You made an enemy today. Sleep with one eye open. -Ghost
I delete the message without responding. One problem at a time.
Through the door, I hear Miguel's voice saying something in Spanish. Then Lena laughing through tears. Then baby sounds—Santiago awake and probably hungry.
I knock softly.
"Come in," Lena calls.
I open the door to find Miguel holding my son. Lena is sitting up in bed, crying happy tears, watching her brother hold her baby.
It's the most impossible thing I've seen, and I've seen a lot of impossible shit.
Miguel looks up when I enter. His expression is complicated—gratitude, resentment, acceptance, threat. All of it at once.
"Quinn," he says.
"Cruz."
Santiago makes a small sound, and both Miguel and I react—but Miguel's holding him, so I stay where I am.
"Congratulations on keeping your Presidency," Miguel says, surprising me.
"Word travels fast."
"Ghost is already making noise around Coyote Fangs. My President's been asking questions about you."
That's not good news, but we can deal with it later.
"You risked a lot coming here," I say.
Miguel looks down at Santiago. "He's my nephew. That's worth risking everything."
Lena is watching us both, exhausted but alert. Probably waiting to see if we'll kill each other or figure out how to exist in the same room.
I move closer, and Miguel carefully transfers Santiago to me. The weight of him settles against my chest, and the tension in my shoulders finally eases.
"We need to talk," Miguel says. "About what this means. About how we make this work."
"Yeah," I agree. "We do. But not today. Today, we just—"
"Exist in the same room without killing each other?" Miguel suggests.
"That's a start."
Lena laughs, watery and relieved. "That's more than a start. That's a miracle."
Santiago yawns against my chest, completely unconcerned with the political complications of his existence. Just a two-day-old baby who wants to eat and sleep and be held.
I look at Lena, at Miguel, at the son in my arms. Lost my VP, made an enemy, kept my Presidency, and somehow ended uphere—in this hospital room with my family, cobbling together peace from the wreckage of war.
Not how I planned any of this.
But I'm learning that the best things never are.
"I should go," Miguel says. "Let you rest."
"Sunday dinner?" Lena asks hopefully. "At Abuela María's?"
