Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

“If I can’t get there in time, yes. But I’m five minutes away. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Soon he walked through the door of the club, the neon lights bright and beckoning. Once inside, he nodded to Curtis, who watched the joint like a sentry. Curtis tipped his forehead to the cigar lounge.

John sent a silent thanks with his eyes, found his colleagues, and made his way to the lounge, two men behind him. He peered in through the glass window into the small room. A cloud of smoke engulfed three guys, and one of them laughed.

The man was bigger, brawnier, and tougher than the rest of them, and even though John had never laid eyes on him before, he knew T.J. Nelson in seconds. The gold earring. The arms the size of barrels. The missing tooth now capped with a gleaming white one. And the tattoo on his right bicep.

Protect our own.

The last puzzle piece. The last man standing. A sense of calm descended on John, mixed with the thrill of victory. This was why he’d dug into this case. He’d known he could solve it. Known he could find the accomplices. Months ago, as soon as the shooter’s ex-girlfriend had come to tip him off that two more men were involved, he’d been determined to hunt them down and put them behind bars. Three, it had turned out, since those two accomplices the night of the murder had operated under the tutelage of Luke Carlton.

Inhaling deeply, John reached for the door handle, turned it, and entered the dark, smoky room. There was no way out. Three pairs of eyes met his, and T.J.’s were the hardest—dark brown, cold, and full of hate.

He didn’t say a word, just raised his chin, waiting for John to go first.

“T.J. Nelson?”

“Maybe. Depends who you are,” the man said, his voice deep and menacing.

“I’m the man you’ve been avoiding for eighteen years. But your lucky streak ends tonight,” John said, moving quickly, drawing his gun from his holster and aiming it. T.J.’s hands darted behind his jacket, but John was faster, and since the other men had helped to lure him in, he was sure T.J. didn’t stand a chance—even when the broker brandished a long, gleaming knife.

His eyes turned to slits, and he raised the weapon. For a second, John’s blood went cold. The club had a metal detector for guns, but somehow T.J. had managed to slip this knife through. This was precisely why John had needed to trap the guy, capture him in a corner, someplace his suspect could let down his guard.

This was as far down as John suspected it went—T.J. with a knife instead of one of his precious guns.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” T.J. hissed as he lifted the weapon higher.

“But I do. I absolutely do,” John said coolly, keeping the gun trained on the man he wanted behind bars.

T.J. tried to stand up from the leather couch, but in a flash, John’s partners moved in, quickly overpowering him, each man pinning an arm. One grabbed the knife, and the other cuffed him.

Then, as John tucked his gun away, he said the words he’d wanted to utter for so long. “I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Thomas Paige. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

T.J.’s eyes widened. The expression on his face was white-cold fear.

Good.

As it should be.

As it absolutely should be.

*

Many glasses of champagne were raised. In the kitchen of his grandparents’ house, the very home that Michael and the other Sloan siblings had bought for them a few years ago as their way of saying thanks, Michael lifted a glass. Cleared his throat. Said words he’d longed to utter.

“To justice. At long last,” he said.

“Hear. Hear.” It was a chorus sounded by everyone.

His grandmother nodded as a tear slipped from an eye. They clinked glasses, Michael with Brent, Ryan, Sophie, Elle, his grandparents, even Mindy. He tapped his glass to the flute of Diet Coke Colin held, and to the water glass in his pregnant sister’s hand. He suspected John would be in attendance at the next event, by Mindy’s side, but for now he was still busy, still working, and Michael was glad of that. He hoped that Marcus would come back soon enough to join them. Maybe for Christmas.

“At last,” Victoria echoed, and they all drank.

There was something incredibly odd about celebrating an arrest. And yet, it wasn’t the least bit bizarre.

Since his world had been wrenched upside-down and shattered eighteen years ago, he’d grown accustomed to the unexpected moments. In a family that had seen a father killed by a mother, that same mother in prison, and a half-brother born behind bars, life became unexpected.

Celebrations could take on the strangest forms, moving well beyond the usual festive occasions of birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings.

Michael knocked back a hearty gulp of champagne and wrapped an arm around his grandmother. She looked up at him and flashed a smile rich with relief.

That was what this feeling was.