Page 69 of King of Praise
Francesca’s home emerges from carefully landscaped grounds like a modernist fantasy—all clean lines and dramatic angles, glass walls gleaming in the setting sun. The architecture itself makes a statement. This is not your father’s mafia.
Security is visible but discrete. Men in dark suits are positioned strategically around the property, their earpieces and bulging jackets marking them as more than simple valets or doormen. I submit to their scrutiny with practiced patience, presenting my invitation with just the right mix of confidenceand mild irritation at the delay. But they make a critical error when they don’t pat me down. I expected better from Francesca but at least I don’t have to explain my weapon.
Inside, the gathering appears exactly as expected—Columbus’s criminal elite mingling with legitimate business owners and corrupt politicians. Everyone pretends this is merely another social event while conducting the real business of organized crime beneath a veneer of civility. The air vibrates with unspoken agendas and shifting alliances.
I accept a glass of exceptionally good scotch from a passing waiter, using the motion to survey the room. Familiar faces appear in expected groupings—the Russo family’s remaining leadership huddled near the bar, Connor Gallagher holding court by the floor-to-ceiling windows, various bureaucrats and business owners orbiting these centers of power like eager satellites.
Members of every family in Columbus except Zeke’s. Very suspicious.
Several women eye me with obvious interest. The combination of my height, build, and expensive suit apparently hits all the right notes for those attracted to dangerous men in refined packaging. I acknowledge their attention with subtle nods but maintain enough aloofness to discourage direct approach. Tonight isn’t about making those kinds of connections.
Besides, I don’t want that anymore. Not when the perfect woman is waiting for my return at home.
The first hour passes in a carefully choreographed dance of casual conversations and strategic positioning.
Everything proceeds according to plan until a young lieutenant from the Gallagher family approaches, alcohol having overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation. He’s maybe thirty, wearing his expensive suit like a costume rather than a secondskin, trying too hard to project authority he hasn’t earned. The stench of top-shelf scotch rolls off him as he claps a hand on my shoulder with unwelcome familiarity.
“Heard you used to work New York,” he says, voice carrying too loudly in the sophisticated atmosphere. “Back when the Kings were still Moretti’s golden boys. Must’ve been something, seeing them fall so far.”
The mention of Zeke and Seb’s connection to Nicolo sends warning signals blaring through my mind. This isn’t common knowledge, certainly not something a mid-level Gallagher soldier should reference so casually. Besides, he’s got his facts wrong. I never worked for Nicolo. I got involved with Zeke after he moved to Columbus.
I maintain my pleasant expression through sheer force of will, calculating the fastest way to extract potentially vital information from this loose-lipped liability.
“Ancient history.” I steer him toward a quieter corner. “Though I remember enough to be curious about more recent events. Like that business at the gambling event in Zeke’s club.”
His face lights up with drunken eagerness. “Nowthatwas something. Should’ve seen the look on your face when those guys came at you. We almost had you. All that legendary skill, and you never saw it coming until the blade—”
A perfectly manicured hand appears on his arm, cutting off whatever dangerous revelation was about to emerge, but not before he revealed too much. I didn’t miss the way he said, ‘wealmost had you.’
Francesca Barone materializes beside us, her grip on the lieutenant more warning than caress.
“Michael.” She addresses the lieutenant with deadly sweetness. “I believe your uncle is looking for you. Something about tomorrow’s shipment?”
The young man’s face drains of color as sobriety crashes through his alcohol-induced bravado. He stammers an apology and flees, leaving me alone with a woman who’s proven far more dangerous than her predecessor. Francesca turns to me with a smile that never reaches her eyes.
I must be onto to something. The Gallaghers might be our traitors.
“Micah Hunt.” Francesca’s voice carries just the right note of pleased surprise, though we both know it’s fabricated. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”
I match her false warmth with practiced ease. “The pleasure’s mine, Ms. Barone. You’ve created quite an impressive gathering.”
Her smile remains fixed, her dark eyes assessing me with predatory intensity. “Please, I thought I told you to call me Francesca? After all, we’re practically family, aren’t we? Both so closely connected to the Kings.”
“I wasn’t aware you knew the Kings that well,” I say carefully, maintaining my pleasant expression while studying her reaction. “If you’re closely connected to them, I wonder why they weren’t invited to this gathering.”
Francesca’s perfectly manicured fingers trace the rim of her wine glass, her dark eyes never leaving my face. Her gaze reminds me uncomfortably of a cat toying with wounded prey.
“Oh, you’d be surprised what I know about Zeke and Seb,” she purrs, stepping closer. Her expensive perfume fills my nostrils. “Their history with Nicolo, their complicated departure from New York. Such fascinating stories. If you worked for me, you might learn a thing or two about your current boss.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch, though I keep my expression neutral. The casual mention of Nicolo sets off more warning bells but not as much as her last statement. My suspicion is correct. She’s trying to recruit me.
“Not sure I see how that makes you close.” I push the issue further, choosing to ignore her remark.
She laughs and it’s musical but holds no warmth. “Oh, you have no idea, Micah.”
There’s an undertone of threat in her words. It’s subtle but unmistakable. She’s playing a dangerous game, trying to provoke a reaction. I refuse to give her the satisfaction, though my grip tightens on my glass.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” I respond evenly. “Sometimes the things we think we can trust the most have a way of turning against us when we least expect it.”
