Page 37 of The Vagabond

SCAR GATTI

E veryone ends up here.

Doesn’t matter who they are—cop, killer, priest, politician. Eventually, they all find their way to me. When their lives are bleeding out at the seams, when the lies they’ve built their kingdoms on start to crumble, they come crawling to my door. Because they know I’ll fix it.

I always do.

That’s what I am—the solution. Not the Band-Aid. Not the peacekeeper. The fucking scalpel.

I don’t care if you’re my brother or some Fed who wears his credentials like a badge of honor; if you land on my doorstep, it means one thing - you’re out of options.

Just like I was once.

See, people think blood is sacred. That it binds us. That it means something. And maybe it does—for the soft-hearted. For the sheep. But for men like me? Blood is just another liability. And sometimes, it needs to be spilled.

That’s why I killed her.

Our mother.

She wasn’t sick. Or dying. She wasn’t even sorry.

She was cruel. Calculated. Wicked in a way that corrupted everything she touched—including her own sons.

She orchestrated our deaths like it was just another day on her damn calendar.

Thought she’d finally cut the leash she’d kept on us our whole lives.

But we cut deeper.

We knew her game. So we played it better. Let the world think we were dead. Burned everything behind us. And when we crawled out of the grave she dug for us?

I drove a knife straight through her heart. Watched her gasp. Watched the betrayal flash in her eyes. Like I owed her something more than what she gave me—manipulation, scars, a childhood spent learning how to bleed without crying.

She would’ve killed my unborn child if I hadn’t done it. Slit its throat in the womb just to spite me. That’s the kind of woman she was.

So yeah. I killed her. And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

Because any man who can look past the sentimentality of blood and do what needs to be done? That man doesn’t just fix problems—he prevents them.

And ever since we buried her, my brothers and I have breathed freer. Slept easier. We’re untouchable. Unshaken. We can’t be fucked with. No more chokehold around our throats. No more whispered threats at family dinners. Just power, clean and sharp.

Which brings me back to today.

I study the man standing across from my desk, arms stiff at his sides like he’s trying to prove a point. Agent Saxon North. Black suit. Eyes like steel handcuffs. And yet, there's something about him that feels... feral.

He’s not here because he wants to be.

He’s here because of her.

Maxine Andrade .

Now, there’s a twist I didn’t see coming.

The Fed clears his throat like he’s about to choke on his own breath. “The only way to protect her is to keep her away from the Feds.”

I arch a brow. “You are aware that you are a Fed, right?”

He says nothing. Just stares, jaw clenched as he bites back his response. That silence? It tells me everything I need to know. He’s not speaking as a Federal agent right now. He’s speaking as a man. A man who’s tangled up in something dirty and dangerous.

I lean back in my chair and flip open my silver cigarette case.

Allegra’s going to skin me alive for this.

I promised her I was done. Swore it in bed one night when she had her head on my chest and her heart in my hands.

But some habits are hard to kill. I light the cigarette and let the smoke settle around me like fog.

“You’re asking a lot, North.”

He meets my gaze. Doesn’t blink. Which is a good thing. I hate weakness in men who play in this world.

“She’s not safe. Not while my people are looking to use her as a way into the Aviary.”

I drag slow on the cigarette. “And you care why, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t need to. I see it written all over his face. The bastard’s gone soft for her. That’s a problem. Because when men fall for women in my world, they start making mistakes. They forget their loyalty. They forget who they are. And they forget what I am.

But I file that knowledge away for later. Right now, Maxine needs a safe place. And whether I trust Saxon North or not, his warning rings true. I can feel it in my bones. There’s a storm coming. And Maxine’s right in the eye of it.

So I nod. Slow. Final.

“I’ll uphold my end of the deal,” I say, voice cold as steel.

“ But you make damn sure you do the same.” I lean forward then, let him see what’s behind my eyes.

Let him see what it means to come to me with a promise.

