Page 36 of The Vagabond

“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, pulling back. “Now Brando’s gonna find out. And he’s gonnafreak.”

Mia sighs. “Max…”

“I’m serious. He’ll drag me back to the Gatti estate and lock me in the pool house for the rest of my life.”

“And you think we’d let him do that to you if that’s not what you want?” Tayana asks. “Come on, we literally come with snacks and water.” She looks pointedly at Mia’s stomach, reminding me that my sister is pregnant and she probably doesn’t need to deal with this shit right now.

“You need to stop trying to prove you’re healed just because you survived,” Mia says. “Maybe… maybe it’s too soon for you to be alone.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Because maybe she’s right. And maybe that terrifies me more than anything.

We don’t go back to the estate. Instead, they stay.

We pile onto my sofa in our pajamas—well, Tayana’s in silk, because of course she is, and Mia’s still in black jeans and a ribbed tank like she’s ready to interrogate me about what set me off. I offer popcorn. Tayana makes a face and tells me it won’t do unless it’s triple cheese flavor.

“Movie?” Mia asks.

“Not a comedy,” I say quickly. “I can’t do fake happy right now.”

“Girl, you need to have yourself a good cry, then you need to pull yourself together and fake it til you make it,” Tayana says, before she starts to scroll through my old streaming apps and pulls upThe Notebook.

“Too depressing?” she asks.

“No,” I say softly. “It’s perfect.”

I blink awake slowly,eyes gritty, mouth dry. My head feels like it’s full of fog, and my body is sore in that way that grief makes you sore. Like everything has been wrung out and left to hang. I’m cocooned in blankets—too many to have pulled out myself—and my ratty old sofa has never felt so soft.

Tayana’s asleep in the armchair, arms crossed over her chest, chin tilted toward her shoulder. Mia’s curled like a cat at the other end of the sofa, blanket draped over one leg, her perfectly polished toes poking out.

I’m not alone. And for the first time in what feels like years, that thought makes me happy.

I shift gently, trying not to wake either of them, and sit up. The floor is scattered with snack wrappers, two empty juice bottles, and a balled-up tissue with mascara smeared across it.

Mine. Of course.

I let my fingers trace the rim of the glass on the coffee table, still half-full. I feel… hollow. But a little steadier. Like something inside me cracked last night in the best way possible—something that needed to break so something better could breathe.

And then—there’s a knock. Three firm, deliberate pounds against the front door.

Mia stirs immediately.

“Oh, hell,” she mutters, already on her feet.

I freeze. No. No, no, no. Please no. But I already know.

Brando.

The door swings open like it dares someone to try and stop him.

Brando Gatti steps inside like he owns the place—and in a way, he probably thinks he does. His suit jacket’s off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his expression?

It’s nuclear.

His eyes lock on me, still half-wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and they darken. Like he’s taking stock of every emotion I’m trying to hide.

“You called Mia,” he says, low and quiet. That’s how I know he’s angry. Brando doesn’t shout when he’s livid. He’s all calm.

“Yes, I called her, Brando. I calledmy sister.”

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