The vulgarity hits like ice water. "Miguel—"
"HOW LONG?"
"Three weeks," I whisper. "Since the night I stitched Tommy's arm in my van. The night you said I was off-limits but looked at me like I was already his."
The irony of it lands like a punch. Miguel laughs—a sound like breaking glass.
"Three weeks. You threw away twenty-eight years of family for three weeks."
"I didn't throw anything away—"
"You're carrying his child! You're pregnant with Iron Talon spawn!"
The word 'spawn' breaks something in me. Before I can think, before I can stop myself, my palm connects with his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.
The silence that follows feels alive, breathing with the weight of what I've just done.
Rico moves forward, but Miguel raises a hand. He touches his face where my handprint blooms red.
"You hit me."
"You called my baby spawn." My voice doesn't shake. "This baby who has our mother's blood. Our father's DNA. Your nephew or niece."
"That thing is not my family."
"Then neither am I?"
The question hangs between us like a blade.
"No," he says finally. "You're not. My sister died the moment she chose him over blood."
Zane steps forward, but I catch his arm. This is my fight, my family, my loss.
"Get out," I tell Miguel. "All of you. Get out of my home."
"This isn't over—"
"Yes, it is." I'm not crying now. Something worse than tears has taken hold—a cold clarity that feels like death. "You want to disown me? Fine. You want to call my child spawn? Fine. But you don't get to stand in my home and make threats. Get. Out."
Miguel backs toward the door, each step another year of our relationship crumbling. Rico and Tommy follow him out, their silence heavy with witnessed devastation.
"You have twenty-four hours," he says from the doorway. "Choose him or choose family. And when the war comes—" his eyes shift to Zane "—I won't be able to protect you."
The door closes with a finality that echoes in my bones.
I stand there, Zane's hand on my shoulder, my brother's absence filling the room like smoke.
"We need to leave," Zane says. "Pack what matters. We go to my place until—"
"Until what?" I turn to face him. "Until Miguel calms down? Until the clubs call truce? Until this baby is born into a war zone?"
"Until I figure out how to keep you both safe."
"You can't fix this."
"Watch me."
His phone buzzes. Then mine. Then both again, insistent.
