28. Fury Unleashed #2
I get the same result I got the first six times I tried—straight to voicemail, her gentle voice instructing me to leave a message. The normalcy of the recording feels like a knife twisting in my gut. I hang up without speaking and slide the phone back into my pocket.
“Still nothing.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, stripped of its usual control and raw with an emotion I haven’t allowed myself to feel in decades. Fear. Not for myself, but for Naomi.
Eli stands by the door, his massive frame blocking the entrance as though physically protecting our planning session from interruption.
His expression remains stoic, but I recognize the subtle tells of his anger—the slight flare of his nostrils, the tightening around his eyes. We’ve been through hell together.
I didn’t tell him how far things had gone with Naomi. We aren’t the type to share details like that. But he knows me better than most. We don’t need to exchange words for him to know what Naomi means to me.
Sebastian paces the length of the room. “Olivia’s on her way,” he says, pocketing his phone. “She heard everything through Naomi’s phone until the connection cut. She might have details we need.”
I nod, grateful for their efforts as I struggle to process the reality of our situation.
“There’s more,” Seb says with an edge to his tone. I meet his hard gaze. “Olivia’s been to the cabin.”
“What?” The question barrels out of my chest. “When? How?”
“One night you were working late. Naomi called her, needing a friend.”
“Fuck!” I shove my fingers through my hair and tug at the strands. “So she could have been followed instead of me.”
“It’s possible,” Seb says. “I’ll see if there’s any indication she’s being watched.”
I nod, knowing he’ll get to the bottom of this. Regardless of how Naomi was found, the result is the same. She’s now in unknown hands because I left her alone. Because I didn’t do the one thing I promised to do. Protect her.
I should have insisted she come to Columbus with me. Should have left Eli to guard her at the cabin. Should have been more careful, more vigilant, more—
The vibration of my phone interrupts my destructive spiral. Not the burner this time, but my primary cell. The screen displays “Unknown Number,” suggesting either a wrong number or—more likely in our world—someone using a burner phone to contact me.
The room falls silent as I answer, placing the call on speaker so the others can hear.
“Hunt.” I keep my voice neutral, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath.
A low chuckle comes through the speaker, sending ice down my spine before the caller even speaks. I know that laugh. I’ve heard it countless times across negotiating tables and in the aftermath of violence.
“Micah Hunt.” Tommy Moretti’s voice carries the distinctive inflection of his New York Italian heritage slightly softened by years in Columbus. “Been a minute since we had a proper chat, hasn’t it?”
My gaze locks with Zeke’s across the room. Tommy Moretti—Francesca Barone’s enforcer, related to Nicolo, known for his brutality and unwavering loyalty to whoever signs his checks. If he’s involved, then we know it’s a calculated kidnapping. And it’s personal .
“Tommy.” I keep my tone conversational, as though we’re discussing the weather rather than what I suspect is about to be a ransom demand. “What can I do for you?”
“Always straight to business.” He sounds amused, the smile in his voice raising my blood pressure. “That’s what I’ve always appreciated about you. No bullshit. No games.” He pauses. “Well, almost no games. You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you?”
My jaw tightens. “We all have secrets in this business.”
“True enough.” The sound of ice clinking against glass comes through the speaker. “But some secrets are more explosive than others. Like the pretty little redhead you’ve been hiding away at that cabin in Hocking Hills.”
The confirmation that they’ve identified not just Naomi, but our safe house nearly knocks me off my feet. I maintain my outward calm through sheer force of will, though my free hand clenches into a fist at my side.
“I’m assuming you didn’t call to discuss my personal life.” I ignore Seb’s raised eyebrow and Eli’s intensified scowl. “What do you want?”
Another chuckle. “Direct as always. Fine, I’ll get to the point.” He takes an audible sip of his drink. “We have something that belongs to you. Two somethings, actually.”
The plural stops me cold. “Two?”
“Oh yes.” The satisfaction in his voice makes my skin crawl. “Your son’s widow and his mother. Quite the family reunion we’ve arranged.”
