Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(65)

Waiting sucked. Waiting was torture. But he understood this was the safest way to bring in T.J. The f*cking mastermind of multiple hits had gotten away with so much, but with Luke now behind bars and facing a possible trial, and T.J.’s cousin arrested, and many of his guys on the streets locked up, too, the power structure of the Royal Sinners was cratering. They were caving in on themselves. T.J. was the last man standing, and once he was down, Michael would breathe again.

He was slated to fly to Paris in a few days, and he had half a mind to cancel the trip. But that was silly. He wasn’t the guy who’d make the arrest. He was simply the man waiting for justice. Justice would happen, one way or another, he was sure.

He went to the gym late one night, hoping a workout would burn off some of his tension. At the end of his weights session, his phone rang.

*

John was playing pinball when the call came. He’d just sent a silver ball screaming up the board and into the waiting maw of Jabba the Hut at his favorite game in the arcade hall not far from White Box. The phone trilled.

Mindy eyed his back pocket. It was their second date, and the first had gone exceedingly well. “Want me to grab it? So you don’t miss a ball?”

He nodded, his eyes focused on the game. Turned out she was a tenacious competitor. Turned out she kissed like she’d never wanted anyone so much before. He felt the same for her, and he sure as hell liked her hand in his back pocket, grabbing his phone.

“You might need to take this,” she said, her tone serious.

Immediately, he let go of the buttons, saw his colleague’s name flashing across the screen, and answered the call from his guy on site at the club. “He’s here.”

John wanted to punch the sky. “I’m on my way.”

“You want us to arrest him?”

“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.