Page 24 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

I t’s been eight days since I last saw Saxon North.

Not that I’m counting. It’s not like I wake up and check the window every morning.

I think he’s finally gone, but I keep the motion alerts on, just in case.

I scan every alley, every rooftop, every rearview mirror, out of instinct.

Out of hope. Out of some pathetic need to feel him near—even if the only thing I’d do if I saw him is slam the door in his face and scream until my throat bled.

But still... I check. And he’s not there. He’s gone. And this time—it feels real. It doesn’t feel like he’s hiding in the dark or testing me from the shadows. He’s just gone, like someone reached into my chest and carved him out, clean and cruel. Like he was never even here to begin with.

I don’t feel him watching anymore. Not at night. Not in the corners of rooms I used to think were safe. He’s not lingering in my bloodstream. He’s just gone.

And for the first few days, that was the plan, right?

That was the dream. Peace. Freedom. Independence.

That’s why I moved out of Brando’s fortress of overprotection and polished concrete.

That place with the state-of-the-art security, bulletproof windows, and the suffocating sense of being a very delicate bird in a very golden cage.

I needed space. My own life. No cameras. No mafia. I didn’t expect a Federal agent with obsession written into his bones, breaking into my apartment like he owns me.

Life takes on new meaning. I get up. Every morning. Alone. I tie my hair up. I wear a hoodie. I walk to campus with my coffee and take notes in lectures, nodding like I care, smiling when it’s expected. I ask questions when I remember to pretend I’m a student and not a survivor in costume.

Then I go to work. At the café down the street. It’s warm in ways I didn’t know I needed—mismatched mugs, handwritten specials, the smell of burnt croissants and espresso and teenage dreams.

Here, I’m just Max. Not Maxine-the-trafficking-victim.

Not Maxine-the-Fed’s-shadow. Not Maxine-Gatti-adjacent.

Just Max, who knows how to steam milk without burning it and how to fold a napkin into a swan.

Max, who covers Tuesday shifts and restocks the oat milk and always faces the door out of habit, not paranoia.

Here, no one knows what I’ve survived. No one asks why I flinch when a plate crashes or why I won’t wear red lipstick anymore.

Here, I exist. Quietly. Almost normally.

Until Zack happens.

He walks into the cafe like sin on two legs—dark curls, tanned skin, motorcycle jacket slung over his shoulder. He smells like rebellion and feels like chaos on the cusp of happening. And he’s so beautiful, it’s almost enough to erase Saxon North from my memory. Almost.

He steps into the café, his eyes skimming the space — a quiet, efficient sweep that notes everything without lingering. Then his gaze stops .

On me.

There’s the briefest hitch. Not wide-eyed surprise, not shock — just a small shift, a tightening at the corner of his mouth, like something in his mind clicks out of place.

His posture changes, subtle but there. His expression smooths, and the faintest edge of curiosity sharpens behind his eyes. His head tilts slightly, gaze steady, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Like I’m a variable he didn’t calculate for.

“Coffee. Black. No sugar,” he orders, as he steps up to the counter.

I make it. Pass it over. Silent, unimpressed.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting up — not wide or overly friendly, but just enough to make my pulse jump. Then, without a word, he turns and walks out of the coffee shop.

That should’ve been the end of it. But he comes back the next day. And the day after that.

Always the same order. Always the same quiet, easy presence, like he’s got nowhere else to be. But each day, he asks me something new.

“Max, right?”

“You ever ride?”

“What are you studying?”

Each question is small enough to be harmless — but together, they start to braid a thread between us. A connection I didn’t ask for, one I don’t quite know how to cut. And each time he asks, I feel it: this subtle pull, this tension coiling tighter just beneath the surface.

I catch myself watching for him before he arrives, my stomach knotting when the door swings open, my fingers clenching too tightly around coffee cups when I realize it’s him .

I tell myself it’s nothing. That he’s just a customer. Just another stranger drifting through the background of my day, offering a flicker of routine in a life that’s otherwise chaos. But deep down, I know better. Because men like him don’t show up over and over just for the coffee.

And the worst part? I feel it when he’s near. The air changes, sharpens, tightens. My skin prickles when he walks in — like my body clocks his presence before my mind has a chance to catch up.

