34. Saxon
34
SAXON
H ospitals make my skin crawl.
Not because of the blood or the smell—though there’s plenty of both—but because every inch of these places whispers of suffering barely cleaned off the walls. They bleach the floors and strip the linens, but they can’t scrub away the pain. It's soaked in.
I cut through the corridors with the kind of walk that keeps people from stopping me. Measured. Controlled. Like I belong here. Even though I don’t.
Not in this city.
And definitely not in the middle of this powder keg of a waiting room—where every man parked in a chair or posted against the wall has blood on his hands and enemies in his rearview.
This is enemy territory.
And I just walked into the lion’s den wearing a badge.
My jaw clenches as I spot Lucky Gatti near the vending machines, arms folded, watching me like he’s trying to decide whether to nod in greeting or warn me to turn the hell around. We go way back—long enough that he knows what it costs me to walk in here. Long enough that I know he’s already prepared for this to end in him taking sides if it goes sideways.
The rest of them? Brando Gatti. Kanyan De Scarzi. And somewhere down that hallway, Mason Ironside, the newly minted underboss to the Moreno family and the man who would rip my throat out with his bare hands if he saw me here.
I’m not stupid.
I shouldn’t be anywhere near Shelby Monroe’s hospital room. But “shouldn’t” hasn’t stopped me before, and it won’t now.
Shelby is the ex-wife of David Eddy—my partner, now conveniently missing—and she’s been beaten so badly, the doctors didn’t think she’d make it through the night.
This smells wrong.
And if the Bureau thinks I’m going to sit back while they use her coma as an excuse to clean house or twist the narrative? They’re out of their Goddamn minds. I need to be here. If not for the badge, then for Shelby. I owe her that much.
And maybe, somewhere deep in my black-and-white soul, I need to see for myself. Need to understand what could push someone this far. Why her? Why now?
I round the corner to her room—and come up short.
Maxine Andrade is standing guard outside the door like some tragic, porcelain-boned warden. Small frame, but coiled tight like a bowstring. Her arms are folded across her chest, her jaw locked, eyes fixed on Brando like she’s daring him to speak again.
She’s not fragile.
She’s fury in remission.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose braid, frayed strands clinging to the tension lining her face. Her blue eyes don’t shimmer; they burn—cold and sharp, the kind of color that makes you think of deep woods and deeper secrets.
And just like that, I’m not in this hospital anymore.
I’m back in that house.
Kadri’s estate.
The room with the locked windows and velvet curtains.
The place where Maxine was kept. Broken. Controlled.
I remember her silence more than anything.
The way she stared at the walls like if she looked long enough, they’d open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She didn’t ask to be saved.
She was just gone behind her eyes.
But now?—
Now those eyes lock onto mine.
And they are not empty.
That same fire still burns there, low and slow like coals that refuse to die. That same quiet defiance—choking down fear just to hold her ground. And underneath it, buried deep like a splinter that never healed, that same bitterness. Old and sour. The kind that settles into your bones when the world owes you more than it ever gave.
Flashback – Kadri’s Test
The bed is huge, draped in obscene silk sheets, the kind of expensive shit men like Kadri surround themselves with.
Maxine is standing by the bed, frozen, stiff as a board.
Her dress is too thin, the dim light from the chandelier casting shadows against her bare skin.
She’s terrified.
But she’s not begging.
I take a slow breath, lifting my chin just enough to feign disinterest as I glance at Kadri, who lounges in the doorway, watching me like a man watching his dog perform a trick.
“You want in, Walsh? You want to do business with me?” He gestures lazily toward Maxine. “Then prove yourself. Fuck my pet.”
A test.
A power play.
My jaw clenches, but my face stays impassive.
This is what I signed up for.
Undercover operations aren’t about comfort. They’re about playing a role until your own reflection starts to look like a stranger.
I’m Devon Walsh, arms dealer. Ruthless. Wealthy. Unmoved by the suffering of others.
I don’t react. I don’t let the revulsion show.
Instead, I step forward.
Maxine flinches, her breath catching, but she doesn’t back away.
She’s been through worse.
I already know that.
She doesn’t know who I am.
Not yet.
I reach her, my body blocking her from Kadri’s view.
When I lean in, I keep my lips barely an inch from her ear, my voice just loud enough for her to hear.
“I’m a Fed.”
She tenses so hard I feel it through my suit jacket.
I slide a hand up her bare arm, slow, careful—keeping up the act as I whisper, “I need you to play along. You’re safe with me. Just pretend. Kadri’s watching.”
Her breathing is uneven, her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips.
I know what she’s thinking.
I know she wants to believe me, but she’s been through too much to trust a stranger, let alone a man in this house.
But then?—
She blinks rapidly.
It’s slight. Barely perceptible.
But it’s enough.
I tilt her chin up, giving Kadri the best angle, because I know that bastard is watching.
The second my lips touch her skin, she shivers.
I move slowly, deliberately, my hands only touching the places I have to touch, my mouth only pressing where necessary.
I make it look real.
Because if I don’t—we’re both dead.
She plays her part well.
So well, in fact, that by the end of it, she isn’t just pretending anymore.
