Page 111 of The Vagabond

He drags me, shoves me through a narrow passage at the back of the basement — where the light doesn’t reach, where I hadn’t even realized there was another door.

The wall’s cold, damp, rough as sandpaper against my skin. And before I can suck in a full breath, he’s on me. No urgency. No fumbling. Just the cold, methodical touch of a man who’s done this before—and enjoyed it.

The chains rattle as they wrap around my wrists, my ankles, pulling tight, dragging me back against the concrete like some wrecked marionette. My shoulders twist, wrenched at such a brutal angle I hear the sharp, wetpopof a joint giving way.

Pain explodes white-hot. I bite down on a scream so hard I taste blood. My fingers go numb. My arms throb, pinned so tightly I can’t expand my chest. Every breath is shallow, ragged, a war between my collapsing body and raw survival instinct.

The cold bites into me. Metal gnaws at my skin. The chains dig deeper each time I flinch, each time my body trembles under its own weight. Flesh tears. I feel it. Hot. Wet. Humiliating. And through it all, he watches. Silent. Satisfied. Like I’m the masterpiece in his sick little gallery.

I’m trembling. Bleeding. Barely holding on. But still—I don’t break.

He crouches in front of me, my blood smeared across his hands, his smile twitching at the edges like he can already taste his victory.

“You’re a feisty little one, Maxine,” he murmurs. “Your new master’s going to love breaking you in.”

I lift my head, one eye nearly swollen shut, vision swimming—and spit blood right at his shoes.

He jerks back, flinching, face twisting in disgust.

“Fuck you,” I rasp, voice raw, shredded, butmine.

And in that moment—bloody, chained, barely breathing—I win. Because even here, locked to a wall in the dark, I am not his. I willneverbelong to him.

His smirk flickers. And I feel it—the smallest, sharpest flicker of uncertainty. Because I’m not the girl I was two years ago. I’m not the quiet, broken thing who waited in the dark for rescue. I’m rage with a heartbeat. I’m vengeance on bare, bleeding feet. And I will die before I ever let another man own me again.

45

SAXON

The moment Brando steps into the shipping yard, the air changes. It thickens. Warps. Goes still like the seconds before a storm touches down. He’s a shadow at first. Then a silhouette. And then—he’s here. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw locked. Shoulders squared like he’s bracing for war. His coat billows behind him like wings made of knives. And for a second—just one—I think we might be too late.

Not for Maxine. For ourselves. Because Brando Gatti doesn’t walk like a man. He walks like a reckoning. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even breathe. He just throws a punch. Right at me.

I barely register the movement before his fist slams into my jaw with enough force to snap my head sideways. Pain fractures through my skull, my teeth clack together, blood floods my mouth. I stumble back, blink once, twice—just in time to see Brando lunging again. His fists fly as his face twists into something primal.

Mason and Kanyan are on him before he lands the next blow—but barely. They each grab an arm, muscles straining to holdhim back. Brando Gatti is a lethal man when he’s full of fury and has no-where to put it.

“Where the fuck is she!” Brando roars, voice shredded, raw, the kind of sound that comes from a place deeper than wrath. From grief and terror.

“We don’t know yet,” Mason grits out. “We’re close?—”

“Close doesn’t fucking matter!” Brando fights against their grip like he’s possessed. “She’s gone. And if Maxine doesn’t come back, I will lose Mia again! I’ll lose her! Do you understand that?!” His chest is heaving, eyes feral, mouth curling around his words like venom. “Don’t tell me you’re close. Tell me who the fuck I have to kill to get her back!”

“We have a good lead in the boot,” Mason tells him. “Just calm down, let’s work him.”

Mason finally lets him go—slowly, cautiously—and Brando wrenches his arm free from Kanyan with a snarl. He spins toward the SUV, eyes landing on Zack in the trunk like he’s a lamb strapped to the altar.

My stomach knots. I know this is going to get ugly.

Brando stalks to the back of the SUV and throws it open. The light catches Zack’s face—smeared with dried blood, taped mouth already heaving as he senses what’s coming.

Brando grabs him by the ankle and yanks him out, hard. Zack’s knees scrape against the concrete, the skin peeling back in raw ribbons as he’s dragged across the unforgiving yard. He thrashes, trying to slow the descent, but Brando doesn’t stop. Because he’s not pulling a man out of a car. He’s dragging a sacrifice.

Brando shoves him against the bumper, rips the tape off his mouth in one brutal tear, and stands there—towering, wild, dripping with wrath.

“You want to play games?” he snarls. “Let’s fucking play.”

Zack tries to speak, but Brando cuts him off with a backhandthat echoes through the yard. Blood arcs through the air as Zack drops to his knees. Mason steps forward.

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