“Because if Maxine Andrade dies on your watch, Agent North…” I take one last drag, let the smoke curl between us like a noose.

I level my gaze, flat and unblinking. “I’ll erase every good intention you ever had.

And I’ll bury you with all the others who didn’t listen. ”

Saxon nods once—tight, clipped. It’s not respect, it’s understanding. He turns to go, jaw set, shoulders square. But I don’t miss it—the way his fingers twitch as he opens the door.

He leaves without another word. And the second the door clicks shut behind him, I feel the weight shift. Not off my shoulders. Deeper. Like something has tilted inside me.

I kill the cigarette in the ashtray, the ember hissing like it’s alive.

“You said you quit.” Her voice is soft. But it cuts through the air like a live wire.

I don’t look up right away. Allegra’s always been like that—walks into a room like a ghost, but sees everything.

She steps around the corner, barefoot, black silk dressing gown wrapped around her like a second skin.

The woman looks like sin and salvation all wrapped into one breathless fucking paradox.

“I did,” I say.

She crosses her arms. “Liar.”

I finally lift my head, meet her eyes. There’s no fear there. She’s never been afraid of me. Not even when I brought her home the first time, against her will, the spoil of a thirty year old blood oath.

“You shouldn’t be listening in,” I murmur.

“I wasn’t,” she says. “But your voice travels. Especially when you threaten to put someone in the ground.”

I smirk. “It was a warning.”

“You don’t do warnings, Scar.” She walks closer, slow and graceful, like a lioness sizing up a wounded animal. “You do final notices.”

She stops in front of me, takes the silver case off the desk and pockets it.

“I’ll take these,” she says.

“I’ll just buy more.”

“I’ll just burn your wallet.”

God, I fucking love this woman.

I reach for her hand and pull her into my lap. She fits like she was made for me—spine straight, head tilted, mouth sharp. My opposite in every way, but the only person who’s ever matched me in will.

She rests her hand on my chest, over the place where my heart would be if I hadn’t carved it out for her years ago.

“Why is the Fed back?” Allegra asks quietly. “I thought your business was concluded after Altin Kadri.”

I nod once, eyes still fixed on the spot where Saxon North stood just moments ago.

She tilts her head. “Was he talking about Maxine? Our Maxine?”

She’s taken as much of a liking to Maxine as she has to her sister Mia. These women-they’re like the mirror image of their men, and they’ve formed a formidable sisterhood to rival any.

Her lips purse, the faintest frown tugging at the corners. “That can’t be good.”

“It’s not,” I say, voice flat. “Shit’s about to hit the fan. Hard.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me the way only she can—like she’s reading something scrawled across my skin in invisible ink.

“She’s been through a lot, Scar.”

I don’t respond. Not because I don’t agree. But because Allegra already knows I do.

She knows what it does to me—watching girls like Maxine claw their way out of hell, only to be thrown back into the fire by men who swear they’ll protect them.

She knows that kind of pain doesn’t just sit in the chest—it solidifies in my bones.

Hollowed me out a long time ago. And then she does the thing that undoes me every fucking time.

She leans down, slow and deliberate, and kisses me—soft, deep, unafraid.

Her mouth on mine isn’t sweet. It’s anchoring.

Like she’s stitching my soul back into place one breath at a time.

Like she’s saying, ‘I see what you’ve done.

I see what you’ve become. And I still choose you. ’

It doesn’t make sense to me. It never has. But she’s the only person on this earth who can touch me like this without losing a hand.

When she finally pulls back, her fingers trace the edge of my jaw, slow and feather-light. Like she’s trying to memorize a man who’s already halfway to the grave.

“You’re not the villain they think you are,” she says, voice low, like a confession meant for no one but me.

“No?” I murmur.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “No. You’re worse.”

I raise an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching.

“But at least,” she continues, thumb brushing the scar above my eye, “at least you’re honest about it.”