Page 42 of The Vagabond

“Now it really sounds like you’re worried about me.”

I hate how his words land like a sucker punch to my chest, because—God—I am. I don’t want to be. But I am. My heart skips, trips, fumbles its next beat like it’s never learned how to protect itself.

His eyes find mine, those piercing jungle-colored eyes that hold too much of my past, too much of what we never got to be.

And for a second—just one heartbeat—I forget how to breathe.

I hate that a part of me still aches for him. For the way his hand brushed mine when the whole world was darkness, and he was the only match I had left.

“You’re playing with fire,” I say, voice thick. “You keep showing up like this, and they’ll think you’re coming for them.”

“Maybe I am.”

I step back. That’s it. That’s the line. That’s the reminder I needed. He’s not like us. He can pretend to understand what it’s like to survive the things I did, but he’ll never live with it the way I do. I carry it in my blood. He carries it in a file folder. And the worst part? He’s still beautiful. Still broken. Still mine in a way that makes no sense at all.

“You’re a Fed,” I whisper. “I’m a mafia daughter. Whatever you think this is, it doesn’t work.”

“I’m not trying to make it work,” he says, eyes burning. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

I blink back the sting. “Don’t you get it? That’s the problem.”

He looks like he wants to reach for me. Like he wants to pull me in and kiss me the way he did the night he disappeared. But he doesn’t. And I’m glad for that, because if he touches me again, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to let go.

“Maxine,” he says softly.

But I’m already walking away. And this time? I don’t look back.

18

MAXINE

I’ve seen enough ballgowns and tuxedos tonight to make my eyes bleed tulle and satin. Everywhere I turn it’s glitter and lace and polished smiles, clinking glasses and carefully staged laughter. It’s a masquerade of power—beautiful, intoxicating, and exhausting. The kind of night that looks good in photos but feels like sandpaper against skin if you’re already raw underneath. I wouldn’t even be here if Mia hadn’t practically shoved me into a car and threatened to have Brando drag me in by the elbow if I refused again.

“You need to get out of your head, Max,”she said as she zipped me into a sleek, scarlet dress that fit me like it was sewn onto my skin.“You need to remember who you are when the world isn’t trying to break you.”

I didn’t argue. Not because I agreed, but because I was too tired to fight her. And because part of me thought maybe—just maybe—being around people again would help. Maybe standing in a room full of noise and opulence would drown out the memory of Saxon North’s voice scraping against my bones. It didn’t. Not even close. He’s still in there. In my head. In my blood. Still dragging the oxygen from my lungs every time I letmyself remember how it felt to slam into him outside my door. How he looked at me like I’d never left his mind. Like losing me had left a mark. Like he still wanted to fix me. And that? That’s the most dangerous thought of all. Because I don’t want to be someone’s redemption. I just want to be left alone. Yet now he’s here, almost like he’s dogging my every move.

I slip out of the ballroom when no one’s looking, trading the gold-drenched chandeliers and string quartet for the hush of the hallway outside. My heels click softly against the marble floor as I make my way toward one of the balconies. I need air. I need space.

I push open the glass door and step into the night, the cool air slapping against my bare shoulders like a reprimand. The sounds of the party are muted out here—faint music, distant laughter. It almost sounds normal.

I grip the balcony railing, lean into it, and let my eyes drift over the city lights below. They sparkle like they’re trying to compete with the ballroom behind me. But nothing out here feels real. It’s all just reflections and pretense. Just like me. Mia thinks I’m isolating too much. That being alone isn’t the same thing as healing. But she doesn’t understand that for me, solitude isn’t punishment. It’s protection. When I’m alone, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to wear a mask over my scars or keep my voice light when all I want to do is scream. I can sit with the broken pieces without having to shove them into a shape that makes people more comfortable. And maybe that’s selfish. But it’s safe. Being alone means no one gets close enough to reopen the wounds that are still stitching themselves together beneath the surface. But Saxon? Saxon didn’t just get close. He tore the stitches out with a single look.

Now I’m here. At a party full of beautiful, powerful people. Wearing a dress that Mia swore would “remind me I’m still the baddest bitch in the room”. With my makeup perfect and myspine straight. But inside? I’m just a girl hiding on a balcony, trying to remember how to breathe.

I lean against a marble pillar and close my eyes.

Saxon.He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be in my head, in this world, in my blood. We’re poison to each other. But my body doesn’t care. It remembers his voice, his mouth, the way he looked at me like he understood the pain beneath my skin.

“Pretty night to be running from your problems.”

Lucky Gatti’s voice slides through the dark, silky smooth. I turn to find him stepping into the moonlight, hands in his pockets, suit immaculate, like he wasn’t just watching half his family nearly go to war inside. He’s the charming one. The dangerous one. The one who smiles when he’s two seconds from snapping a neck.

“Didn’t realize you were out here,” I murmur, straightening my spine.

“You looked like you needed space.”

He strolls closer, and I realize that Lucky doesn’t move without purpose. That’s the thing about Gatti men. Everything is intentional.

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