Sandra . The name flashes through my mind like a lightning bolt. What the hell is Sandra doing mixed up in this? The last time I saw her was at that diner, where she’d been making noise about Naomi’s involvement in Lucas’s disappearance.
Fuck. What have you done, Sandra?
“Desperate mommy’s looking for revenge for their son’s murder are so compliant and eager to talk.” Tommy chuckles. “Your ex-wife was a huge help in finding your pretty little plaything.”
I should have known she’d do something like this. Her obsession with finding Naomi, her revenge fantasies, her inability to accept Lucas’s death—she must have gone looking in places she shouldn’t have. And now she’s dragged Naomi into danger with her.
“I’m listening,” I say, voice deliberately empty of emotion.
“I bet you are.” Tommy’s tone shifts, becoming more businesslike. “Here’s how this works. Ms. Barone would like a private meeting. Just you, no backup, no weapons, no King brothers lurking in the shadows.”
Across the room, Zeke’s expression darkens, but he remains silent, letting me handle the negotiation.
“That can be arranged.” I keep my response measured.
“I’m sure it can.” Tommy’s voice drops lower. “But understand this, Micah—we know exactly what the redhead means to you. Playing house all these weeks, cooking little domestic dinners, fucking your dead son’s wife … it’s almost poetic, isn’t it?”
The casual cruelty of his words, the violation of our privacy, stokes a rage so pure it momentarily blinds me. I grip the edge of the desk harder, forcing myself to breathe through the murderous impulse.
“Get to the point, Tommy.”
“The point is simple. You meet with Francesca at a location I’ll text you once you agree to the terms. You come on time, you come alone, or both women die.” His voice has lost all pretense of friendly conversation now. “And Micah? The redhead will die slowly. I’ll make sure of it personally.”
The threat crystallizes my rage into cold, focused purpose. I’ve killed men for less than those words. I will kill Tommy Moretti for them, but not until Naomi is safe.
“When and where?” I ask.
“That’s more like it.” He sounds pleased.
“I’ll text the details. One hour to prepare, not a minute more.
By the way, I know you’re with Zeke right now.
I know you’ve got his little crew thinking up clever solutions.
Don’t bother. We’ve got eyes everywhere.
We tracked you to your secret fuck cabin, we’re tracking you now.
You try to bring backup, you try to set up surveillance, you try anything clever—they die. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Oh, and one more thing before I go.” The smile returns to his voice, despite the dripping malice. “The redhead is quite a find. If you’re late, I might have to sample the goods myself, see what’s got you so invested . I hear redheads are feisty in bed.”
The line goes dead before I can respond. Probably for the best. Right now, I could shatter the phone in my grip.
Silence hangs heavy in the office for several heartbeats.
I’m aware of the others watching me, gauging my reaction, waiting for direction.
The leader in me knows what they’re seeing—a man pushed to his edge, a professional whose personal life has catastrophically collided with business.
The question remains between us all. Can I handle this?
Can I separate emotional response from tactical necessity?
“I’m going to fucking kill him.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
Zeke moves first, circling his desk to stand directly in front of me. “We’re going to get them back.”
The simple “we” in his statement creates a knot in my throat I struggle to swallow past.
Seb has stopped pacing, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. “Sandra Hunt. Lucas’s mother? The one who’s been making noise about Naomi?”
I nod. “She must have gone digging where she shouldn’t have. Or hired the wrong people to help her. Managed to attract Barone’s attention somehow.”
“And ultimately them straight to Naomi,” Eli says from his position by the door, voicing the dark thought I’ve been trying to suppress.
“Regardless,” Zeke says, “we have a situation that needs handling. Tommy’s given us an hour. We need to use every minute.”
His matter-of-fact tone grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of emotion and into the familiar territory of strategic planning. This is what we do—solve impossible problems, navigate no-win scenarios, find paths through situations designed to trap us.
“They want me alone,” I say, thinking out loud. “Francesca’s using Naomi to draw me in. She knows I…” I hesitate, trying to navigate personal vulnerability in this professional space.
