Page 16 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

I don’t move for a long, long time. I just lie there—staring at the window, watching the curtains flutter in the soft night air, trying to convince myself that what just happened was some fever dream stitched together from trauma and sleep deprivation.

But my chest still aches where his voice hit me. My jaw still buzzes where his fingers brushed it. And my sheets still smell like him.

I launch myself out of bed so fast I nearly trip. My heart’s in my throat, in my ears, pounding like a war drum as I tear through the room and slam the window shut, lock it, bolt it, barricade it. It’s not enough. Nothing feels like it’s enough.

My knees hit the floor of the bathroom. I reach blindly for the tap. Twist it until scalding water explodes from the showerhead, steam flooding the glass.

I strip fast. Frantic. Like I can peel him off me. I step under the water and scrub. My skin is raw within seconds—nails digging, soap stinging, fury radiating off me in waves.

“You son of a bitch ,” I hiss.

But the water doesn’t drown the memory. It doesn’t burn away the heat of his breath on my cheek. Nor does it erase the way he said my name like he owned it. And the worst part is the sick part of me that liked it.

God, I’m disgusting.

How long has he been watching me? How long has he been inside this apartment?

I think of the missing socks, the towel folded wrong, the shampoo bottle that went missing a few days ago. I knew something was off. My gut was screaming, and I didn’t listen.

I scrub harder.

“I hate you,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I hate you, Saxon North. Devon Walsh. Whoever the fuck you are. I. Hate. You .” Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll start to believe it.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. Try to rub the filth out of my brain. But all I see is the way he looked at me in the dark—like I was some holy thing he’d crawl through hell to touch.

He should be in prison.

I should call Brando. But I don’t. Because if I tell Brando, I’m back in the cage. Back under lock and key. Back in that suffocating, velvet-lined safety the Gattis call protection. And I can’t go back there. I won’t. I’ve been on my own less than a month, and I won’t concede to failure.

I turn off the water. Step out shaking. My hands are red. My arms are scratched. My neck still feels like it’s holding his phantom breath.

I barely sleep the rest of the night. I leave every light on. I check every room twice. I move the knife block to my bedside. I tuck a screwdriver under my pillow.

Paranoia is a disease that feels a lot like déjà vu.

Except this time, it’s not just about being watched.

It’s about knowing who’s watching me. And still not knowing what I’ll do when I see him again.

Because deep down, under the fury and fear and rational disgust…

A part of me wants it. A part of me wants him.

And that part? That’s the part I’m terrified of.

The walls are closing in.

I can’t. I can’t fucking breathe .

My vision’s gone spotty, and my chest is tight, like there’s a fist wrapped around my lungs, squeezing harder every second. My hands are shaking so badly I drop the cup of water I was trying to sip from. It hits the tile floor and shatters in an explosion of glass.

I curl in on myself on the cold bathroom floor, back against the door, knees to my chest, fingernails digging into the fabric of my jeans.

I can still feel him.

Not his hands—not physically. But his presence . Like it’s soaked into my skin. The way Saxon looked at me last night, like I was a ghost. Like I was the past reaching out to strangle him. And maybe I am.

The room spins. I gasp in a breath, but it won’t stick. It just bounces off the inside of my ribs and vanishes, useless. My heart pounds like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

My fingers fumble for my phone. I don’t want to call anyone. But I don’t want to die like this either. Because this feels more like dying than anything else. My thumb hovers. Shakes. Then I press Mia’s name. It rings once. Twice.

“Max?” Her voice is sharp, alert, like she’s already getting to her feet.

I can’t speak. I try. All that comes out is a ragged, high-pitched inhale that sounds like a dying animal.

“Mia—” I choke. “I… I can’t—breathe?—”

“Where are you? Max, where are you? ”

She screams down the phone line and I tell her that I’m at home.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

The call ends. I cry harder.

Mia lets herself into my apartment twenty minutes later like she’s a whirlwind. She barrels in with Tayana right behind her—dark braid, gold hoops, eyes sharp with concern.

Mia’s arms wrap around me before I can form a word. Her voice is steady but low, like she’s trying not to cause me any further distress.

“Hey. Hey, baby sis. You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

I shake my head against her shoulder. “It’s not okay. I’m not okay.”

I haven’t cried in front of Mia in months. Maybe longer. I didn’t want to be the mess anymore. But now she’s here, and I’m breaking like a dam that’s been waiting too long to give out.

All I can feel is that tight knot in my chest. The knowing that this slip is going to ripple into every part of my life.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, pulling back. “Now Brando’s gonna find out. And he’s gonna freak .”

