Page 32 of King of Praise
I force myself to focus, pushing aside personal concerns to address the business at hand. “The existing network is solid, but we need better oversight at the street level. Too many opportunities for skimming.”
The discussion continues, but part of my mind remains divided. I check my watch, calculating the drive time to the cabin. This split focus troubles me. In our world, distraction can be fatal.
The meeting concludes with assignments distributed and expectations clear. As the lieutenants file out, I remain behind with Zeke, Seb, and Eli to discuss implementation details and potential trouble spots.
“We’ll need to watch the Barone territory carefully.” Seb observes. “Francesca’s playing nice for now, but she’s got her brother’s ambition without his impulse control.”
“Agreed.” I lean against the wall, relaxing muscles tense from hours of standing. “Put extra eyes on their operations. First sign of them stepping out of line, we need to know.”
“You seem distracted tonight,” Zeke notes, his sharp gaze missing nothing. “Concerned about the new responsibilities?”
I shake my head, grateful he’s misinterpreted my preoccupation. “Just thinking through logistics. Making sure we haven’t overlooked any weak points.”
“The plan is solid,” he assures me. “We’ve spent years laying this groundwork. Now it’s time to build something lasting.”
Something lasting. The phrase echoes uncomfortably as I think of Naomi, alone at the cabin. Nothing about our situation feels lasting. Every moment together balances on a knife’s edge of discovery and consequence.
“Speaking of building,” Eli rumbles from his position by the door, “what’s our timeline for expanding into the Russo territory? Victor’s getting old, and his son Nick is too much of a wild card to effectively carry on the family tradition.”
The conversation shifts to territorial considerations, but my thoughts are elsewhere. I check my watch again. It’s getting late and I promised myself I wouldn’t leave Naomi alone late into the night this time. I sense being left alone too long makes her anxious. Trauma does that—makes the walls close in, turns shadows into threats.
“Go,” Zeke says suddenly, surprising me. “We can handle the rest of the planning. You look like you need some rest.”
I start to protest, but he waves it off. “You’ve been running non-stop since we started this push. Take a night, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s soon enough to start implementing everything.”
The others nod in agreement, though I catch speculation in their eyes. They know something’s off with me, even if they don’t know the cause. I haven’t told them just how close I’m keeping Naomi.
I’ve never been one to step back from work, to put personal needs before business. But tonight, the pull of the cabin proves stronger than duty. I need to see Naomi, need to know she’s safe. Need to reestablish the boundaries I almost crossed this morning.
“Thanks,” I say simply, gathering my coat. “Call if anything comes up.”
I exit through the back entrance, nodding to the security team as I pass. The parking lot is half-full, cars gleaming under the streetlights. My truck sits in its usual spot, a battered Ford F-150 that draws no attention.
The key turns in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. I pull out onto High Street, pointing the truck north toward Hocking Hills. Toward Naomi.
Toward complications I can’t afford and feelings I shouldn’t have.
Unfortunately,I don’t make it out of the city before my phone buzzes with a text. I groan in frustration when I see who it’s from.
Sandra
Meet me at Jerry’s Diner. Now. Non-negotiable.
I stare at my phone, jaw clenching.Damn it.My need to see Naomi is fierce and soul-clenching. But Sandra’s timing, as always, proves impeccable in its ability to disrupt.
I correct course and head to the diner she insists we meet at. The drive takes twenty minutes, each mile increasing the anxiety weighing me down.
Jerry’s Diner is a decrepit shithole on the outskirts of Columbus—all peeling paint and flickering neon. Perfect for the kind of conversation I’m about to have.
I park my truck in the nearly empty lot, doing a quick scan for surveillance or threats out of habit. Nothing obvious, though Sandra’s never needed backup to inflict damage. Her weapons of choice have always been words, wielded with surgical precision.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, the sound oddly cheerful given my mood. Stale coffee and grease hang heavy in the air. The vinyl booths have seen better decades, their stuffing escaping through cracks and tears. I choose one in the far corner, positioning myself to watch both the entrance and the emergency exit.
A tired waitress brings coffee without being asked. I check my phone again while I wait. Still no messages from Naomi. The knowledge that she’s safe at the cabin provides little comfort as I anticipate this confrontation.
When Sandra finally arrives, she makes an entrance worthy of community theater. The door slams open, bell jangling discordantly. Every head turns to watch her march toward my booth, designer handbag clutched like a weapon. Even in grief, she maintains her armor of perfect makeup and coordinated accessories. Her ash-blond hair pulls severely back from a face that’s aged more from bitterness than years.
“Twenty minutes.” I state as she slides into the booth. “Then I have business to attend to.”
