Page 55 of The Vagabond

But I don’t move. Because behind the sharp lines and broad shoulders, behind that don’t-fuck-with-me energy he radiates like a second skin, I see what no one else gets to see. A guardian. A protector. A man wired for war, but anchored by family. A giant, grumpy, over-armed teddy bear with scars on his heart that match mine. I know why he’s like this. Why he watches me like I’m seconds from breaking. It’s not about me—not entirely.

It’sher.Mia. His wife, and my sister. If anything ever happened to me again—anything like before—I know it wouldwreck her. Shatter her in places even he couldn’t reach. And that? That would kill Brando. So yeah. He’s overbearing. Territorial. And he tracks me like I’m a government-issued weapon. But it’s not because he doubts me. It’s because he loves Mia. And loving her means keeping me alive. Even if it means suffocating me in the process.

“I could have you working anywhere. PR. Design. An art gallery. Somewhere clean. Safe. With benefits. Where people call you ma’am and bring you your lunch.”

“And instead, I bring my own lunch and make my own coffee.” I cross my arms. “This is what freedom looks like, Brando. You know—remember that whole thing? Where I make my own choices and you pretend not to have an aneurysm over them?”

His jaw ticks.

“You’re slumming it.”

“You’re meddling.”

“I’m looking out for you.”

“And I’m going to tell Mia you’re not keeping your promise.”

That gets him. He narrows his eyes and shuts his mouth with a snap.

I smirk. “I’ll call her right now. Tell her Big Bad Brando couldn’t let Maxine have a barista job without storming in like a Bond villain with a caffeine allergy.”

He sighs. Glares. Defeated. “Fine. You win.”

“Obviously.”

I hand him a coffee, on the house. He takes it like it’s poison and leaves without a word. But I watch as he walks away and don’t miss the way he nods his head in appreciation after he takes a sip of the brew.

The universe clearly hates me.

I’m two hours into ignoring my to-do list, wearing a sleep shirt that saysDon’t Talk To Me Unless You’re Coffee, and glaring at my laptop like it's personally responsible for every trauma I’ve ever endured—when the front door swings open, almost causing me to hyperventilate.

There’s no knock. No warning. Just Mia.

She strolls in like this isn’t my apartment, like she didn’t use the spare key I forgot I gave her, like she’s not a Gatti by marriage and technically a walking, talking security breach.

She’s armed, as usual—with a paper bag that smells like baked sin and a tray of coffees balanced in one manicured hand. Hair twisted up. Oversized sunglasses. All black everything. Her whole look screams CEO of Chaos, and her strut sayssue me.

“You’re alive,” she announces, dropping the coffee in front of me. “That’s nice.”

“Barely,” I mutter, taking a sip. Hazelnut. She remembers.

She sits across from me on the sofa and starts pulling pastries out of the bag. One almond croissant. One blueberry muffin. One chocolate-filled situation I don’t have the heart to reject.

“Brando’s worried about you,” she says casually, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it into her mouth.

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t sprain something. “Yeah, he’s made that abundantly clear.”

Mia arches an eyebrow. “He told you that?”

“No. He showed up at my job like a mob boss slumming it for sport and demanded to know why I’m not working in some glass tower with a view.”

“Oh God.” She winces. “Did he do the ‘you’re too good for this’ speech?”

“With hand gestures.”

“Christ.”

I take a slow sip of coffee, feeling the heat scorch my tongue.

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