And even though I know better, even though every survival instinct in me should be on high alert, I find myself watching him. Wondering. What is it about him that pulls at me? Why do I catch myself waiting for him, counting the moments until the door creaks open again, until I hear his voice?

Something about him makes my blood fizz — not like Saxon. Saxon was dark silence, all sharp edges and watchful eyes, the kind of ache that slips under your skin and never quite leaves, no matter how many times you try to scrub it clean.

But Zack? Zack is disruption. Unpredictable, restless — the kind of energy that stirs up a room just by walking into it. Not careful or cautious.

He moves like someone who’s never learned consequences, a guy who’d kiss you mid-chaos, right when everything’s on the verge of coming apart — and somehow find amusement in that.

The first time he asked me out, it was with that crooked grin, like he already knew the answer.

“Come out with me.”

Not would you like to, not do you want to, just a statement dressed up like an invitation.

I said no. Five times. And on the sixth, I said yes — not because I wanted him, but because I wanted to feel something. Anything. Something sharp enough, loud enough, fast enough to drown out the ghost still clawing around in my chest.

Saxon’s ghost. Because no matter how many times I tell myself I’m free, there’s still a part of me waiting in that dark, holding my breath, aching for a man who carved himself so deep into me I’m still bleeding from the damage.

The bell above the café door jingles, and I glance up, expecting a student or a stroller mom. Or Zack.

Instead, it’s my brother in law Brando Gatti, in full Armani black-on-black, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a scowl that could level cities.

He walks in like the place personally offends him.

His gaze lands on me—and glitches.

“You work here ?”

I blink. “Wow. You’re quicker than I gave you credit for.”

He stares. Offended. Voice stern. “Maxine.”

“What?”

“You’re making coffee . ”

I stare back. “Yes. And you’re breathing my oxygen. Want to see who gives up first?”

He steps closer. Gatti-close. The kind of close that would make most people instinctively back up—shoulders tight, feet retreating without conscious thought.

It’s an alpha thing. A Brando Gatti thing.

That looming presence. The silent warning written into the set of his jaw and the cold fire in his eyes.

But I don’t move. Because behind the sharp lines and broad shoulders, behind that don’t-fuck-with-me energy he radiates like a second skin, I see what no one else gets to see.

A guardian. A protector. A man wired for war, but anchored by family.

A giant, grumpy, over-armed teddy bear with scars on his heart that match mine.

I know why he’s like this. Why he watches me like I’m seconds from breaking. It’s not about me—not entirely.

It’s her. Mia. His wife, and my sister. If anything ever happened to me again—anything like before—I know it would wreck her.

Shatter her in places even he couldn’t reach.

And that? That would kill Brando. So yeah.

He’s overbearing. Territorial. And he tracks me like I’m a government-issued weapon.

But it’s not because he doubts me. It’s because he loves Mia.

And loving her means keeping me alive. Even if it means suffocating me in the process.

“I could have you working anywhere. PR. Design. An art gallery. Somewhere clean. Safe. With benefits. Where people call you ma’am and bring you your lunch.”

“And instead, I bring my own lunch and make my own coffee.” I cross my arms. “This is what freedom looks like, Brando. You know—remember that whole thing? Where I make my own choices and you pretend not to have an aneurysm over them?”

His jaw ticks.

“You’re slumming it.”

“You’re meddling.”

“I’m looking out for you . ”

“And I’m going to tell Mia you’re not keeping your promise.”

That gets him. He narrows his eyes and shuts his mouth with a snap.

I smirk. “I’ll call her right now. Tell her Big Bad Brando couldn’t let Maxine have a barista job without storming in like a Bond villain with a caffeine allergy.”

He sighs. Glares. Defeated. “Fine. You win.”

“Obviously.”

I hand him a coffee, on the house. He takes it like it’s poison and leaves without a word. But I watch as he walks away and don’t miss the way he nods his head in appreciation after he takes a sip of the brew.

The universe clearly hates me.

I’m two hours into ignoring my to-do list, wearing a sleep shirt that says Don’t Talk To Me Unless You’re Coffee , and glaring at my laptop like it's personally responsible for every trauma I’ve ever endured—when the front door swings open, almost causing me to hyperventilate.

There’s no knock. No warning. Just Mia.

