Page 42 of The Vagabond

SAXON

I ’m not breathing right. Each inhale is shallow, sharp—like I’m trying to suck air through broken glass.

My vision stings from the raw burn of staring too long, blinking only when I have to.

My mind is locked onto one frequency: Maxine.

Every thought, every nerve, every twitch of muscle is tuned to her name.

She’s gone. Taken.

And every second that ticks by is another blade twisting between my ribs. Every moment she’s out there without me is one step closer to the nightmare I’ve tried to protect her from.

I’m parked in Maxine’s living room, flanked by Lucky and Scar Gatti — two men who carry danger like it’s stitched into their skin. We’re three giants stuffed into a room too small, too delicate, like the walls know they’re one wrong move from collapse.

Sitting between them feels like straddling a live wire.

Scar’s eyes pin me, sharp and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for the moment I crack.

Lucky’s smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth — he can’t help himself, it’s baked into his bones.

Whatever we were, whatever history we share, none of it matters now .

The only thread holding this room together is one truth: Maxine’s gone. And we all want her back — no matter what it costs.

When I stumbled out of her apartment—blood crusted to my scalp, fury clawing its way up my throat—they were already there.

Scar’s glare said he wanted to bury me for letting her slip.

Lucky’s smile said he’d enjoy it. But they didn’t kill me.

Because right now, I’m useful. Because Maxine’s worth more than my blood, my bones, or whatever price they think they can make me pay.

Let’s not pretend we’re allies. I’m a Fed who’s built my career around infiltrating and taking down men in their line of work.

They’re wolves, carving kingdoms out of blood and ruin.

But now, we’re in the same car, hunting the same ghost. And if we’re too late…

No. I won’t even entertain that thought.

Because if I lose her, I’ll become like the monsters I spent my life chasing.

My phone is practically fused to my palm. I’m working every contact, every old informant and buried connection I shouldn’t still have access to. Anyone with ears to the ground is getting called. We don’t have any leads, and we’re working against the clock.

Scar’s pacing. Lucky’s gripping his gun like it’s the only thing anchoring him. I’m mid-call when the front door slams open.

Mason Ironside storms in without warning. He’s like a raging fire, moving quickly towards me. His fist catches my jaw before I even see it coming. The crack echoes through the room. My head snaps to the side. I taste blood.

“You son of a bitch,” he growls. “She was fine until you came into her life. You couldn’t leave her the hell alone, could you?”

I wipe the blood from my mouth. “She’s gone. You want to beat the shit out of me or help me find her?”

“We don’t need your help to find her!” He roars.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere. ”

He shoves me. Hard. “If anything happens to her?—”

I shove him right back. “Then blame the man who took her, not the one who would crawl through hell to bring her back.”

Scar steps between us, calm but cold. “Enough. Save it until we find her. Maxine’s our priority now, and if the Aviary have her, they’ll be planning to ship her out of the country again.”

“Bloody hell,” Mason mutters.

“Brando is not to know,” Scar adds.

“God, no,” Lucky mutters. “If Brando finds out Mia’s sister is missing, he’ll paint the streets in blood. We’ll never find her.”

Mason doesn’t speak again, but he doesn’t swing either. That’s progress.

I watch the screen, bile rising in my throat.

The CCTV footage flickers in and out, grainy and gray, like something out of a nightmare.

It’s from a streetlight cam at the end of Maxine’s block.

The moment plays in slow motion—the white van crawling forward, hesitating at the stop sign.

The driver leans into the light just long enough for the camera to catch the shadow beneath the balaclava shift.

He pulls it up. And there it is. His face.

Zack Morgan. That smug, rat-bastard face with ice in his eyes and not a single goddamn trace of fear.

Shock doesn’t even scratch the surface when I realize he’s the one who took Maxine.

I always knew Zack was dangerous — that slick, hollow-eyed charm was a red flag from the start.

But this? Drugging a drink was coward’s work. Kidnapping? That’s war.

