“One night you were working late. Naomi called her, needing a friend.”
“Fuck!” I shove my fingers through my hair and tug at the strands. “So she could have been followed instead of me.”
“It’s possible,” Seb says. “I’ll see if there’s any indication she’s being watched.”
I nod, knowing he’ll get to the bottom of this. Regardless of how Naomi was found, the result is the same. She’s now in unknown hands becauseIleft her alone. BecauseIdidn’t do the one thingIpromised to do. Protect her.
I should have insisted she come to Columbus with me. Should have left Eli to guard her at the cabin. Should have been more careful, more vigilant, more—
The vibration of my phone interrupts my destructive spiral. Not the burner this time, but my primary cell. The screen displays “Unknown Number,” suggesting either a wrong number or—more likely in our world—someone using a burner phone to contact me.
The room falls silent as I answer, placing the call on speaker so the others can hear.
“Hunt.” I keep my voice neutral, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath.
A low chuckle comes through the speaker, sending ice down my spine before the caller even speaks. I know that laugh. I’ve heard it countless times across negotiating tables and in the aftermath of violence.
“Micah Hunt.” Tommy Moretti’s voice carries the distinctive inflection of his New York Italian heritage slightly softened by years in Columbus. “Been a minute since we had a proper chat, hasn’t it?”
My gaze locks with Zeke’s across the room. Tommy Moretti—Francesca Barone’s enforcer, related to Nicolo, known for his brutality and unwavering loyalty to whoever signs his checks. Ifhe’s involved, then we know it’s a calculated kidnapping. And it’spersonal.
“Tommy.” I keep my tone conversational, as though we’re discussing the weather rather than what I suspect is about to be a ransom demand. “What can I do for you?”
“Always straight to business.” He sounds amused, the smile in his voice raising my blood pressure. “That’s what I’ve always appreciated about you. No bullshit. No games.” He pauses. “Well, almost no games. You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you?”
My jaw tightens. “We all have secrets in this business.”
“True enough.” The sound of ice clinking against glass comes through the speaker. “But some secrets are more explosive than others. Like the pretty little redhead you’ve been hiding away at that cabin in Hocking Hills.”
The confirmation that they’ve identified not just Naomi, but our safe house nearly knocks me off my feet. I maintain my outward calm through sheer force of will, though my free hand clenches into a fist at my side.
“I’m assuming you didn’t call to discuss my personal life.” I ignore Seb’s raised eyebrow and Eli’s intensified scowl. “What do you want?”
Another chuckle. “Direct as always. Fine, I’ll get to the point.” He takes an audible sip of his drink. “We have something that belongs to you. Two somethings, actually.”
The plural stops me cold. “Two?”
“Oh yes.” The satisfaction in his voice makes my skin crawl. “Your son’s widowandhis mother. Quite the family reunion we’ve arranged.”
Sandra. The name flashes through my mind like a lightning bolt. What the hell is Sandra doing mixed up in this? The last time I saw her was at that diner, where she’d been making noise about Naomi’s involvement in Lucas’s disappearance.
Fuck. What have you done, Sandra?
“Desperate mommy’s looking for revenge for their son’s murder are so compliant and eager to talk.” Tommy chuckles. “Your ex-wife was a huge help in finding your pretty little plaything.”
I should have known she’d do something like this. Her obsession with finding Naomi, her revenge fantasies, her inability to accept Lucas’s death—she must have gone looking in places she shouldn’t have. And now she’s dragged Naomi into danger with her.
“I’m listening,” I say, voice deliberately empty of emotion.
“I bet you are.” Tommy’s tone shifts, becoming more businesslike. “Here’s how this works. Ms. Barone would like a private meeting. Just you, no backup, no weapons, no King brothers lurking in the shadows.”
Across the room, Zeke’s expression darkens, but he remains silent, letting me handle the negotiation.
“That can be arranged.” I keep my response measured.
“I’m sure it can.” Tommy’s voice drops lower. “But understand this, Micah—we know exactly what the redhead means to you. Playing house all these weeks, cooking little domestic dinners, fucking your dead son’s wife … it’s almost poetic, isn’t it?”
The casual cruelty of his words, the violation of our privacy, stokes a rage so pure it momentarily blinds me. I grip the edge of the desk harder, forcing myself to breathe through the murderous impulse.