We both freeze. Zane's hand goes to his gun. My heart stops, starts, stops again.
"LENA!"
Miguel. Of course it's Miguel. Because this morning wasn't complete without a full family confrontation.
"Stay here," Zane says, already standing.
"Are you insane? He'll kill you."
"Better me than you."
But I'm already pushing past him, because if my brother's going to commit murder in my apartment, I'm at least going to make him look me in the eye while he does it.
The pounding on my door starts before I reach it—violent, demanding, the kind of knocking that says someone's world is ending.
"LENA! Open this door! Now!"
Miguel. His voice carries twenty-eight years of shared history, all of it currently being incinerated by rage. He's not using profanity—Miguel saves that for enemies, not family—which somehow makes this worse.
I reach for the deadbolt, but Zane's hand covers mine.
"Don't," he says quietly.
"It's my brother."
"Who wants to kill me."
"Which is why you should be gone when I open it."
The pounding intensifies. "I know you're in there! I know HE'S in there!"
Zane steps back, hand moving to his gun. "I'm not leaving you alone with him like this."
"And I'm not letting you two kill each other in my living room." I meet his eyes. "His bike's already parked outside. He saw it—he knows you're here. Please. Let me handle my brother."
Something in my face must convince him, because he nods, moving toward my bedroom but positioning himself where he can see the door through the crack. "I'm staying close."
I wait until he's out of sight, then open the door.
Miguel stands there vibrating with the kind of rage that precedes catastrophic violence. Rico and Tommy wait in the hallway behind him, carefully positioned where they can move fast if needed. Miguel's holding his phone, screen facing out, showing the photo someone took at last night's party—a stolen moment when we thought we were alone in his room, Zane's handsprotective over my stomach, both of us lost in the revelation of this pregnancy. We didn't know Candy had followed us, bitter enough to document what she saw.
"Tell me it's not true," Miguel says, and his voice is worse than shouting—it's hollow, already grieving.
Zane emerges from the hallway behind me, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
"Get out," Miguel says to him, not even looking. "This is family business."
"She's carrying my child," Zane says quietly. "That makes it my business."
Miguel's head snaps toward him, and the look on his face makes me step between them instinctively.
"Miguel, please—"
"You're pregnant." Not a question. A diagnosis delivered with the finality of a flatline.
My hand goes to my stomach automatically, and that's all the confirmation he needs.
"How long have you been fucking him?"
