Word traveled fast in the city—but this time, it didn't come wrapped in gunfire or smoke.
James Blackburn had a son.
By the time the sun climbed high enough to burn the morning haze off the streets, the Fourfold Authority already knew. Not through whispers. Not through surveillance. Not through force—but through something rarer: respect. And in this rare instance, respect softened at the edges, humbled by life itself.
Men who ruled districts felt it.
Women who balanced blood and diplomacy felt it.
A shift.
They came to St. Evander's—the city's most discreet hospital, a place built for the powerful and the dangerous who still demanded care without compromise. Its doors were ordinary. Its walls were not. Allegiances lived here, quiet and absolute. Security was invisible but total. No one came here by accident.
Inside, the world paused.
Francesca sat upright in the private room, pillows supporting her as Jeremy slept bundled against her chest. One tiny life. One steady breath. Each rise and fall tightened something deep and unfamiliar in James's chest—something sharp, terrifying, and sacred all at once.
Jeremy's fist was curled, stubborn even in sleep, dark lashes resting against flushed cheeks like he'd already decided the world needed to earn him.
James stood beside the bed, broad shoulders squared, V-shaped torso filling the space like a living barrier. His shirt clung to muscle earned through years of labor and violence—defined arms, solid chest, the faint ridges of abs visible when he shifted. A man forged in endurance.
A man now anchored to something fragile.
One hand rested on the bed rail.
The other hovered instinctively near his family.
He had never looked more dangerous.
Or more human.
The Arrival
Lars Davenport and Skylar entered first.
Lars stopped cold when he saw the baby. Strategy drained from his face, replaced by something quieter. Older.
"Well," he said after a moment, voice low, "that explains why the city feels restrained today."
Skylar didn't answer. She moved closer, posture unguarded. "May I?"
Francesca smiled tiredly. "Of course."
Skylar didn't lift Jeremy. She only brushed the edge of the blanket, reverent. "He's perfect," she whispered, then looked at James. "Everything changes now."
James didn't hesitate. "Yes. Everything."
Kirk Hendricks arrived next, tension wound tight until Lani nudged him forward.
"You're allowed to look," she said softly.
Kirk leaned in, studying Jeremy's face like he was committing it to memory. "That him?"
James's mouth curved faintly. "That's him."
Kirk straightened slowly. "I'll kill anyone who even thinks about hurting him."
Lani sighed. "You're not on duty."
"I am now," Kirk muttered.
Jason and Nicole Newton followed. Jason's hands were already moving—checking Francesca, reading vitals—before his attention settled fully on the baby.
"He's strong," Jason said quietly. "Very."
Nicole brushed Francesca's hair back. "You were incredible."
Francesca swallowed. "Thank you. For everything."
Jason nodded once. "Always."
Family After Power
Eventually, authority receded. Power stepped back respectfully.
What remained was more dangerous.
Family.
Gracie King sat beside Francesca, fingers trembling as she brushed her daughter's hair back. Thomas stood rigid nearby, hands clasped like he was holding himself together through sheer force.
"He's beautiful," Gracie whispered.
Francesca smiled faintly. "He feels... familiar."
Gracie's breath caught.
Thomas cleared his throat. "James," he said quietly. "There's something you should know."
James turned fully, attention locking in. "I'm listening."
Thomas hesitated. "Francesca had a twin."
The room went still.
"A sister," Gracie added. "Stacy."
Francesca frowned weakly. "I don't remember—"
"I know," Gracie said quickly. "You were ten. Your mind protected you."
James's voice stayed even. Deadly calm. "Taken?"
Thomas nodded once. "Fifteen years ago."
"Who?" James asked.
Gracie swallowed hard. "Velvet Riot. And the Demon Disciples."
The name settled like poison.
Francesca shook her head slowly. "I don't remember her."
James leaned down, pressing a steady kiss to her forehead. "That's not your burden."
He straightened.
And turned toward the window.
Toward the city that had never stopped testing him.
The Call
James stepped away from the bed—just far enough that Francesca wouldn't hear the shift in him. The room was still warm, still alive.
But something colder had locked into his spine.
He pulled out his phone.
One secure line.
Tom Armstrong answered immediately.
"Obsidian Crown," Tom said. Not a greeting. Recognition.
"They need to reconvene," James replied.
A brief pause.
"At St. Evander's?" Tom asked.
"Yes."
No questions. No hesitation.
"I learned something tonight," James continued, eyes fixed on the city through reinforced glass. Streets he had bled for. Power, he had helped shape.
"What kind of something?" Tom asked protocol, not curiosity.
"Francesca had a twin sister," James said. "Stacy. Taken fifteen years ago."
Silence. Heavy. Old.
"Velvet Riot," James added. "Demon Disciples."
Tom exhaled slowly. "That explains the residual fractures."
"She doesn't remember," James said. "But her parents do. And now I do."
"You're activating legacy safeguards," Tom said.
"I'm activating protection," James replied. "For my son. And for what happens when unfinished blood crosses living blood."
Another pause—longer this time.
"You want the Authority present," Tom said.
"All four," James answered. "And the wives."
That landed.
"Understood," Tom said quietly. "I'll notify the others."
"Now."
"They're already mobilizing," Tom replied. "Obsidian Crown doesn't issue idle calls."
The line went dead.
James stood there a moment longer, phone heavy in his hand—not angry. Not shaken.
Resolved.
Then he turned back.
James returned to the bedside and sat carefully, like even his weight needed permission. He brushed his thumb across Jeremy's tiny knuckles, feeling the faint strength there.
Francesca reached for his hand. "We're safe," she whispered.
James leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips—tender, unguarded, full of everything they had survived together.
"I've got you," he murmured. "Both of you."
Outside the room, power was already moving.
The Fourfold Authority was reconvening at St. Evander's.
All four. And the wives.
Not to celebrate life—
But to decide exactly how far they would go to protect it.