Page 112 of King of Praise
“How long?” she asks, voice hoarse from her earlier crying. “How long have you been with him?”
I consider deflecting but ultimately see no point in denial. “A few weeks. Since he took me in after Lucas beat me so bad he almost killed me.”
“Why?” The question is full of genuine bewilderment. “He’s Lucas’sfather. He’s twice your age. Why would you?”
“Because he’s nothing like Lucas,” I say quietly. “He’s nothing like the monster you helped create.”
She flinches. For a moment I expect angry denial, the familiar pattern of excuses and justification she has always used to dismiss Lucas’s behavior. Instead, her expression crumples.
“I know,” she whispers. “I know what he became. I just … I couldn’t face it. Couldn’t admit that my beautiful boy turned into a monster.”
More tears fall from her eyes. It’s the first honest thing she’s said about Lucas in years and it creates an uncomfortable shift in dynamic between us.
Not forgiveness, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.
Chapter 30
Deadly Negotiation
Micah
The steering wheel feels cold beneath my white-knuckled grip as I navigate Columbus’s empty streets with mechanical precision. Muscle memory handles the driving while my mind races with worry for Naomi. The old warehouses spread before me in industrial decay—abandoned buildings waiting for economic renewal that never quite arrives.
Behind me, maintaining careful distance to avoid detection, Zeke leads our full tactical team despite Tommy’s explicit instructions that I come alone. My closest friends—my chosen family—refuse to let me walk into this trap without backup. The knowledge provides cold comfort as I approach what could well be my final destination.
I take a deep breath, pushing back the fury that’s simmered since Tommy’s call revealing he had Naomi and Sandra. Using my ex-wife to muddy my obvious connection to Naomi, while exploiting both women’s vulnerability to ensure my cooperation, is a shitty move. It’s smart on his part, though, because it ensures my full cooperation.
The headlights illuminate the warehouse ahead—a massive structure of corroded metal and broken windows. Perfect location for an ambush. Multiple entry points create surveillancechallenges. Internal architecture offers countless defensive positions with no place for me to hide.
The loading dock where I’ve been instructed to park sits in calculated isolation—far enough from occupied buildings to prevent witnesses. As I pull in and kill the engine, memories of similar situations flash through my mind. How many times have I approached locations like this, knowing danger waited inside? It wasn’t that long ago that I’d approached a similar warehouse to help Zeke save Eve’s nephew, Leo, when he was kidnapped.
But this is the first time the personal stakes were mine to bear. This time, Naomi’s life, my love’s life, is hanging in the balance.
Two months ago, she was just Lucas’s wife—a woman I had a crush on but kept at careful distance. Now she’s become essential to me in every way that matters.
The undetectable communications device in my ear crackles softly as Zeke’s voice comes through.
“Position confirmed. Teams in place. Remember the signals if you need immediate intervention.”
I grunt acknowledgment while removing my weapon and leaving it in the glovebox. They’ll search me thoroughly. Best not to give them an excuse for immediate violence. My size and training will have to suffice for protection until backup becomes necessary.
Two men emerge from the shadows near the entrance with military precision. Even in darkness, I recognize the quality of their tactical gear—not the cheap knockoffs favored by local gangs but professional-grade equipment that speaks to serious funding and training.
“Hands where we can see them,” the taller one barks.
I comply, keeping my movements slow and deliberate as I raise my arms. No point antagonizing them unnecessarily when Naomi’s safety hangs in the balance. The shorter manapproaches first, his hands patting me down. He’s thorough, checking all the standard hiding spots for weapons or surveillance equipment.
The taller one circles behind me, maintaining proper tactical positioning. Their coordination speaks to extensive training and experience. The kind of men Nicolo would trust with sensitive operations.
“He’s clean,” the first man announces, stepping back.
“Move,” the other man orders, gesturing toward the warehouse entrance with his weapon.
I walk forward, keeping my steps measured despite urgency clawing at my chest. Somewhere inside, Naomi needs me, but rushing in without proper assessment will only get us both killed.
The warehouse door groans open, metal shrieking against metal—a warning system to announce a visitor’s arrival.
Inside, darkness fills the cavernous space except for a harsh spotlight illuminating the center. The theatrical presentation means psychological warfare rather than simple security.