“But why?” Mason roars, fists clenched so tight his knuckles go white. “What does he want with her?”

“This isn’t about wanting her,” Scar mutters, arms folded, brow creased in a rare show of unease. “This feels planned. ”

Zack’s smarter than I gave him credit for. Used a rental. No plates on any registry we can access. Thought he was careful. But he underestimated the old infrastructure in this city. Most of those cameras are junk. But not all.

Two cameras. Same intersection. One facing east. One west. And the westbound lens caught him. That’s all we needed. Now it’s a manhunt.

We hit the streets like a goddamn plague—shaking down junkies, bribing ex-cons, dragging secrets from back alley rats too strung out to lie. Every whisper leads us closer, until finally—finally—we get a hit.

A bar that’s off-grid. No cameras. No digital footprint. The kind of place that doesn’t show up on Google Maps or police radar. The kind of place you only find if someone invites you—or if you’re a monster looking to drink in peace.

We pull up to the curb, engines rumbling low, a threat moving through the night.

The bar looms ahead — no name, no lights in the grimy windows.

Just a sagging grey door, its hinges rust-bitten, its frame leaning like it’s tired of standing.

It squats on the corner, hunched and decaying, like it clawed its way up from the concrete just to fester in the dark.

Kanyan De Scarzi steps out of his car, dark and unbothered, exuding the kind of power that doesn’t need to announce itself.

Head of the Moreno family. A Gatti loyalist. A man who’s turned blood into legacy.

Once the Gatti family’s blunt instrument, he’s now a king in his own right.

A ghost. A legend. A man who doesn’t so much as blink, even as the world burns.

I glance behind me at the line of men assembling like a goddamn mafia war council.

Scar Gatti—head of the Gatti Empire, possesses enough clout and enough brutality to make most cartels flinch. He doesn’t speak unless it matters, and when he does, people tend to die shortly after .

Then there’s Lucky Gatti—technically Vicci now, running that family with his wife, Jacklyn, a woman as terrifying as she is brilliant. Lucky plays the part of the charming devil, but anyone who’s seen him angry knows he’s not just dangerous—he’s surgical.

Mason Ironside stands off to the side, coiled like a loaded gun.

Enforcer, underboss, and the kind of man who’s survived so much violence that I’m sure he has ice in his veins.

He’s carved out his loyalty and proven himself with his fists and firepower, yet right now, every ounce of his rage belongs to Maxine.

It hits me all at once that I’m surrounded not by men, but by legends. A full deck of monsters, every one of them carved from violence and vengeance. The kind of men who don’t inherit power—they bleed for it. Build empires out of chaos and ruin.

They talk in low voices, move with purpose.

There’s no fear here. No hesitation. Just a quiet kind of dominance that makes the air feel heavier, like it’s choosing sides.

These men aren’t kings in the fairytale sense.

They’re crowned in bone and gold. And I’m in their orbit.

If the Bureau could see me now? They wouldn’t just bench me.

They’d drag me back in chains, toss me in a cage, and weld the damn door shut.

Because this—this world I’ve stepped into—it’s everything I swore I’d never become.

And yet, I can’t deny the grudging respect curling in my chest. These men aren’t here for power plays or pissing contests.

They’ve banded together for one reason: Maxine.

Her safety. Her return. And if anyone can help me find her. .. I couldn’t pick better company.

Mason’s silent, clenched tight with fury as he stares me down. I know he’s just looking for a chance to strike out at me again. Scar’s the buffer. Again.

“You don’t have to like each other,” he says. “Just don’t let it get in the way of the job we have to do.”

Mason spits. “Wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. ”

“Not asking you to,” I mutter. “Just help me bring her back.”

We push through the door, and the atmosphere shifts as though the devil just walked in.

The music stutters, then dies completely—cut off mid-beat like the bar itself just held its breath. Every head turns. Every drink pauses mid-air. The crowd freezes in a ripple of tension that spreads across the room like spilled gasoline.

