Page 9 of The Vagabond

MAXINE - ONE YEAR AGO

I ’ve always wondered how fate picks its victims.

How it decides who gets saved, who gets broken, who vanishes without a trace.

For so long, I convinced myself there had to be a reason for what happened to me — a divine test, a punishment, a cruel symmetry in the universe.

But the truth is, fate doesn’t care.

It didn’t care when our father died. Didn’t care when we lost our home, when Mia worked herself raw and bloody to keep Sophia and me alive, when we ran from debt collectors and the dark eyes of the mob and fell straight into the jaws of disaster.

I should’ve known we were fucked the second Frank Falcone reappeared.

My sister’s ex — smiling like he had a secret.

He promised us a night we’d never forget.

He kept that promise. Because that was the night we were split apart.

The last time I saw Sophia. The night I stopped being Maxine Andrade, sister, dreamer, reckless little twin.

And became a product. Merchandise. A girl with a price tag.

By the time Tayana found me, I was barely holding on .

“Maxine?” she breathed, disbelieving.

I could see it in her face — the way I resembled Mia, the flash of recognition, the flood of hope. She reached for me, trembling, desperate to pull me out of the room and rush me to safety.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Because under the loose shirt, wrapped snug around my waist, was the Russian’s gift. A bomb belt. A thin strap of death cinched tight to my skin, wired to his trigger, blinking red like a heartbeat counting down.

“He’ll kill me if I try to leave,” I whispered, my voice so brittle I could barely hear it. “I’m not ready to die yet. I need to get home to my sisters.”

I said sisters . Because back then, I didn’t know. I didn’t know Sophia was already gone. I didn’t know I’d been clinging to a home that had already cracked in half.

Tayana’s anger boiled over, her voice sharp as she hissed, “We’re getting out of here, Maxine. Together.”

But I couldn’t believe her. Because the Russian didn’t need chains. He didn’t need a lock on the door. He had me wired to explode — a walking threat.

When he came for us, he was all smiles and poison.

“Patience, kotyonok,” he purred to Tayana. “We’re going home. To Russia. To your father.” He ushered us out of the building and into a waiting car, a limousine. It was so obvious that Tayana knew him, but despised him.

I was so scared that the bomb would go off and she would die with me. I wanted to tell her I was sorry. That she didn’t deserve this. A lifetime of uncertainty as the car sped towards a private airstrip.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the fear of what was to come - travelling to another foreign country where I would become someone’s else’s possession. Or perhaps I was at the end of my rope and saw no way out.

I braced myself, and swung the car door open. The wind howled through the cabin. I edged toward the door, body half in, half out as I got ready to throw myself out of the car.

I wasn’t trying to save myself. I was trying to save her. If the bomb went off, if I jumped far enough, I could keep her safe. At least one of us. But Tayana grabbed my arm, sobbing.

“Don’t! You don’t get to do this, Maxine!”

Her fingers clung to me with the kind of raw, desperate force

I hadn’t felt in a long time — I see you. I won’t let you go.

Even when I wanted to fall, she wouldn’t let me.

And then, as if fate decided to play one last sick joke, the car stopped. The driver yanked me back inside, the locks clicked shut, and I was a caged bird again.

By the time we reached the jet, my body was shaking. Not out of fear or the bomb strapped to my body, but from sheer, unbearable exhaustion.

Tayana and I climbed the stairs, our feet heavy, our hearts heavier.

I didn’t know what waited for us on that plane — only that it smelled like money, like power, owned by the kind of men who made choices for you.

And then everything changed. Armed men. Shouts. Weapons drawn. And from the shadows, another man emerged. I learned that he was Anton Aslanov — Tayana’s father, and the Russian who brought me was Igor Aslanov, Tayana’s uncle.

I didn’t know either man, but they both radiated the kind of authority that could bend the world.

They were here for Tayana.

And I realized, in that frozen, electric moment, that she had a rescue. She had a way home. And somehow, so did I.

When the belt was unstrapped from my waist, I felt lighter, but not free. Freedom wasn’t a belt. It wasn’t a bomb. It was walking away,

getting into a car, letting my uncle Mason take my trembling hand,

letting Rafi Gatti’s careful voice guide me to safety.

I was free. That’s what they told me, what I tried — and failed — to believe as the car pulled up to the Gatti estate.

Mason was at my side, his hand heavy and grounding on mine.

Rafi was there, lingering just behind, his eyes shadowed, his mouth a hard line.

I stared out the window, watching the mansion loom closer, and felt my heart stutter against my ribs. This was it. Home. Family. Mia.

I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed a thousand tears, telling myself I could hold it together just a little longer. Just until I saw her face.

When the car door opened, I barely remember my legs carrying me forward. But I remember Mia’s voice. The way it cracked on my name like a splintering bone.

“Maxine?”

And then she was there — arms around me, pulling me in, gripping me so tightly I thought we might fuse back into the two little girls we once were.

I sobbed into her shoulder, my body shaking, every inch of me unraveling at once.

“I’m here,” I choked out, the words barely making it past my teeth. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

Her hands were in my hair, on my back, cupping my face — like she needed to feel every part of me just to believe I was real. We sank to our knees in the foyer, our arms wrapped around each other, two survivors clawing their way back to life .

But something was wrong. I felt it. In the way Mia’s breath hitched. In the way her hands froze. In the way her body went stiff just as I said the words that shattered everything inside me.

“Where’s Sophia?”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t answer. And in that silence, I felt the floor open under me.

Mia pulled back slowly, her hands trembling as they cupped my cheeks.

Her eyes were wide and wet and terrified .

Like she was trying to find a way to tell me without breaking me in half. But there was no way. No soft landing.

Her lips parted, and her voice came out in a whisper so small, so shattered, I almost didn’t hear it.

“She’s gone, Maxine.”

At first, I didn’t understand. Gone? Gone where? I stared at her, waiting for the rest, for the laugh, for the explanation. But it never came. Instead, the words hit me like a freight train, slamming into my chest and hollowing me out from the inside.

I let out a sound — a sharp, strangled wail — and crumpled forward, my fists clenched against my stomach, as though holding the pain back. My scream tore through the house, raw and feral, ripping through my throat like it wanted to kill me.

“She can’t be!” I sobbed, my hands clawing at my scalp, at my skin, at the world. “She can’t be gone, Mia — no, no, no, NO!”

I rocked back on my heels, curling into myself, slamming my fists into my own chest because I didn’t know where else to put the pain. I screamed until my throat burned, until my ribs ached, until Mia wrapped herself around me, holding me down, begging me to stop, whispering through her own tears,

“I’m sorry, Maxxie, I’m so sorry.”

There are some kinds of grief you can’t soothe. Some kinds of agony that have to burn their way out of you. And I burned.

By the time my sobs turned to dry, heaving gasps, by the time Mia and Mason half-carried me to the couch, I was hollowed out. My arms hung limp at my sides, my body heavy, my face wet and raw.

Sophia was gone. Not missing. Not waiting to be rescued. Not a phone call away. Gone. And I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t saved her. I hadn’t said goodbye. The twin I’d shared a face with, a life with, a soul with — gone. And I was here. Alive.

That night, I lay in Mia’s guest room, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of every breath like it was a punishment.

I wondered if Sophia would’ve been stronger. If she would’ve survived the things I hadn’t. And I knew, with a hollow, aching certainty, that the fight wasn’t over. I’d been rescued. But survival?That was a war I was going to have to wage every day for the rest of my life.