18. Threats and Traitors
Threats and Traitors
Micah
T he reflection staring back at me in the full-length mirror feels like a stranger. Gone are my usual worn jeans and leather jacket. They’re now replaced by an expertly tailored charcoal suit that feels foreign on my broad form.
The transformation is both physical and psychological—each carefully chosen element designed to project wealth, confidence, and just enough danger to intrigue rather than alarm.
My fingers work automatically, adjusting the blood-red silk tie that adds a distinct splash of color against the crisp white shirt.
The motions are familiar despite how rarely I wear formal attire these days.
Whether it’s infiltrating high-society gatherings or remembering how to tie a perfect Windsor knot, some skills never truly fade.
The suit jacket settles across my shoulders with comfortable weight, concealing both the holster at my back and the bandaged knife wound on my arm.
In this lighting, the gray threading my dark hair and beard looks distinguished rather than aging.
The overall effect is exactly what I need for tonight’s mission.
A man who belongs in Francesca Barone’s world of criminal aristocracy.
I pick up the burner phone and open up the text communication with Naomi.
Micah
All good. Miss you.
Naomi
Miss you too. Be careful.
Something tightens in my chest. Having someone who genuinely cares about my safety feels both foreign and essential. The sensation is dangerous, yet I can’t bring myself to regret the evolution of our relationship.
Pushing these thoughts aside, I focus on final preparations. The invitation I obtained from Seb sits in my breast pocket.
The Glock settles comfortably against my spine, a familiar weight that provides more psychological comfort than practical necessity.
If things go badly enough to require gunplay, I’ll have already failed in my primary objective—gathering intelligence on Francesca’s operations and identifying the traitor in our ranks.
The drive to Francesca’s estate takes me through Columbus’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Old money mansions give way to newer displays of wealth, each property more ostentatious than the last.
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 confidence and 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 second skin, 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. “Now that was 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, ‘ we almost 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.”
Her smile widens fractionally, her perfectly white teeth on display. “Indeed it does, Micah. Indeed it does. If I were you, I’d reconsider your alliances. I can—”
A commotion near the entrance draws Francesca’s attention—raised voices and the distinctive sound of breaking glass cutting through the sophisticated murmur of conversation. Her head snaps toward the disturbance. Her composure cracks for just a moment, revealing annoyance.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says, her smile now strained. “We’ll have to continue this conversation later.”
She glides away, her wine-colored dress a splash of dark elegance against the modern decor. The interruption couldn’t have come at a better time. Continuing that conversation would have only led to more dangerous territory.
I learned enough anyway. The pieces are falling into place, forming a picture I don’t like. First, that drunk Gallagher kid, Michael, knowing details about the attack on me at the club. Then Francesca’s timely interruption and pointed comments about Nicolo and the King family’s history.
Francesca is showing her cards. Her confidence in her position is a mistake. She has put too much trust in her alliance with Nicolo.