Page 64 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

“ T ell me again why I need to be here for this.”

I sound whiny even to my own ears. Hell, I am whiny. Mia just gives me that look — equal parts patience, pity, and the kind of exasperated love only an older sister can wield like a weapon.

“Because, Max,” she says, looping her arm through mine, “you’ve been moping around like a ghost for weeks, and the family needs you.”

I snort softly. “ The family or you lot ?”

Jacklyn pops her head around the corner, grin sharp and unapologetic. “Both.”

I sigh, heart heavy, feet dragging as they all herd me across the sprawling lawn toward the massive gazebo that sits at the center of the Gatti estate acreage.

It’s one of those perfect early summer days — the sky too blue, the air too soft, the kind of weather that feels like an insult when your chest is knotted with heartbreak.

They’ve pulled out all the stops — grills blazing, tables set with way too much food, kids shrieking and laughing in the distance, and the men? The men have been carefully, meticulously convinced that today’s gathering is for my sake.

A celebration, they called it. A cleansing.

The downfall of the Aviary. After weeks — no, months — of back-to-back arrests, raids, explosions, the nightmare is finally over.

And here we stand, at the edge of a new chapter, with the rest of our lives stretched out before us — a chance to breathe, to heal, to finally, blessedly, close this dark, brutal chapter and look forward to the light ahead.

I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t want this. But here I am, anyway.

The truth is, I’ve been miserable without Saxon. I’ve tried to bury it, tried to smother it under loyalty and guilt and the desperate need to stay in the Gatti family’s good graces. Because no matter how much my heart aches, I’m not stupid. I know what they’re capable of.

And the last thing I want is to be the reason they put a bullet in the man I — God. The man I love.

There. I’ve admitted it, even if only to myself. I love Saxon North. I’ve been carrying it like a secret, like a curse, like a wildfire burning me alive from the inside.

So when Jacklyn leans in and says, “By the way… Saxon North is here,” my breath stutters and my heart almost gives out.

“What?” I whisper, heart leaping and slamming all at once.

She shrugs, wicked smile softening at the edges as she lifts her chin at something behind me.

I feel him before I see him. That subtle, electric shift in the air — the weight of his presence, the way the world seems to coil tighter, quieter, like it’s holding its breath the second he steps into my orbit.

I turn, pulse thundering in my throat — and there he is.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Scar Gatti.

Scar’s massive hands are folded over Saxon’s, gripping them, his mouth low, close, speaking words I can’t hear.

Scar is the king of poker faces — a man carved from stone, expressionless, merciless, a predator whose silence says more than any threat.

There’s no softness in his posture. No humor.

No hint that this is a friendly exchange.

And for one heart-stopping moment, I wonder if this is it.

If Scar’s about to drop him. If this is the moment Saxon North pays for everything — for loving me, for touching me, for stepping too deep into a family that draws blood over loyalty without blinking.

My nails bite into my palms, my breath snags sharp in my chest, and all I can think is: Please, God. Not now. Not like this.

Saxon is wearing jeans, hi-tops, and a simple dark T-shirt that hugs his frame like a second skin. I swallow hard, every nerve on fire.

The girls give me a little nudge, soft but insistent, just enough to push me forward when I want nothing more than to sink into the shadows.

Saxon’s eyes sweep across the crowd, slow, sharp, searching — cutting through the laughter, the flicker of the barbecue flames, scanning face after face until his gaze lands on me.

And when it does? That small, cautious smile curls across his lips, the kind of smile that says; ‘there you are’ .

My breath stutters in my chest. I can’t tell if it’s hope or terror or some unholy mix of both.

Scar Gatti is still at his side, walking with him in our direction, a looming shadow of muscle and reputation, and the closer they get, the more the tension in my gut coils tight — until suddenly, the girls scatter.

Mia, Jacklyn, Allegra, Tayana — one minute they’re flanking me like a protective wall, and the next they’re gone, darting off to different corners of the yard, ducking into conversations, busying themselves with drinks or desserts or laughing with the kids.

It’s like they rehearsed this whole event.

Planned this moment down to the second, and now they’re leaving me to stand here, alone, exposed, naked beneath Saxon’s gaze.

I swallow hard, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears, and all I can think is — this is it.

This is the moment where everything we’ve survived comes down to whether I can take one step forward and let him take the rest.

