"Always blame the baby. Smart." Miguel focuses on me, voice dropping. "Need to talk to you. After dinner."
"Club business?"
"Something like that."
That's never good news, but I nod. "After dinner."
Inside, Abuela María has transformed into her Sunday dinner persona—hair perfectly styled, apron immaculate, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon of loving discipline.
"Mis niños!" she calls when she sees us, immediately reaching for Santiago. "Let me see my bisnieto."
Santiago goes to her willingly. Three months old and already charming the women in his life. Definitely got that from me.
"He's getting so big," Abuela says, speaking Spanish to him like he understands every word. Maybe he does. Babies are weird like that. "Mira qué guapo. Just like his abuelo."
"Which abuelo?" Lena asks. "Dad or Zane's father?"
"Both. He has good genes from both sides." Abuela looks at me with that expression that's become familiar—assessment mixed with grudging approval. "You're feeding him enough?"
"Three times a night, every night," I say seriously. "He eats like a Cruz."
"Good. Family trait." She hands Santiago back to Lena, turns to the stove. "Dinner in ten minutes. Everyone wash hands."
The table is already set—seven places. Me, Lena, Miguel, Danny, Abuela, and two spots that seem excessive until I realize they're for Izzy and someone else.
"Who's the extra plate for?" I ask Miguel.
"Izzy's coming. And I invited someone." He looks uncomfortable. "From the club. Wants to meet you. Talk about the truce."
"Your President?"
"No. Another lieutenant. Fernando. He's been advocating for maintaining peace with Iron Talons. Wants to meet the President who knocked up Miguel's sister and somehow made it work."
"That's how he phrased it?"
"More or less."
Great. Sunday dinner with family and Coyote Fangs politics. My favorite.
Izzy arrives fifteen minutes later with wine and gossip, immediately taking over part of the kitchen because "Abuela needs help" (she doesn't) and launching into a story about a customer at her salon who wanted "motorcycle club wife hair" without understanding what that actually means.
Fernando arrives at six-thirty—tall, older, graying at the temples, Coyote Fangs cut with lieutenant patches. He shakes my hand with the grip of someone testing my measure.
"Quinn. Heard a lot about you."
"Probably nothing good."
"Some good, some bad. Interesting, mostly." He glances at Santiago, who's back in Lena's arms. "That the kid who's keeping the peace?"
"That's my son, yeah.
"Cute. Looks like Miguel." He says it like an observation, not a challenge. "Your President and our President should meet sometime. Negotiate terms properly instead of this informal truce we're operating under."
"I'm open to it. When your President is ready."
"He's getting there. Took three months to convince him the truce benefits us more than war. But he's coming around." Fernando takes the beer Miguel offers, settles into the conversation like he's testing waters. "Ghost has been making noise around our club."
My shoulders tense. "What kind of noise?"
