Page 11 of The Vagabond

And I believed him. But it didn’t matter. Because somewhere behind the glass, Altin Kadri was smiling. And I was still his.

6

SAXON - FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO

By the time I met Altin Kadri, I wasn’t Saxon North anymore.

In his place stood Devon Walsh. Arms dealer. Phantom. A man with no past, no soul—just a cold trail of black-market deals and sleek private jets. The kind of man Altin Kadri would want at his table.

It took eighteen months of setting the stage—feeding leads, greasing palms, constructing my identity from the bones of real men I helped put in the ground. I wore his skin like it was mine. Grew my hair out, then dyed it. Swapped out the green in my eyes for dull, muddy brown with medical-grade lenses that stung like hell after an hour. But they made me forget who I used to be. That helped.

I pulled up to Kadri’s estate in northern Albania wearing a suit that cost more than my first car. The driveway curled like a serpent, lined with imported statues and littered with security checkpoints, each one manned by guards who looked like they could kill with their stony silence. His home—a damn castle, because of course it was—rose from the stone like some ancientpredator. Opulent, but cold. Unwelcoming. It was a kingdom built for monsters.

Kadri greeted me in his private study. He looked like every villain I’d ever profiled—smile too charming, suit too crisp, hands so clean that they screamed of guilt.

He offered me a drink I didn’t touch. And stared. For a long time.

Like he could smell the Fed still clinging to my pores.

He asked about my suppliers. My routes. My preferences in weapons, women, alcoholic beverages. I answered in the tone Devon Walsh used when he was bored and rich and above consequence.

Then came the test. Because there’s always a test. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. “You want in, Walsh?” he said. “You want to make real money?”

I gave a slow, indifferent nod.

“Then prove yourself useful,” he said. “I’ve had a rough week.”

He raised two fingers. Snapped. The door opened. And she walked in.

Barefoot. Silent. Wrapped in a slip of silk that clung to a body carved thin by starvation and sleepless nights. Her arms were folded across her stomach like she was holding herself together. Her hair, once a vibrant blonde in the photos I’d seen, was now faded to a brittle brassy white, like even her color had abandoned her.

But her eyes—God, her eyes. They met mine. And even through the exhaustion, the trauma, the hollowed-out pain—there was still something there. A spark.

Maxine Andrade.The girl the Gatti family had been quietly hunting for nearly a year. Mafia-adjacent. Family-adjacent. A ghost the rest of the world assumed was already dead.

But I knew her name. I knew her story. And now she washere, staring at me like she was begging me not to become another monster.

I swallowed hard. Kept my face flat. Devon Walsh didn’t flinch.

Kadri stood from his desk, moved to the door like he was watching a pet perform. “She’s yours for the night,” he said casually. “Show me what you can do with her. Make her scream, Walsh. Show me you can break her.”

The bile in my throat climbed fast. I crushed it down with a smile that didn’t touch my eyes.

This is what I had signed up for. Undercover work wasn’t about lines. It was about convincing the devil you like the taste of blood.

Maxine flinched as I reached for her, just slightly—but she didn’t pull away.

I took her by the hand. It felt like leading a lamb to the altar. Her skin was ice cold. Her fingers trembled. I squeezed, gently. Then leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I’m FBI,” I whispered. “He’s watching. Play along.”

She went still. Just for a second. Then she blinked.

In the room they gave us—white sheets, gold mirrors, and too many angles—I played my part. Because I knew that the cameras were watching.

I tilted her chin, dragged my thumb across her jaw like she was something I owned, not something I was trying to save. My mouth brushed her throat. My hands moved over her hips, her back, her thighs—never too fast, never too soft.

We danced on the edge of destruction.

---