My shoulders tense immediately. "What kind of situation?"
"The Ghost kind. He's been making noise again. Talking to the Vipers about territory negotiations. Positioning himself as alternative leadership for brothers who aren't happy with current management."
"Current management being me."
"Yeah. Thought you should know."
Ghost. Three months since he left Iron Talons, three months of radio silence, and now he's surfacing again. I knew this was coming. Men like Ghost don't just fade away quietly.
"How many brothers is he talking to?"
"Hard to say. Torch and Diesel are definitely in contact. Maybe a few others. Nothing organized yet, but he's planting seeds."
"Keep me updated. And Joker?"
"Yeah?"
"Make sure everyone knows—Ghost left of his own choice. He challenged, he lost, he walked. Anyone who wants to follow him out the door is welcome to. But they don't get to do it halfway. In or out. No divided loyalties."
"Copy that. How's the kid?"
"Perfect. Loud. Exactly like his mother."
"Lena's gonna hear you said that."
"I'm counting on it." I hang up as Lena emerges from the bathroom, hair wet, wearing jeans that actually fit again and a look of triumph.
"I put on real pants," she announces. "Witness this moment."
"Documented for history." I pour her coffee, add cream the way she likes it. "Joker called. Ghost is making moves."
Her expression shifts immediately from playful to tactical. "What kind of moves?"
"Talking to other clubs. Positioning himself as alternative Iron Talons leadership. Same shit he was doing before, just external now."
"Is it a real threat?"
"Not yet. But it could be." I hand her the coffee, watch her take that first grateful sip. "He's not going to let it go. The Presidency, the vote, losing to me. It's eating at him."
"So we deal with it when it becomes a real problem?"
"Yeah. One crisis at a time." I gesture to Santiago, who's given up on tummy time and is staring at his own hand like it's the most fascinating thing in the universe. "Right now, this is the crisis. And figuring out how to function on four hours of sleep."
"I have a solution for that," Lena says.
"Yeah?"
"We call Izzy and beg for mercy."
As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, there's a knock at the door. I check the window—Izzy's car in the driveway, the woman herself already walking up with bags in both hands.
"She's psychic," Lena mutters. "That's the only explanation."
I open the door. Izzy breezes in like she owns the place, dumps grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and immediately zeroes in on us with the assessment of a general surveying defeated troops.
"You both look like death," she announces cheerfully.
"Good morning to you too," Lena says.
