Santiago makes a small sound. I kiss his forehead—still getting used to the fact that I'm allowed to do that, that this perfect person is mine to protect.
"Your dad's got to go remind some idiots why they follow him," I tell my son. "But I'll be back. Always back."
I transfer Santiago to Izzy carefully. She takes him with the competence of someone who's held a lot of babies, settling him against her shoulder with practiced ease.
"Go," she says. "Fix this. Because he needs his father, and his father needs to be President."
"Working on it."
Tommy follows me out into the hallway. The hospital is just waking up—nurses doing shift change, breakfast carts rolling, machines beeping their morning rhythm.
"Your cut's in the truck," Tommy says. "Figured you'd need it."
I didn't think to bring it. Came to the hospital in just jeans and t-shirt, focused on Lena's contractions and nothing else. But I'll need it for Church. Need the weight of it, the authority it represents, the reminder of who I am when I'm not just a father.
We walk to the parking lot in silence. The Phoenix sun is already aggressive—going to be a hot day. My bike sits next to Tommy'struck, exactly where I left it two days ago when Lena's water broke, and everything became about getting her here safely.
Tommy hands me my cut from the truck. The leather is warm from sitting in the cab. Iron Talons patch on the back, President rocker above it. Five years I've worn this. Five years of building something better than what we had before.
I slide it on. The weight settles across my shoulders like responsibility made tangible.
"Ready?" Tommy asks.
"No. But let's go anyway."
The ride to the clubhouse is muscle memory—Phoenix streets I know like the scars on my knuckles, every turn automatic. But my head is back at the hospital with Santiago's tiny hand curled against my chest and Lena's exhausted face and everything I stand to lose if this goes wrong.
I count as I ride. Old habit. Grounding mechanism from when the darkness got too loud after Emma died.
One: Santiago's first breath.
Two: Lena's exhausted smile.
Three: Tiny fingers gripping mine.
Four: The weight of being responsible for keeping them alive.
Repeat.
Tommy pulls up alongside me at a red light. His expression says what he can't shout over the engines—this is bad, but not impossible. Ghost is making a play, but I'm still President until the vote says otherwise.
We pull into the clubhouse parking lot. Multiple bikes already there. Prospects hanging around outside, uncomfortable in the presence of leadership tension. They scatter when we approach—smart kids, knowing when to be invisible.
Ghost is leaning against the wall near the entrance, smoking. When he sees me, his smirk says everything about what he thinks this day will bring.
"Look who decided to show," he calls out. "How's domesticity treating you, Dad?"
I don't respond. Don't give him the satisfaction. Just walk past him into the clubhouse, Tommy at my back.
The Church room is already full. Everyone's here—Joker, Blade, Colt, Rope, Knuckles, Scar, Torch, Diesel. All the voting members, all watching me walk in with expressions ranging from supportive to uncertain to hostile.
Ghost follows us in, closes the door. The sound echoes like a cell locking.
"Guess we're doing this," I say, taking my seat at the head of the table. President's chair. Mine until they vote otherwise.
Joker bangs the gavel. "Church is in session. Ghost, you called this meeting. State your purpose."
Ghost stands. Takes his time about it, making sure everyone's watching. "I'm calling for an immediate vote of no confidence in our President."
