Page 53 of The Vagabond

I shake my head, but I can’t stop crying. Can’t stop breaking.

“I wanted to die,” I admit, voice so low it’s almost a secret. “Back then. In that place. Every day that I woke up, I wished I hadn’t.”

She pulls me closer, fingers threading through my hair, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I know.”

“I hate this.”

And then—I scream.

It’s buried in her chest, muffled by cotton and arms and safety, but it rips out of me like a death rattle. I scream until my voice is gone. Until all that’s left are sobs and hiccups and the sound of my heart splitting open.

She doesn’t let go. Not once. She holds me through it. Like she always does. And when the storm finally ebbs, when my throat is raw and my body limp, she wipes my face with the sleeve of her shirt and kisses my temple.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “No matter how broken you feel… I’ve got you.”

And somehow, despite the blood, despite the wreckage, despite the gaping hole inside me?—

That’s the first time I believe I might survive this.

23

MAXINE

It’s been eight days since I last saw Saxon North.

Not that I’m counting. It’s not like I wake up and check the window every morning. I think he’s finally gone, but I keep the motion alerts on, just in case. I scan every alley, every rooftop, every rearview mirror, out of instinct. Out of hope. Out of some pathetic need to feelhim near—even if the only thing I’d do if I saw him is slam the door in his face and scream until my throat bled.

But still... I check. And he’s not there. He’s gone. And this time—it feels real. It doesn’t feel like he’s hiding in the dark or testing me from the shadows. He’s just gone, like someone reached into my chest and carved him out, clean and cruel. Like he was never even here to begin with.

I don’t feel him watching anymore. Not at night. Not in the corners of rooms I used to think were safe. He’s not lingering in my bloodstream. He’s just gone.

And for the first few days, that was the plan, right? That was the dream. Peace. Freedom. Independence. That’s why I moved out of Brando’s fortress of overprotection and polished concrete.That place with the state-of-the-art security, bulletproof windows, and the suffocating sense of being a very delicate bird in a very golden cage.

I needed space. My own life. No cameras. No mafia. I didn’t expect a Federal agent with obsession written into his bones, breaking into my apartment like he owns me.

Life takes on new meaning. I get up. Every morning. Alone. I tie my hair up. I wear a hoodie. I walk to campus with my coffee and take notes in lectures, nodding like I care, smiling when it’s expected. I ask questions when I remember to pretend I’m a student and not a survivor in costume.

Then I go to work. At the café down the street. It’s warm in ways I didn’t know I needed—mismatched mugs, handwritten specials, the smell of burnt croissants and espresso and teenage dreams.

Here, I’m just Max. Not Maxine-the-trafficking-victim. Not Maxine-the-Fed’s-shadow. Not Maxine-Gatti-adjacent. Just Max, who knows how to steam milk without burning it and how to fold a napkin into a swan. Max, who covers Tuesday shifts and restocks the oat milk and always faces the door out of habit, not paranoia. Here, no one knows what I’ve survived. No one asks why I flinch when a plate crashes or why I won’t wear red lipstick anymore. Here, I exist. Quietly. Almost normally.

Until Zack happens.

He walks into the cafe like sin on two legs—dark curls, tanned skin, motorcycle jacket slung over his shoulder. He smells like rebellion and feels like chaos on the cusp of happening. And he’s so beautiful, it’s almost enough to erase Saxon North from my memory.Almost.

He steps into the café, his eyes skimming the space — a quiet, efficient sweep that notes everything without lingering. Then his gaze stops.

On me.

There’s the briefest hitch. Not wide-eyed surprise, not shock — just a small shift, a tightening at the corner of his mouth, like something in his mind clicks out of place.

His posture changes, subtle but there. His expression smooths, and the faintest edge of curiosity sharpens behind his eyes. His head tilts slightly, gaze steady, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Like I’m a variable he didn’t calculate for.

“Coffee. Black. No sugar,” he orders, as he steps up to the counter.

I make it. Pass it over. Silent, unimpressed.

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