Page 8 of The Vagabond

MAXINE - ONE YEAR AGO

B lood stained the corners of the ring.

You could see it if you looked hard enough—dried rust smears, smudged footprints, little crimson memories no one cared to scrub clean. The crowd loved it. Men in leather jackets. Women in diamonds. Everyone sipping from tumblers and pretending this was sport, not savagery.

I sat in the front row, feet flat on the ground, spine straight. I was wearing a borrowed jacket that smelled like mothballs and stale aftershave.

The Russian who had just bought me sat beside me.

He hadn’t spoken much since we arrived. Just a grunt here, a nod there. His hand rested on my knee—possessive, not affectionate—and I let it. Because I had learned what happened when I didn’t.

He had just struck a deal with Kadri. I didn’t know the details. And I didn’t ask. I had stopped asking questions the day I realized every answer would cost me another piece of myself.

But there was something tight about his jaw. Something uneasy about the way he kept glancing at me from the corner of his eye. Like I was a box he was about to check off a long, bitter list.

The bell rang. The crowd surged with excitement. The fighters circled.

One of them was a beast of a man—tattooed, scarred, built like he had just stepped out of a war zone. The other? He was young. Sharp. Fast. Beautiful in the way only danger could be. Dark hair clung to his brow, sweat glistening on his shoulders. He moved like lightning—coiled and ready.

And the second I saw him, something inside me sparked.

I knew that face. Not from real life. From a photograph. One of many Kadri had once shown me in a sick little attempt to break my spirit. He had laughed as he flipped through them. Wedding photos. Family shots. Happy moments I hadn’t been present at.

“Your sister’s moved on,” he had sneered. “Brando Gatti married her. The world spins without you, Maxine. That’s why this is the best place for you to be.”

I had stared at one picture for too long—Brando with his arm slung around a younger man.

Laughter in their eyes. Brothers.

And now, here he was. Rafi Gatti. In the flesh. Throwing punches like he was fighting something far bigger than the man across from him.

My breath caught in anticipation. He was losing. Getting battered. But he kept coming.

My fingers dug into the hem of the jacket, knuckles white. The Russian didn’t notice. His focus was on the ring—where my eyes were locked on Rafi.

A part of me wanted to stand. To scream his name. To beg him to see me.

Because if he saw me, if he really saw me, maybe he would notice. Maybe he would know. Maybe he would tell Brando, or perhaps he would drag this whole hell down just to pull me out of it.

He stumbled when a hit landed hard on his jaw. He fell against the cage, then dropped to the mat like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-performance. And then, as he lay there with his gaze ghosting the distance, his eyes found mine.

Just before the lights went out for him, he saw me.

His pupils dilated. His lips parted. Recognition slammed into his face like the final blow.

He looked at me like I was a ghost. And maybe I was.

Because for the last year, I hadn’t really been living.

Just existing. But in that moment, as the crowd roared and the world faded, Rafi Gatti looked at me like I mattered.

And it was enough. Just barely, but it was enough.

Then he was down. Out cold. Swallowed by the canvas and the chaos. And the Russian leaned closer, squeezing my knee just a little too hard.

I didn’t move. I just stared at the place where Rafi Gatti had fallen. The first crack in my prison had just appeared. And I didn’t know what was coming next, but I felt it like thunder in my chest. Someone had seen me. And I was not invisible anymore.

The Russian left me in a hotel room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the eighties. Muted florals faded on the walls, gold-plated fixtures dulled by time.

I lingered by the door, letting my eyes drift over the space—polished wood worn thin in places, velvet drapes heavy with dust, a bedspread too pristine to trust. It was the kind of room that whispered about a grandeur it no longer deserved.

A woman stepped into the room, cautious, uncertain. She scanned the space like she was expecting shadows to move, her eyes darting across the dim corners until they landed on me.

And when they did—she froze. Just like I had, the first time I saw myself in a mirror again after Kadri.

Our eyes locked. And in that second, something thick settled over the room.

The air pressed in, dense with the kind of silence that came when your world tilted but hadn’t quite fallen apart yet.

She looked at me like I was someone she had lost once, and suddenly, here I was—cracked and dirty, but real.

I slowly rose to my feet, my heart thudding against ribs that still felt too thin. The room spun a little, but I steadied myself.

She spoke.

“Maxine?”

Barely a whisper. The syllables trailed off like she was afraid they’d shatter if she said them too loud. Her voice carried disbelief, awe, and something dangerously close to hope.

I didn’t answer right away.

We stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s presence.

Her face was unfamiliar, but her recognition wasn’t. She knew me. I could see it written in the way her hands trembled at her sides, in the tears glassing over her eyes.

I took a cautious step forward. My voice felt foreign in my throat when I finally managed to speak.

“I… do I know you?”

I meant it. Not because I didn’t want to remember, but because my memories had been worn thin by trauma, bruised by months of isolation and control. I had spent so long being whoever they told me to be that I wasn’t sure who I was to anyone anymore.

She looked like she wanted to run to me. Or hug me. Or collapse. But she didn’t move. Instead, she just watched me. And in that silence, I started to wonder what she saw. What version of Maxine Andrade was standing before her.

My hair was a mess—blond and tangled, falling around my face in uneven waves. My eyes, once bright, now felt dull. Heavy. Like the light that used to live there had packed up and left without leaving a forwarding address.