I don’t let myself think about it as I adjust my tie, as she clutches her dress to her chest, her face burning with shame.
I don’t let myself feel it as I leave the room with a lump in my throat.
I tell myself I saved her life.
But as I close the door behind me, I wonder if I just destroyed something in her instead.
Maxine doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t look away.
She just stares me down—and for a moment, it’s me on trial.
The girl from that locked room is gone.
What’s in front of me now is something forged in the aftermath.
Sharper.
Colder.
Made of whatever was left after the fire scorched through her soul and didn’t quite put her out.
Brando picks up on it immediately.
His gaze flicks between us, shoulders going taut, like he can feel the tension bleeding out of us in thick, suffocating waves. He steps forward, slow and solid, slipping between us like a man walking into a storm. He’ll do anything to protect his sister in law from the likes of me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls. Not a question. A warning.
His eyes narrow as they bounce between Maxine and me, reading something in the silence—something unspoken and unsettling. And from the way his mouth hardens, he clearly doesn’t like it.
I don’t answer immediately.
Lucky steps in beside me, slow and steady, his posture calm but unmistakably protective. A silent message that doesn’t need to be spoken:
He’s with me.
Back off.
I keep my focus on Brando.
“Shelby was married to my partner,” I say, my voice even, emotionless. “I’m here to check on her.”
“She’s under our protection now,” Brando snaps, his tone flat, all edge. “You want answers, go through the proper channels.”
“She’s in a coma,” I reply. “What kind of answers do you think I came for?”
His silence is the kind that says everything and nothing all at once.
I glance back at Maxine. She hasn’t moved.
Still as a statue.
Spine straight, arms crossed tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together with sheer force of will. There’s no fear in her expression. No vulnerability. Just a calm, ruthless kind of readiness. She looks like she’d take a bullet just to see who fired the shot.
For some goddamn reason, I have the sudden urge to ask if she’s okay.
But there are too many eyes watching.
Too much history standing between us.
And this… this is not the time nor the place.
Her eyes meet mine, sharp and surgical. A warning.
Don’t.
She doesn’t want anyone knowing about what passed between us—just as much as I don’t want to explain it.
The air tightens around us, a silent battle of wills crackling between us like exposed wire. Neither of us speaks or blinks in the tense standoff.
Then, for the first time since I walked into this goddamn minefield, something inside me stills.
Because whatever I came here for—leads, clues, answers—I’ve found something else entirely. Something hanging heavy in the air.
A line.
A choice.
A quiet reckoning.
Maxine folds her arms tighter, chin raised in defiance, eyes locked on mine.
She’s daring me.
She’s always daring me.
“What are you doing here, Fed?” Her voice is cool—too cool. A blade disguised as a question.
I meet her stare, steady and unreadable.
“I’m glad you’re home, Maxine.”
The second the words leave my mouth, she stiffens. A reaction she probably hates herself for.
Brando blinks, frowning. “What’s he talking about, Max?”
Silence. She doesn’t answer. Her jaw locks so tight I swear I hear her teeth grind. Her pulse flickers at the base of her throat, a rapid, barely contained drumbeat. She’s waiting. Waiting for me to say it. To acknowledge it. To spill out the ugly, raw truth between us, right here, under the fluorescent lights of this goddamn hospital.
I don’t. I step closer. Close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light, floral, deceptively soft. The complete opposite of what she is.
I lower my voice, slow and steady. Dangerous.
“I kept you alive,” I tell her. “You know that.”
Her breath hitches.
“And if I had to do it again,” I continue, “to keep you from getting carved up by Kadri’s men, I fucking would.”
Her lips part—just slightly. But she doesn’t speak. For a moment, we just stare at each other. The air is thick with unspoken words, regret, resentment. She hates me for leaving her there. And I hate myself for not saving her. For fucking her and then walking out that door. For never going back. For never seeing her again until now.
Then, she shoves past me. Her shoulder knocks into mine, a little too hard, just enough to sting, just enough to make a point. I don’t stop her. I don’t turn around. I just stand there, my jaw tight, my fists clenched, as her footsteps fade down the hallway.
Brando lets out a long, slow breath. “Jesus.”
I don’t answer.
I just turn toward Shelby’s door, my mind still on Maxine.
I can’t go back and fix the past.
But I can damn well make sure Shelby doesn’t end up another name on my list of regrets.
Lucky clears his throat beside me, subtle but strategic, like he’s trying to let the tension drain off just enough to keep the walls from cracking.
Mia slips into the edge of my vision, her small hand landing gently on Brando’s arm—his anchor. His steadying point.
Meanwhile, I slide my hands into my pockets and turn slightly toward Lucky, keeping my voice calm, casual, but clipped.
That’s when I see him.
Mason.
Stalking toward us like a loaded gun with a vendetta.
And that’s my cue to leave.
“I need to know when Shelby wakes,” I say, my tone low but firm. “David Eddy’s gone missing. And I don’t think the timing is a coincidence.”
Lucky eyes me, curious. “You think it’s connected?”
I nod once. “Whatever Clay Monroe got himself into, someone’s cleaning house. Tying up loose ends.”
And Shelby?
She’s one of them.