"Miguel came," Zane says, settling next to me.
"Miguel came. He apologized. He cried. He wants us at Sunday dinner."
"Both clubs visited."
"And didn't kill each other in the hallway."
"Ghost is gone from Iron Talons."
"What happened there exactly?"
Zane tells me about the Church meeting. The vote. Ghost's accusations. The seven-to-two result. Ghost dropping his VP patch and walking out. Tommy stepping up.
"He won't let this go," I say when he's done. "Ghost, I mean. He'll be a problem."
"Yeah. But not today." Zane pulls me carefully against his side, mindful of my tender body. "Today we celebrate. Miguel came. I'm still President. Santiago's perfect. That's enough."
"It's more than enough. It's everything."
We sit in comfortable silence, exhaustion pulling at both of us. The Phoenix sun is setting outside the window, painting the room in warm oranges and deep purples.
"I have something to tell you," Zane says.
"More surprises? I don't know if I can handle more today."
"This one's good. I rented us a house."
I pull back to look at him. "What?"
"A real house. Not the clubhouse. Two bedrooms, quiet neighborhood. Neutral territory. We can bring Santiago home tomorrow."
The tears start again—I'm crying more than I'm not crying at this point, hormones making everything overwhelming. "You rented us a house?"
"We can't raise him in a clubhouse, Lena. He needs a home. We need a home. Somewhere that's just ours."
"When did you do this?"
"Signed the lease the morning he was born. Before the Church meeting. Had Tommy and some brothers get it set up while I was here. Wanted it ready when you were."
I kiss him, deep and grateful and full of everything I can't say. "You're full of surprises, Diablo."
"Learned from the best, Angel."
Santiago makes a small sound—not quite a cry, just a reminder that he exists and has needs and we're his entire world.
"Your turn to change him," I say.
"Pretty sure it's your turn."
"I pushed him out of my body. That bought me at least three days of turn-passing privileges."
Zane laughs, carefully extracts himself from the bed, and goes to handle the diaper situation. I watch him—this man who's the President of a motorcycle club, who's killed people, who's dangerous and complicated and somehow impossibly gentle with our tiny son.
"We're going to be okay," I say, more to myself than to him.
"Yeah," Zane agrees, expertly handling the diaper change. "We are."
"It's not going to be easy."