This isn’t the kind of place that welcomes strangers. It’s the kind of place where people mind their own damn business because the alternative gets you buried behind it. But the air shifts when they see us—Scar and Kanyan’s cold fury, Lucky's lethal smirk, Mason coiled like a loaded weapon.

And then there’s me. The Fed who shouldn't be here. The outsider who walked into a den of criminals and decided to stay. Together? We radiate violence. Controlled and contained, though barely.

It’s enough to kill any thought of trouble before it starts. Because whatever we’re here for—it’s not a drink. It’s retribution. And I’m sure everyone in the room can read our intentions on our faces.

Zack is tucked in a back booth, smug and laughing with two blondes like he hasn’t just lit a match under all of us. A bandage is wrapped around one ear. He looks up. Sees me. And freezes.

I’m across the room in a few long strides. I grab him by the shirt, lift him out of his seat, and slam him into a nearby wall. His drink hits the ground. A woman screams.

“You’ve got three seconds,” I growl. “Where is she?”

“What…”

“ Where. Is. She. ” I roar.

“I don’t?—”

I hit him.

Mason moves in fast, trying to get a punch in, but Scar holds him back .

Zack coughs, blood gurgling up between his cracked teeth. It spills down his chin, thick and dark, but the bastard still finds it in him to grin—wide and wicked, like he’s already made peace with the devil.

“You think I’d give her up?” he sneers, voice raw and jagged. “Let you ride in, all righteous and foaming at the mouth, like some kind of fucking savior?”

His contempt is a blade—slow and deliberate. He leans forward just enough to make it personal, then spits a thick glob of blood-stained saliva at my boots. It lands with a sick splat, then rolls down the leather and onto the cold floor.

It’s not just an insult. It’s a declaration of war.

And somehow… his words land harder than any punch. They strip the breath from my lungs, scrape across bone like they were made to wound. Because he means it. He’d rather bleed out on this floor than hand her over.

And suddenly, I don’t want justice. I want ruin.

My vision tunnels. The edges blur. Fury roars in my ears. I slam him into the wall again, harder this time—hard enough to rattle his bones and mine.

“Either way,” I say, my voice low and lethal, “you’re a dead man walking. Doesn’t matter to me if you go out grinning or screaming.”

That smug little grin of his falters—just a flicker, but I catch it.

The first crack in his armor. It’s a start.

I drive my elbow into his gut. He folds with a strangled gasp.

I grab a fistful of his shirt, drag him across the floor like trash, and slam his face down onto the bar with a sickening crack that echoes through the silence like a warning shot.

“Tell me something I don’t want to hear again,” I growl, my mouth close to his bleeding ear, “and I’ll scatter your teeth across this floor. I’ll rip every secret out of you, one bone at a time. ”

The bar is frozen. No one dares move. Even the bartender looks away like he doesn’t want to be an accidental witness. I haul Zack up, half-conscious, and drag him outside. The cold air hits us like a slap. He stumbles. I don’t let him fall—I throw him into the SUV so hard the door rattles.

Then I lean in, my face inches from his, voice razor-sharp. “If she’s hurt—if Maxine so much as has the sniffles —I will end you. And it won’t be fast. You’ll beg for a bullet before I’m through with you.”

His eyes flicker, and for the first time, I see it— fear .

Scar nods, wordless, eyes hard. Mason says nothing — but his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white. He wants blood as badly as I do. Maybe even more.

We’re not friends. We’re not a team. But right now? We’re united —by fury, by purpose, by the one person who means more to us than revenge.

Maxine.

She’s the only thread holding us together. And the only reason I haven’t painted the pavement with this bastard’s blood.

I slam the SUV door shut, steel and fire locking in place. Then I slide into the front seat, my grip tight on the dash, the weight of everything crushing down on me.

Only one thought pulses through my skull, louder than my heartbeat, louder than the silence around us:

I’m coming for you, Max.

And I’ll reduce this goddamn city to ashes to bring you home.