The clothes I wore were functional but lifeless. Blue jeans that sagged off my hips, a plain white shirt buttoned up like I was hiding something beneath it—which I was. And I wasn’t referring to the scars or bruises, but the hollow emptiness that now invaded my every waking hour.

I was wearing Skechers—old, battered, more gray than white. They weren’t mine. Nothing I had now was ever mine. But I was grateful. Because my new captor—the Russian—at least let me dress. At least let me cover myself.

He hadn’t touched me. Not once. After months of being treated like a possession, that alone felt like a mercy. I should have been grateful. But I didn’t know how to be anything at all.

The woman across from me shook her head slightly, like she was still trying to process the fact that I was here and real and breathing.

“Oh my god… I can’t believe you’re actually here. It’s you.” Her voice cracked on that last word.

I wanted to say something back. Something comforting. Something that sounded like the girl I used to be. But she was gone. All that was left was this shell.

So I took a breath. One that burned a little in my lungs. And I said the only thing I could.

“…Do I know you?”

Because if I did—I needed her to tell me. Because I wanted to remember. I needed to remember. Before they erased me completely.

“Maxine,” she whispered.

My name on her lips made me feel like I’d been cracked open. It wasn’t said like an accusation. It was reverent. Disbelieving.

I didn’t know her. But she knew me.

And suddenly, I felt exposed—like every broken, hidden part of me was glowing under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

She took a step toward me. I didn't move.

“Come on,” she said quickly, urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

Her hand closed around my wrist, tight and trembling. The desperation in her grip sent a jolt through me. I flinched—reflex—but I didn’t pull away. I just stood there. Frozen.

Her fingers tightened, her voice sharpening. “Maxine, we don’t have time for this.”

Her eyes darted to the door, then back to me. She was scanning the room, calculating how much time we had for escape.

I wanted to move. God, I wanted to. But my feet wouldn’t listen.

My lips parted, trying to form words—any words—but nothing came out. What do you say to a woman trying to save you when you’re already carrying your own execution?

“What is wrong with you?” she snapped, voice cracking. “Do you really want to stay here? You want to keep living under his thumb for the rest of your life?”

I knew she didn’t mean it like that. Not really. But still—it hurt.

I felt my body go stiff, my jaw tighten.

And then… I showed her.

My hands reached for the hem of my shirt .

Slow. Robotic. Every inch I lifted felt like dragging a confession out of my own flesh.

Her expression shifted from anger to confusion to dread.

“Maxine?” she breathed, her voice cracking on my name.

And then she saw it.

The black belt wrapped around my waist. Thick. Smooth. Sleek. Too snug against my ribs. Wires coiled beneath the surface like veins. A blinking red light pulsing slow and steady.

A bomb.

I dropped the shirt back down. My hands shook as I wrapped my arms around myself, shielding what couldn’t be shielded.

“He’ll kill me if I try to leave,” I whispered. The words were sour in my throat. Bitter. Shameful. But they were true. “I don’t think I’m ready to die. I have to get home to my sisters.”

Her face fell when I said that. Not like she was sad. Like I just hit a nerve. A deep, buried nerve.

She knew something I didn’t.

But I couldn’t afford to ask. Not then. Not when every second was a countdown I couldn’t see.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said quickly, fiercely, like she was trying to outpace the fear. “There has to be a way to disarm it. To get it off you.”

But even she didn’t believe it. I could see it in her fear. In the way her eyes avoided the blinking light. In the way her shoulders stiffened with dread.

I shook my head. “It’s wired to a trigger,” I told her. “He keeps it with him. If I try anything—if you try anything—he’ll activate it. Doesn’t matter where he is. I’m the leverage. I’m the landmine.”

She stared at me like I’d just told her the world was ending. And for me? It already had .

“I can’t risk it,” I said, softer. “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want you to die either.”

There was silence. Thick. Drowning.

And then she spoke—quiet, but with enough conviction to make me think we had a fighting chance.

“We’re getting out of here, Maxine. Together.”

Her eyes burned with something fierce. Righteous. Hopeful in that way only the broken ever are. But I saw the doubt flicker behind it, too.

“And if we don’t?” I asked.

My voice was nothing then. Just a whisper inside a scream.

She met my gaze—and there was something in hers that ached.

A knowing. A recognition of every unspoken horror living in my skin. She’d somehow seen what I’d seen. She’s survived dark things, too. Maybe not directly, but she must have known what I’d been through.

Her silence said more than words ever could.

We both knew what would happen if we failed.

I could almost see it—the Russian smirking, pressing that button, walking away without ever looking back.

I pressed my palms to my stomach, felt the pulse of that bomb against my skin like a second heartbeat. One I didn’t own.

I was supposed to be saved by now. But there was no cavalry coming. No knight. Just her. And me. And whatever fire we had left between us.

“You’ve made it this far,” she told me, voice steadier than I expected. “And I swear to you, Maxine, I’m going to get you out of this. No matter what it takes.”

My chest tightened.

I wanted to believe her. I needed to.

She held my arm with a grip that was both anchor and lifeline .

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said. “We’ll find a way.”

My lips trembled. My eyes stung.

I nodded. But I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t.

Not until the bomb stopped ticking.