Mia sighs. “Max…”

“I’m serious. He’ll drag me back to the Gatti estate and lock me in the pool house for the rest of my life.”

“And you think we’d let him do that to you if that’s not what you want?” Tayana asks. “Come on, we literally come with snacks and water.” She looks pointedly at Mia’s stomach, reminding me that my sister is pregnant and she probably doesn’t need to deal with this shit right now.

“You need to stop trying to prove you’re healed just because you survived,” Mia says. “Maybe… maybe it’s too soon for you to be alone.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Because maybe she’s right. And maybe that terrifies me more than anything .

We don’t go back to the estate. Instead, they stay.

We pile onto my sofa in our pajamas—well, Tayana’s in silk, because of course she is, and Mia’s still in black jeans and a ribbed tank like she’s ready to interrogate me about what set me off. I offer popcorn. Tayana makes a face and tells me it won’t do unless it’s triple cheese flavor.

“Movie?” Mia asks.

“Not a comedy,” I say quickly. “I can’t do fake happy right now.”

“Girl, you need to have yourself a good cry, then you need to pull yourself together and fake it til you make it,” Tayana says, before she starts to scroll through my old streaming apps and pulls up The Notebook.

“Too depressing?” she asks.

“No,” I say softly. “It’s perfect.”

I blink awake slowly, eyes gritty, mouth dry.

My head feels like it’s full of fog, and my body is sore in that way that grief makes you sore.

Like everything has been wrung out and left to hang.

I’m cocooned in blankets—too many to have pulled out myself—and my ratty old sofa has never felt so soft.

Tayana’s asleep in the armchair, arms crossed over her chest, chin tilted toward her shoulder. Mia’s curled like a cat at the other end of the sofa, blanket draped over one leg, her perfectly polished toes poking out.

I’m not alone. And for the first time in what feels like years, that thought makes me happy.

I shift gently, trying not to wake either of them, and sit up. The floor is scattered with snack wrappers, two empty juice bottles, and a balled-up tissue with mascara smeared across it.

Mine. Of course .

I let my fingers trace the rim of the glass on the coffee table, still half-full. I feel… hollow. But a little steadier. Like something inside me cracked last night in the best way possible—something that needed to break so something better could breathe.

And then—there’s a knock. Three firm, deliberate pounds against the front door.

Mia stirs immediately.

“Oh, hell,” she mutters, already on her feet.

I freeze. No. No, no, no. Please no. But I already know.

Brando.

The door swings open like it dares someone to try and stop him.

Brando Gatti steps inside like he owns the place—and in a way, he probably thinks he does. His suit jacket’s off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his expression?

It’s nuclear.

His eyes lock on me, still half-wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and they darken. Like he’s taking stock of every emotion I’m trying to hide.

“You called Mia,” he says, low and quiet. That’s how I know he’s angry. Brando doesn’t shout when he’s livid. He’s all calm.

“Yes, I called her, Brando. I called my sister .”

“She’s my wife,” he replies. “Where she goes, I follow. Especially when I hear my sister-in-law had a panic attack so bad she couldn’t breathe.”

Mia steps in front of him, arms crossed. “Brando?—”

“No,” he snaps, not looking at her. “We’re doing this. Right here, right now.”

I rise slowly from the couch, the blanket slipping off my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Brando—”

“Don’t lie to me, Maxine.” His voice tightens. “Don’t ever lie to me about being okay when you’re not. That’s not how this works.”

I fold my arms around myself, trying to hold in the pieces.

“I just needed space,” I whisper. “I thought I could handle it.”

“ Handle what? You shouldn’t be out here on your own, pretending you’re ready when you’re not.”

“I am ready,” I snap, louder than I mean to. “I was doing okay. One bad night doesn’t mean I’m broken again.”

Brando exhales sharply and scrubs a hand over his face.

“You’re not broken,” he says, softer now. “But you’re bleeding, Max. And when people bleed, they don’t go out into the world without stitches. They rest. They recover. Where they’ll be protected.”

“I don’t want to be caged again,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to the estate.”

“You’re safer there.” He fixes me with that cool disposition of his. “You’ll be surrounded by people who love you and care about you. A panic attack would have been a non issue at the estate.”

Brando takes a step toward me. I don’t move.

“I just want you safe,” he says. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I swallow hard. I want that, too. I just don’t want to feel like I’m failing because I needed help.

“I’ll stay a little while longer,” I say finally. “If it happens again, I’ll come back to the estate. I promise you.”

It’s the only thing I know to say that will make him back off. Brando stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods.

“One week,” he says. “Then we talk again.”

It’s a compromise. But I know what he’s really thinking. That if I don’t agree, he’ll carry me back to the estate himself.