tenses beside me, ready to intervene, but I wave him off. Ghost isn't wrong. I'm compromised. Have been since the first time Lena walked into my apartment, belly full of my kid and eyes full of fear.
The ICU door opens. Lena emerges, Izzy supporting her even though it looks like Lena's the one doing the holding up. Blood on her scrubs—Miguel's blood. Eyes swollen from crying. Twenty-eight weeks pregnant and looking like she's carrying the weight of two cities, not just our son.
"He's stable," she says to the room, voice professionally neutral despite the devastation written in every line of her body. "Three bullets. One nicked his liver, two hit muscle. He'll live, but recovery will be long."
Carlito stands, and I see him wrestling with relief and rage. "Who?"
"Does it matter?" Lena's exhaustion makes her honest. "If not them, someone else. This is what we are. What we do."
Her eyes find mine across the room. "No more war. Please. He almost died because of us."
"No," I correct, standing. "He almost died because someone wanted him dead. That's not on us."
"Isn't it?" She laughs, but it's all broken glass and no humor. "Our love started this. Our baby made him weak. Our—"
"Enough." Izzy cuts her off, switches to rapid Spanish that I don't understand but recognize as comfort and command mixed together. Then in English: "You need rest. The baby needs calm."
As they're leaving, Carlito approaches me. "If Miguel dies, truce dies with him."
"He's not dying."
"If he does."
I meet his eyes, let him see the truth there. "If he dies, I'll personally deliver whoever did this. In pieces."
It's not enough, but it's something.
Three days later, Lena calls. "I need to tell you something. Can you meet me?"
"Where?"
"Downtown. Grounded Coffee. An hour?"
"I'll be there."
She's already there when I arrive, tucked into the back corner of one of those gentrified places that serves cortados and judgment in equal measure. The exposed brick and Edison bulbs feel like they're trying too hard, but Lena fits here somehow—caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither. She's got herbal tea she's not drinking, hands wrapped around the mug like she needs the warmth more than the beverage.
"I went to a job interview yesterday," she says as soon as I sit down. "Community clinic. For after the baby."
The words land like punches I should have seen coming. "Okay."
"You didn't know?"
"You asked me not to watch."
Her eyes snap to mine, searching for lies. "You really didn't know?"
"No."
The silence stretches between us, taut with disbelief and something that might be hope. She reaches across the table—not all the way, just enough that her fingertips brush mine.
"They didn't hire me. Said my 'associations' made me too high-risk."
