Page 127 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

“How does this hit the boys,” he says, nodding toward the ceiling. “How does it hit her.”

“It stops the money,” I say. “It stops the noise. It does not stop Jonah’s habit of teaching men with small spines how to walk near houses they do not own.”

Roman’s jaw works.

The scar on his thumb goes white.

He opens the drawer and takes out the old phone. “I sent a flag,” he says, and looks at me like a man bracing for judgment. “Not a greenlight. A name only.”

I nod. A flag is not a call.

The men who read that network understand what flags are for.

They hold position until we decide what justice costs.

“Then we tell her,” Cruz says. “And we let her choose what she needs right now.”

We do it at the kitchen table because there are no lies at a table that smells like coffee and cinnamon.

Marisa sits with her ribbon folded beside her hand.

The twins nap in their crib in the corner, one lip quivering in a dream, one fist on his own ear like a small drunk boxer.

Isla builds a sugar snowman from two marshmallows and the kind of confidence that makes engineers obsolete.

I lay it out clean.

No jargon. No fear.

Screenshots, logs, a single printed photo of a man in a diner wearing a joke badge.

I tell her what Kingsley paid children to do.

I tell her how the duplicate payouts slid into a shell company with her name on the top line and his hand in the drawer.

I tell her about the VOIP complaints filed at 1:13 in the morning and the credit checks in her name.

I tell her the shell is frozen and the complaints annotated and that the city has a case number like a lighthouse.

She does not cry.

She looks smaller for one beat because all truth does that to a person who prefers to build rather than break.

Then her shoulders square and she breathes in, slow and full.

She touches the ribbon with the tip of one finger as if to remind herself that some wins do not wash off.

“Thank you,” she says. “For fixing what he tried to unravel.” She looks at Rome, then at Cruz, then at me. “I am letting it go. He wants my hours. He wants my thoughts. He wants me to wake up every day and feed this machine of his with my fear. I am not doing that. I have boys to feed and bread to bake and a life that finally tastes like what I was always hungry for.”

Roman nods like a judge who knows mercy is not weakness. “We stand down,” he says, voice low, unreadable to anyone who has not slept under this roof. “We keep you safe. We keep your money clean. We do not put this on your plate.”

Cruz touches her shoulder, gentle. “We do not need blood to build a home.”

She smiles at that, small and bright. “Please keep the doors locked,” she says, half humor, half plea. “And tell Isla she can use the good sprinkles.”

We eat.

We keep the conversation on gingerbread roofs and whether the hens should have holiday names.