Page 36 of The Vagabond

That laugh she doesn’t let out anymore. That flicker of fear she tries to swallow when the world leans too close. The way she looks at me like I’m the only thing that makes sense—and the one thing that terrifies her.

I am as much her sin as I am her salvation.

And now that I’ve had her again—touched her, claimed her, laid her out beneath me like a confession—I can’t put her back on a shelf and pretend I didn’t taste her soul. There’s no rewinding that. There’s no going back.

So no—I’m not leaving her in the middle of this warzone. I’m not turning her over to the Bureau. Not letting them dress her up in agency-approved armor just to use her, bleed her dry, then toss her aside once she’s outlived her usefulness.

They’ve done it before. To so many others. And now, to me.

They’ll find another way. Without her. But I can only push so far before the whole fucking system pushes back.

So I need another way. A quieter, darker way.

One that doesn’t come with a case file or surveillance ops.

One that bleeds in silence—and protects her while I watch from the shadows.

Because if the Bureau won’t guard her? I will.

I’ll burn down cities and erase names. All in the name of protecting her.

And I know where it starts.

Scar Gatti.

The top of the food chain. The man whose name alone keeps monsters in their cages. The one who doesn’t bleed unless it’s intentional.

I don’t pretend to like Scar. But I respect the hell out of him.

He’s loyal to his. Protective. Ruthless in a way I understand deep in my marrow.

And I’ll play his game—his rules, his terms—if that’s what it takes to keep Maxine breathing.

Because whatever’s coming for her? It’s bigger than street turf.

It’s bigger than politics or syndicates or cartel money. It’s Maxine they want.

And I won’t lose her. Not to them. Not to the family she was born into. Not to fate or fucking statistics .

So I throw on something clean. Slide my weapon into the holster like it’s a ritual. And get in the car.

The sky outside is bruised, like it knows what I’m about to do. And as I drive, one thought pulses like a war drum through my skull—steady, vicious, final: if Scar Gatti won’t help me protect her? I’ll burn his whole goddamn empire down too.

The Gatti estate is silent when I roll in. It’s mid-morning, and the sun’s just high enough to throw sharp light across the stone facade of the house. Even without ever stepping foot inside, I knew it would be grand. Intimidating. Built not just to impress, but to remind you who holds power here.

Scar’s home is exactly that—grand and unapologetic, quiet in the way real power never has to raise its voice.

I step through the heavy front doors and follow the maid. We turn right into the first room—a study, judging by the scent of old leather and the wall of books I barely register before I spot him. Scar’s already seated behind a sleek black desk, waiting like he knew the exact minute I’d walk in.

I’ve never been here before, but I know this place.

The vibe. The intent behind every sharp angle and strategic window.

It mirrors the three other homes scattered across the estate—less houses, more fortresses.

Each built for a different brother. Each one just as impenetrable as the next. But this one? This is the heart.

Scar doesn’t speak right away when I enter his office. Just gestures to the chair across from him, slow and deliberate, like I’m the one under surveillance now. Which, let’s be real—I probably am.

The man’s a legend. Not in the flashy, cigar-in-mouth, blood- on-his-knuckles way. No. Scar Gatti is all silence and serenity. A chessboard with a heartbeat.

I sit. He watches me for a long moment, eyes cold, curious, unreadable.

“I’ve been seeing too much of you lately, Agent North - we need to stop meeting this way,” is the greeting he gives me.

“It was important,” I reply, flat.

He raises a brow. “Important enough that we couldn’t meet downtown?”

“I need help.”

That earns me a flicker of interest. He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “My help? It’s interesting that you’d come to me.”

“This is personal.”

“A personal problem,” he hums, nodding slowly. Like this is his specialty. “You came to me instead of Lucky. Why?”

“Because if I’m reading the situation right, you’re the only one who can help me with this, and you won’t let sentimentality stand in the way,” I say.

Scar lets the silence hang like a blade. He doesn’t tell me to stop talking, so that’s something.

Then: “And what do you need help with?”

“The Bureau’s closing in on the Aviary. I know you have a vested interest in closing down that operation. And we both know that you’ll do a better job of cleaning up that mess than they ever will.”

He leans forward, clasps his hands, all interest. “Go on.”

“They’re circling Maxine Andrade. They want to use her to crack open whatever’s left of the Aviary pipeline.”

“Why would they do that? As far as I know, Maxine isn’t any part of the investigation. She’s given her statement, the man who ‘ kept’ her is dead. What more do they want? ”

“Someone has taken an interest in her. Someone close to the investigation. They think she’s the key.”

He studies me. Long enough to make my jaw twitch. “And this matters to you because…?”

I don’t blink. “Because I’ve seen what this job does to people on the wrong side of a case file. And I’m not letting her end up there.”

Scar tilts his head, slowly. “That’s a hell of a confession from a Federal agent.”

“I’m not here as a Fed.”

“No?” His voice is cool steel. “Then what are you?”

“I'm the man who’s going to bury every son of a bitch who comes for her.”

Scar taps the desk once. Sharp. Final. “That sounds a lot like obsession, Agent North.” He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You sure you’re not the danger she needs protection from?”

I don’t flinch. “I’d die before I let anyone hurt her.”

Scar’s mouth twitches—more threat than smile—before he slowly shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. “Can’t decide who’s going to rip you apart first… Brando or Mason.”