Page 35 of King of Praise
The bland communitycenter exterior gives no hint of the comfort awaiting within. My footsteps echo in the empty hallway as I follow the signs toward the meeting room, each step requiring conscious effort to trust what awaits rather than turning to flee.
Just breathe. You’re safe here.
The mantra feels hollow, despite Micah’s truck idling reassuringly close by.
The meeting room door stands partially open, warm light spilling into the hallway. I pause just outside, gathering courage. The last time I attended this meeting, Lucas was still alive. Micah had taken me to the club and introduced me to the only friends I now have. And those new friends introduced me to this group.
I force myself forward, step by careful step. The room’s thoughtful arrangement eases my anxiety—comfortable chairs in a circle, refreshments on a side table, tissues within easy reach. Multiple exits are clearly marked, and a counselor sits unobtrusively in one corner, her presence both professional and nurturing. Every detail designed to create safety for women who’ve had too little of it.
The room is only half-full, early arrivals clustered in twos and threes, their voices a gentle murmur of shared understanding. I choose a seat apart, perching rigid and alert on its edge. My hands twist in my lap, a nervous habit I thought I’d broken.But being here, surrounded by other survivors, brings every insecurity rushing back.
What if they see through me? What if they realize I’m not just a victim, but a killer?
“Naomi?”
The voice startles me, though it’s warm with recognition. Lydia approaches, her hazel-green eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. She’s exactly as I remember from previous meetings—petite and bright, her long blond hair cascading past her shoulders in soft waves. Her red cat-eye glasses catch the light as she smiles.
“It’s so good to see you again.” She pulls me into a spontaneous hug, and I melt into the embrace despite my usual aversion to touch. “We’ve been worried. After what happened with Lucas...”
She trails off, and I tense. But there’s no accusation in her expression, only compassion. Of course they’ve heard about Lucas’s death. I’m sure Eve told Lydia and Olivia all about it.
“I’m okay,” I manage, the lie sitting heavy on my tongue. “Just taking some time to process everything.”
Lydia squeezes my hand, her understanding deeper than mere sympathy. As a single mother of three girls, she knows the courage required to leave an abusive situation. Her own escape had been dramatic—packing her two oldest daughters into the car in the middle of the night while pregnant with the third, driving through the night with nothing but some clothes and her emergency fund.
“Sometimes processing is all we can do,” she says. “One day at a time, right?”
I nod, grateful for her gentle acceptance. Lydia’s perpetual optimism should feel out of place in this setting, yet somehow it works. She’s proof that survival is possible, that life continuesafter abuse. Her daughters—Harper, Nora, and Elise—are thriving, free from the shadow of their father’s violence.
The room fills gradually as more women arrive. I watch them with a mixture of empathy and envy. Their stories are uncomplicated by murder, their healing unburdened by the weight of necessary lies. Each face carries traces of past pain, but also determination. They’ve chosen to survive, to rebuild, to connect.
The click of heels against linoleum announces Olivia’s arrival. She sweeps in like a dark angel, designer sunglasses perched on her head though I’ve no idea why. It’s already dark outside. Her black hair falls in a sleek curtain past her shoulders, partially hidden by an elegant silk scarf. Everything about her screams wealth and privilege—from her perfectly tailored clothes to her imperious bearing.
Yet I know the truth beneath that polished exterior. Olivia’s marriage to Vincent Vitale connected her to the New York mafia, trapping her in a gilded cage of violence and control. Her escape required not just courage but careful negotiation with Nicolo Moretti himself. The price of her freedom was steep, paid in secrets and silence.
She spots me immediately, dark eyes widening with surprise. Like me, Olivia carries herself with the hypervigilance of prey—always watching, always alert in case of threats. But her smile, when it comes, is genuine.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” she drawls, dropping gracefully into the chair beside me. Her perfume—something expensive with a hint of jasmine—wraps around us like a shield. “I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again. Evelyn enters with characteristic purpose, her stride confident despite the absence of her detective’s badge. Dark curls frame her face, andher emerald eyes scan the room with professional assessment before softening at the sight of us.
Eve’s presence here is both comforting and complicated. She may not be directly involved in the investigation of Lucas’s death, but as a detective, she’s a danger to my carefully constructed alibis. But she’s also a survivor herself, intimately familiar with the patterns of abuse and the courage required to break them.
“Naomi.” She settles into a chair across from me, her voice gentle. “How are you handling everything? I know losing Lucas, even after everything he did, can’t be easy.”
The genuine concern in her tone makes my chest tight. If she knew that Lucas died by my hand, that his blood still stains my nightmares, would she see me the same way? Then again, maybe she’d look the other way. She is married to Micah’s mafia boss. But her next words ease some of that tension.
“I hear the investigation is pretty straightforward,” she continues, watching me carefully. “There’s clear evidence connecting him to drug trafficking. Looks like a deal gone wrong. Detective Archer said she should be able to close the case soon.”
Relief floods through me, though I try to keep my expression neutral. “That’s good to hear. I just want it all to be over.”
“Don’t we all,” Olivia sighs, her dark eyes knowing. She understands the complexities of criminal connections, the way violence and loyalty intertwine in that world. Her family and ex-husband’s mafia ties mirror the dangerous reality Micah inhabits.
The counselor calls the meeting to order, her voice carrying gentle authority. Women shift in their chairs, forming a closer circle. The atmosphere changes subtly to be more focused, more intentional. This is a sacred space, where secrets can be shared and burdens lightened through understanding.
I listen more than speak as others share their stories. A young mother describes the moment she realized her husband’s “discipline” of their children had crossed into abuse. An elderly woman speaks of leaving her partner of forty years and starting over in her seventies. A business executive admits how her abuser used her career success against her, making her doubt her own perceptions.
Each narrative contains echoes of my own experience. The gradual erosion of self-worth, the isolation from friends and family, and the moment when survival finally outweighed fear.
