Page 67 of The Vagabond

The momentI step through the doors of Mason’s house, I’m hit with the scent of fresh garlic bread—the whole house smells homey. It smells like love and safety and it makes my chest ache.

Shelby’s laugh echoes from the kitchen, warm and syrupy, and Mia barrels into the hallway like a tiny, overexcited wrecking ball.

“You’re here!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around me before I can fully close the door behind me.

I squeeze her back, grounding myself in her energy, even as the buzzing under my skin refuses to settle.

“You’re late,” she accuses, mock-glaring. “I was about to assign the baby your name as punishment.”

“You’d name a child Maxine just to spite me?”

“I’d do worse,” she grins. “I’d give her your middle name too.”

I groan dramatically. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re stalling. Come on. Everyone’s already seated.”

She drags me by the hand like a little kid pulling their older sister into a secret fort. Her grip is strong, confident, anchored in this strange new world where she fits perfectly.

The dining room is golden with candlelight and Shelby’s setting down a bowl of roasted potatoes, looking radiant and exhausted in equal measure, her bump stretching her pale blue blouse.

Mason sees me and nods, and for Mason, that’s damn near affectionate. He doesn’t know how to be around me after I came back, always worried that he’ll say or do something that will crack me wide open.

“Max,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement as Brando stands to pull out a chair for me.

I take my seat between Mia and Shelby. Across from Brando. Who sits to the right of Mason, who’s halfway through his whiskey and probably already regretting this little family gathering.

“You’re late,” Brando says, not looking at me as he takes his seat. “I was about to bet you’d ghost us entirely.”

I arch a brow. “I’m here. I can see that no-one died of starvation.”

Shelby snorts into her napkin. Mia leans into me and whispers, “He’s grumpy because I told him he can’t name the baby after a mafia saint.”

“Which aren’t real,” Mason adds, not looking up from slicing his steak.

Mason points his fork at me. “What about you, Max? Got any cute names for your niece? Something dark and vengeful to carry on the tradition?”

I roll my eyes but the corner of my mouth twitches. Just slightly. These people—they’re chaos and violence wrapped in dysfunctional loyalty, but they’re also mine. In their own twisted way.

Conversation flows. Food gets passed around. I let myself soften just a little.

Until I hear his name. Saxon. I don’t even catch the whole sentence. Just the sound of it. One word, dropped like a nail in my stomach.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.

“I still don’t trust him,” Mason is saying. “He’s playing both sides. Always has.”

“You think he’s reporting back to the Feds?” Brando asks.

“Heisthe Feds,” Mason growls. “He just wears our blood like armor when it suits him.”

My grip tightens around the fork, white-knuckled. I keep my eyes on my plate.

Mia notices. Of course she does. She watches me like she watches everyone—quiet, curious, too smart for her own good. But she doesn’t say anything.

“You’re quiet,” Shelby says softly, nudging my arm with hers like she’s trying to anchor me. “You okay?”

I blink. For a second, I forget where I am.

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