Page 66 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

D espite fucking like bunnies, I am not pregnant. So, in case anyone’s wondering, that’s not why Saxon and I get married two short months later.

No shotgun wedding. No rushed vows under duress. Just us. Two peas in a battered, scarred, bloodstained pod — and somehow, somehow , we still found our way back to each other.

The wedding takes place in the gazebo at the Gatti estate on a beautiful, wide-open Sunday afternoon. The sun is warm. The breeze is gentle. The sky stretches endlessly above, like even the universe decided to show up, to bear witness.

Saxon wears white linen — casual, understated, the kind of effortless rough charm that only a man like him could make look lethal. His sleeves rolled up, a few buttons undone, tattoos peeking from his forearms, barefoot in the grass like he doesn’t need anything but the woman walking toward him.

Me? I’m in an off-the-shoulder sheath dress, soft and simple, hugging every line of me — but it’s the look on his face as I step into the sunlight that makes me feel like I’m the only woman who’s ever existed.

The guests are family — the only kind we keep. The Gatti brothers, their wives, a few of the trusted enforcers standing respectfully to the side. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and I guess it’s written all over my face, because the smiles of the attendees speak for themselves. For the most part.

Mason, my grumpy, surly uncle, is brooding under the trees like the world has personally offended him, but even he can’t hide the way his eyes soften when Shelby leans in and smiles as she squeezes his arm.

Mia slips in beside me, her arm linking with mine, her voice low, trembling just a little.

“I’m so happy for you, Max.”

I swallow, my throat tight, and glance at her with a watery smile as she continues.

“You’ve been to hell and back,” she whispers, “and you came back shining. You’ve always carried so much, so many scars, so much weight — but this… Saxon is your light now. I just want you to be happy. You deserve a future that’s yours.”

I blink back tears, press a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mia. For everything.”

And then it’s time. We stand facing each other, barefoot in the grass, surrounded by the only people who matter to us, as the sun spills gold over everything we’ve fought to have.

Saxon’s hands cradle mine, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles like he’s memorizing every inch, every scar, every tremble.

His voice, when he speaks, is low, rough, steady.

“Maxine…

you are the one thing in this world

I will never stop fighting for.

You are the storm and the calm.

You are the reason I get up,

the reason I breathe,

the reason I am still here.

You are mine ,

and I am yours,

and I swear on my life,

I will never, ever

let you face another day alone.”

My breath shakes, my heart pounding as I hold his gaze, my own words rising like a prayer I’ve waited my whole life to say.

“Saxon…

you are the man I never saw coming,

and the one I will never let go.

You are the fire in my blood,

the anchor in my storms,

the light I found in the dark

when I thought I’d never come home again.

I am yours,

completely,

unconditionally,

and I will love you —

no matter what hell or heaven waits for us next.”

His eyes burn into mine, his hands tighten, and when we kiss — it’s like coming up for air after drowning. Like every second we were apart collapses into this one perfect, brutal, achingly beautiful moment, where we choose each other. Again. And again. And again.

The cheers go up — Mia and Jacklyn crying, Allegra whistling, Tayana wiping her eyes. Even Mason lets the corner of his mouth twitch into something that almost looks like a smile.

And as Saxon lifts me into his arms, his mouth brushing my ear, he whispers,

“So, Mrs. North… ready to spend the rest of your life with me?”

I laugh, breathless, pressing my face into his neck, and whisper back ,

“Always.”

The sun dips low, painting the sky in strokes of rose and gold, and the celebration spills from the gazebo into the yard, where laughter tangles with the drifting scent of catered food and the low hum of clinking glasses.

Mia twirls barefoot in the grass, her hair catching the last light of the day, her laughter spilling out like music.

She leans lazily against Brando’s side, her fingers tracing idle shapes on his chest as he murmurs something low to her, his smile small but real, a rare crack in the hardened face of a man who’s seen too much.

Jacklyn tosses her head back, laughing at something Lucky says, her grin wicked and fierce, while Lucky watches her like she’s the only thing worth watching, his eyes soft in a way they never are in public.

Scar lingers at the edge, arms folded, expression carved from stone, but when Allegra slips her arm around his waist, he leans down, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and the whole world shifts just slightly.

Mason nurses a drink at a corner table, brooding and grumbling, but when Shelby joins him, nestling close, his mouth curves at the edges, and I swear, even Mason Ironside lets himself soften tonight.

Saxon’s hand is wrapped firmly around mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, his eyes never straying far from me, like he still can’t quite believe I’m real, that this is real, that after all the fire and ruin, we’re still standing here.

We walk through the party, family pressing in on all sides, toasts raised, jokes flying, and for the first time in forever, I feel whole .

Not because the past is erased. Not because the scars have vanished.

But because we survived . Because we’re here.

Because this — this messy, loud, fierce, imperfect family — is ours.

Later, when the stars come out and the air cools, I step away for a moment, lifting my face to the sky. The clouds part, the moon spilling silver light across the estate, and I close my eyes, swearing I can almost feel her there.

Sophia.

Like a whisper on the wind, like the echo of a laugh carried through time, and I smile softly, because I know — deep in my bones — she would’ve approved.

She would’ve loved Saxon. She would’ve told me, in that sweet, wicked voice, that I’d finally found the one man who could stand in the fire beside me and not back down.

Saxon finds me there, his arms sliding around my waist, his mouth pressing to the curve of my shoulder.

“What are you thinking, baby?” he murmurs, his voice low, rough, like the night has pulled something tender from him.

I lean back against him, closing my eyes, breathing in the scent of him, the feel of him, the forever of him.

“I’m thinking,” I whisper, soft and sure, “that we made it.”

And as the party flickers behind us — as the Gatti brothers laugh, and the wives dance, and the night settles like a prayer over everything we’ve built — Saxon holds me, strong and steady, his heartbeat thrumming against my back, and I know, with every inch of my soul, this is the end of one story — and the beginning of every beautiful, brutal, breathtaking one still to come.