“She knows you care about her,” Zeke finishes for me, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “We all know, Micah. It’s not exactly a state secret anymore.”
Something shifts in my chest at the simple acknowledgment—the affirmation that my feelings for Naomi aren’t just permissible but recognized and respected by these men who are the closest thing I have to family.
The subtle nods from Eli and Sebastian confirm it.
They know, and they don’t see it as weakness.
“This is retaliation,” I continue, regaining my analytical footing, “for Connor Gallagher. Francesca’s sending a message.”
“Likely,” Zeke agrees. “I suspect Connor was a crucial part of Nicolo’s plan. Connor was all about power. I’d bet money he was on Nicolo’s payroll. But it’s also an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” I echo, in disbelief. “They have Naomi and Sandra hostage, they want me to walk into what’s obviously a trap, and that’s an opportunity?”
“Think strategically,” Zeke urges. “Francesca’s showing her hand. She’s desperate enough to make a move this bold, this public. That tells us something.”
Despite my emotional turmoil, I recognize the truth in his assessment.
Francesca Barone has maintained a careful veneer of legitimacy throughout her rise to power.
Direct kidnapping of civilians represents a significant escalation and risk.
It suggests either desperation or confidence so extreme it borders on hubris.
“She’s either backed into a corner or making a play for total control,” I say, following Zeke’s reasoning.
“Exactly. And neither is sustainable long-term. Wouldn’t surprise me if Nicolo made her promises he has no intentions of keeping if she can weaken our strength.
What better way to do that than to take one of my best men.
” Zeke turns to Seb. “Get our tech team reviewing every bit of surveillance we have on Barone operations from the past forty-eight hours. I want to know where they’re holding Naomi and Sandra. ”
Seb nods and pulls out his phone.
“Eli,” Zeke continues, “coordinate with security. Quietly. I want teams ready to move on my command. Be discreet. We’re being watched.”
As Zeke issues directions, a kernel of hope forms alongside the cold rage in my chest. We adapt, we overcome, we protect our own.
“What’s the play?” I ask Zeke, recognizing that while my instinct is to storm headlong into whatever trap awaits me— consequences be damned—a more measured approach offers better chances of success.
“You’re going to meet Francesca,” Zeke says simply. “Alone, unarmed, exactly as requested.”
For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. “That’s suicide.”
“It would be,” he agrees, “if you were actually going to be alone.”
Understanding dawns. “You’ve got something they don’t know about.”
A small, dangerous smile crosses Zeke’s face—the expression that has preceded some of our most audacious and successful operations. “She’s going to regret the day she underestimated me.”
When my phone buzzes with an incoming text—Tommy delivering the promised meeting location—I check it without comment, forward the coordinates to Seb, then pocket the device and look to Zeke.
“I’ve got coordinates. Industrial area east of downtown.”
Zeke nods, his expression unreadable to most, but clear as day to me after decades of friendship. It’s the look he gets when the odds are stacked against us, but a plan is taking shape in that strategic mind of his. The look that has preceded some of our most improbable victories.
As they continue making plans, a curious calm settles over me. Not the calm of acceptance or resignation, but the stillness that comes before unleashing hell. The quiet certainty of a man who has found his line in the sand crossed.
They’ve taken Naomi. They’ve threatened what is mine.
And for that, there will be blood.
I make a silent vow—one I have no intention of breaking. I will get Naomi back safely. I will eliminate anyone who had a hand in her abduction. And I will personally ensure that Tommy Moretti never threatens another woman again.
The storm inside me coalesces into something cold and deadly and utterly focused. The fear doesn’t disappear—I’m not foolish enough to believe I can banish concern for Naomi’s safety—but it transforms into something I can use, something that sharpens my capabilities.
As Zeke outlines his plan, as Seb and Eli prepare the equipment that will give us an edge, I feel myself slipping into a mindset I haven’t accessed in years.
They wanted the monster. They’re going to get him.
And God help them all when they do.