She strolls in like this isn’t my apartment, like she didn’t use the spare key I forgot I gave her, like she’s not a Gatti by marriage and technically a walking, talking security breach.

She’s armed, as usual—with a paper bag that smells like baked sin and a tray of coffees balanced in one manicured hand. Hair twisted up. Oversized sunglasses. All black everything. Her whole look screams CEO of Chaos, and her strut says sue me.

“You’re alive,” she announces, dropping the coffee in front of me. “That’s nice.”

“Barely,” I mutter, taking a sip. Hazelnut. She remembers.

She sits across from me on the sofa and starts pulling pastries out of the bag. One almond croissant. One blueberry muffin. One chocolate-filled situation I don’t have the heart to reject.

“Brando’s worried about you,” she says casually, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it into her mouth.

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t sprain something. “Yeah, he’s made that abundantly clear.”

Mia arches an eyebrow. “He told you that?”

“No. He showed up at my job like a mob boss slumming it for sport and demanded to know why I’m not working in some glass tower with a view.”

“Oh God.” She winces. “Did he do the ‘you’re too good for this’ speech?”

“With hand gestures.”

“Christ. ”

I take a slow sip of coffee, feeling the heat scorch my tongue.

“He’s… a lot.”

Mia gives a dry shrug. “He’s Brando.”

“That’s not a defense,” I murmur. “That’s a goddamn warning sign.”

She smirks faintly. “Fair.”

We fall into silence. I tear at my croissant, shredding it into flakes I don’t eat. She watches me with that quiet, patient look people wear when they know you’re going to break eventually. And yeah. She doesn’t have to wait long.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, voice low.

Mia nods.

“How do you survive a man like that?”

Her eyes sharpen, but she doesn’t ask what I mean.

We both know I’m not talking about petty arguments or who left the lights on.

I’m talking about being loved by a man who would break the world open for you — and maybe break you along the way.

A man whose obsession fits so tightly against his devotion you can’t tell them apart.

Mia leans back, eyes soft, voice steady.

“I don’t survive Brando,” she says. “I live in him.”

My breath stalls.

“That’s… terrifying.”

Her smile is small, tired, just a little feral.

“He’s not perfect. He’s a Gatti. He’s violent, controlling, ruthless — and worse, he knows when I’m lying to myself even before I do.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“But he’d die before he let anything bad touch me,” she says quietly. “And honestly? I need that.”

The words settle between us, heavy. I hate how much I understand.

“He wants you safe, Max,” she adds, voice softening. “Not just because you’re family. Because if you broke, if something happened to you… he doesn’t know if he could be the one to pick up the pieces.”

I sit with that. Let it settle under my skin like a bruise I didn’t see coming. It doesn’t feel warm. It feels like pressure. Like being handed a weight you never asked for — but now you’re the one who has to carry it.

“He’s not my keeper,” I mutter.

“No,” Mia agrees softly. “But he’s your brother-in-law. And for better or worse, he loves you.”

I look away. Because the truth is, I don’t know what the hell to do with love like that anymore. Love that shields you and suffocates you at the same time. Love that wraps around your ribs so tight you can’t breathe, even when it’s meant to protect you.

I thought I wanted space. I still do. But some part of me wonders if I’ve drifted so far I’m just floating now — untethered, untouched, unloved, except by a ghost. Saxon’s ghost, still tangled around my throat.

And the distraction that is Zack. He’s the noise that drowns out the echo Saxon left behind.

But even when I’m with Zack —even when his chaos wraps around me like fire — Saxon’s still there.

Front row. Unmoved. Unshaken. Like a ghost sitting in the dark, arms folded, watching every desperate move I make, knowing exactly why I’m making it.

And the truth that gnaws at me, the one I choke down every time I try to pretend otherwise, is that you can bury yourself under adrenaline and heat and recklessness — but you can’t replace the man who tattooed himself into your bones.

Saxon North didn’t just leave me. He stayed .

He stayed in every scar, in every breathless second I try to escape myself, in every corner of my mind I thought I could lock him out of.

And no matter how hard I pull Zack into my life, no matter how many times I let myself get lost in his fire, Saxon’s ghost is still the one I can’t shake.

“Thanks for the carbs,” I mumble, voice rough as I look at my sister. She nudges my foot under the coffee table and bumps my shoulder as she leans into me.

“Anytime.”