Page 23 of King of Praise
Pain flashes across Micah’s features, quickly controlled but unmistakable. “The boy I loved died long before you put that knife in his chest. Sandra’s influence, his own choices … they created someone I didn’t recognize anymore.”
The raw honesty in his words touches me deeply. I reach out impulsively, covering his large hand with my smaller one. The contact sends that same jolt through me, but I don’t pull away this time.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For all of it.”
His hand turns beneath mine, fingers curling gently around my palm. The touch is tentative, offering connection without demand.
“So am I,” he replies, voice rough with emotion.
We sit like that, hands joined, as night deepens around the cabin. In this moment, I begin to understand survival might be just the beginning of what’s possible in this new, uncertain life. There is, perhaps, room for healing too. For both of us.
And maybe, someday, for something more.
Chapter 6
Lines in the Sand
Micah
My boots crunch softly on scattered debris as I conduct one final security sweep. Years of neglect have left their mark on this east side building, but tonight it serves a different purpose. One that could reshape Columbus’s criminal landscape—for better or worse.
The warehouse stretches vast and hollow around me, its concrete floor scarred by decades of industrial use. At its center, folding tables form an irregular circle, surrounded by chairs for the representatives of each family. Against the walls, security personnel stand at measured intervals, weapons visible. A necessary show of force in these uncertain times.
I check each entrance point methodically, muscle memory from decades of similar assessments guiding my movements. The main doors are secured. Emergency exits clear but monitored. Sight lines to the makeshift conference area unobstructed. Everything is exactly as I arranged hours ago when I first arrived to transform this abandoned space into neutral ground for tonight’s meeting.
Despite my busy schedule and active efforts, thoughts of Naomi intrude my headspace. I keep seeing the gentle curve ofher neck as she bent over a book this morning in my thoughts, and the way sunlight caught her red curls, creating a halo effect.
I force the images away. Tonight requires absolute concentration. One wrong move, one misread intention, and the tentative peace we’re trying to build could shatter into violence.
My phone vibrates. A message from Zeke.
Zeke
Five minutes out.
I do one final visual sweep, cataloging details, escape routes, potential weapons. The position of each chair has been carefully considered—sight lines, distances, subtle power dynamics expressed through placement. Nothing left to chance.
Heavy footsteps echo from the entrance. Right on schedule, Francesca Barone strides in, flanked by Tommy “The Blade” Moretti. Her designer suit and flashy jewelry seem incongruous in this setting, but that’s deliberate too—a display of success and status.
“Micah.” Her tone carries warmth that doesn’t reach her calculating eyes. “Good to see you again so soon.”
I incline my head. “Francesca.”
Her handshake is firm, professional. Tommy hovers at her shoulder, his hand never far from his concealed weapon. I catch his eye, maintaining contact just long enough to communicate awareness. He’s Nicolo’s cousin. It’s a connection that makes him both valuable and dangerous.
“Quite the setup.” Francesca gestures at the arranged tables. “Very democratic.”
“That’s the idea.”
She laughs, the sound sharp in the cavernous space. “Democracy in our line of work. Now there’s an interesting concept.”
Before I can respond, more footsteps announce new arrivals. Victor Russo enters, leaning heavily on his son Nick’s arm. Age has not been kind to the old crime boss. His once powerful frame now stooped, his movements uncertain. Behind them walks Sofia Russo, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she surveys the room.
I guide them to their designated seats, hyperaware of the shifting dynamics. Nick barely conceals his impatience with his father’s slowness. Sofia remains focused on all exits as if she’s preparing an escape route. The subtle ways power realigns as the old guard faces inevitable change.
Connor Gallagher arrives last, right before Zeke is due. His muscular frame fills the doorway, scarred knuckles flexing unconsciously. A boxer turned crime boss, he carries violence in his bearing like a barely sheathed weapon.
“Hunt.” His greeting is gruff but respectful. Our paths have crossed before, usually ending in bloodshed. But tonight requires diplomacy, however uncomfortable.