I stand there, frozen. The laughter swells around me, the warm hum of voices, clinking glasses, sizzling grills — but all of it feels far away, muted, as if the whole damn world has narrowed to one man, and the electric pull between us.

Saxon’s still watching me. His cautious smile flickers, like even he isn’t sure how welcome he is here.

Scar murmurs something low, a sharp word or maybe a final warning, then peels off, leaving Saxon standing alone, shifting his weight like he’s working up the nerve to cross a battlefield.

My hands tremble at my sides. My throat’s dry. And when I take a shaky breath, I realize — I want this. God, I want this. Even if it terrifies me. Even if it risks everything.

For a beat, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me.

Like he’s memorizing my face. Like he’s trying to carve this moment into history in case it slips away.

He looks older. Tired. Like a man who’s been through war and came back haunted —but still standing.

His hair is shorter, his jaw sharper. But his eyes…

they’re still wrecked. Still searching. Still fire and ice in their chaotic green orbs.

He takes one step closer. I swallow. He takes another. Close enough now to touch me — but he doesn’t. His hands stay clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself back with every ounce of strength he has left.

His voice is low, rough, barely more than a whisper.

“Hello, Maxine.”

I almost break right there. Almost collapse under the weight of his voice. But somehow, I hold myself together.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice soft, shaking, carrying every sharp edge of the past I still haven’t figured out how to let go of .

The quiet wraps around us like a fragile bubble, and for a long moment, neither of us says anything. Saxon takes a slow breath, his eyes never leaving mine. I swallow hard, but I don’t look away. He steps a fraction closer, and his voice drops, lower, rougher, slicing right through my defenses.

“Walk with me?”

I nod and we move away from the laughter, the chatter, the barbecue smoke curling into the sky, until it’s just the two of us under the trees. I glance up, heart pounding, lips parting like maybe I’ll stop him — but I don’t. I let him speak.

“You’ve seen the news?” He asks.

“Hard to miss when the Aviary has taken centre stage and it’s all anyone can talk about.”

“It’s finally over,” he breathes, his voice low, like he’s still trying to convince himself it’s real.

And it is. It’s over. The last of the arrests went down two days ago.

he final pieces fell into place, the final names were dragged into the light, exposed for the world to see. Most of the players were cornered, cuffed, paraded in front of cameras, their reputations torn apart in real time.

And at the center of it all? My captor. Pastor Vernon Gibbons.

I can’t pretend he wasn’t one of the biggest shocks.

Because he was. The man who stood at the pulpit, preaching salvation and redemption, was the same man who locked me in a room and sold me like I was nothing.

The same man who smiled as he ruined lives.

The same man people trusted — followed — worshipped.

“I’m done with the Bureau,” he says quietly.

My breath catches.

“Why?”

His eyes meet mine, burning, unflinching. “Because I want a life that’s mine. I want to start my own firm — private security, on my own terms. No-one sending me across the world when I should be home.” He steps closer, voice softening, “ With you. ”

I suck in a breath, tears prickling behind my eyes.

“Saxon…”

His hands hover, like he’s terrified to touch me, terrified I’ll break if he does. But his voice? His voice is steady as a promise.

“I want to be yours,” he says, voice rough, shaking.

“Just you. Me. The mess we make together.” He swallows hard.

“If you don’t want me, I’ll walk away right now.

But if there’s even one piece of you that still wants this — us — then I swear, Maxine…

I will never stop choosing you. I don’t want perfect, Maxine.

I don’t want easy. I want you . Your anger, your scars, your stubborn heart.

I want mornings where we fight over coffee, nights where we fall asleep tangled in each other, and a future where I never have to wonder if you’re safe — because you’ll be with me, and I’ll make goddamn sure you stay safe. ”

A tear slips down my cheek. His thumb brushes it away before I even realize he’s moved.

“I love you,” he says, voice breaking just a little, raw and rough and beautiful. “I love you so much it terrifies me. But I’m done running from it.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I can only feel — the weight of everything we’ve survived, the sharp, aching beauty of the fact that we’re still standing, still here, still fighting for a chance to make this right.

And then I close the distance, wrap my arms around his neck, and whisper, “I’m yours, Saxon. Always.”

Because this? This is the kind of love that scars. It burns. It remakes you from the ashes. This is the kind of love you survive hell for.