He yawns, unimpressed by my declaration, and I fall completely, irrevocably in love.
"We did it," Lena says, exhausted but glowing. "Thirty-seven weeks and one day."
"You did it," I correct. "I just drove the car."
"You did more than that." She reaches for my hand, pulls me closer so we're both hovering over Santiago. "You stayed. Even when I pushed you away. Even when it was complicated. You stayed."
"Always," I promise. "Both of you. Always."
Izzy takes approximately eight thousand pictures, cursing in Spanish when she cries and ruins her makeup. The nurses teach us to swaddle, to feed, to change diapers. Santiago masters eating immediately but seems personally offended by clothing.
"Already likes being naked," Lena laughs. "Definitely your son."
"Hey, you're the one who showed up at the garage in just a trench coat."
"That was medical necessity."
"Sure, it was."
As dawn breaks, I watch them sleep—Lena curled protectively around Santiago, both of them breathing in sync. My family. Broken and patched together and perfect in its imperfection.
My phone buzzes.
Ghost:Heard the kid came. Club business doesn't stop for babies.
I turn it off. He's right that club business doesn't stop. But for this moment, this perfect suspended moment, everything else can wait.
"Daddy's going to war soon," I whisper to Santiago. "But first, he's going to memorize every part of you. Every breath, every sound, every perfect finger. Because whatever happens next, this moment is worth everything it cost to get here."
He makes a small sound, not quite a cry, and I pick him up before he can wake Lena. He's so light, so fragile, but when he grips my finger, I feel the strength in him. His mother's strength. The kind that survives everything.
"We're going to figure this out," I tell him. "Your mom and me, the club, all of it. We're going to build you a world where you can be proud of where you come from."
Bold words for a man sitting in a hospital at dawn, holding a hours-old baby while his motorcycle club plans a coup. But looking at Santiago's face, I believe them. We've already done the impossible—created life from chaos, found love in violence, survived when everything said we shouldn't.
A baby is just the next impossible thing on the list.
"Your son is philosophical at 4 AM," Izzy says from the doorway.
"He's processing. Big day."
"For all of us." She comes closer, traces Santiago's cheek with one finger. "He's perfect, you know? Despite everything—the stress, the complications, the complete disaster of his parents' relationship—he's perfect."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm saying you didn't fuck it up. Either of you. Whatever happens next, you gave him the best possible start."
"What do you mean, whatever happens next?"
She gives me a look that says she knows about Ghost, about the brewing war, about all the violence waiting outside this hospital room.
"I mean life. It keeps going, even with babies. Especially with babies."
She's right. Tomorrow—today, technically—I'll have to deal with Ghost. With the club. With all the complicated reality of being an outlaw and a father. But right now, Santiago yawns and settles against my chest, trusting me completely, and nothing else matters.
"It's time," Lena says, awake suddenly.
"For what?"
