My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  John nodded, then laughed, and at last he hung up the phone. Then he rose, opened the door, and let me in.

  “How’s everything?” John asked, clicking the door shut.

  “It’s fine.” The two of us weren’t known for small talk, so I took a seat in the wooden chair he offered to me.

  “What have you got?” John asked. After Sanders didn’t pick up, I had called John to tell him I had some details to share.

  “Are you any closer to getting Luke? Closer to getting TJ?”

  John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “We’re working on it every day. We’re doing everything we can.”

  Frustration slid through my veins at how goddamn easily Luke Carlton had glided through life, avoiding arrest, covering his tracks, operating as a criminal so far undercover. “I don’t know if it’s a long shot, but I think”—I stopped, pausing before I said my mother’s name because it tasted acrid—“Dora Prince met Luke at a work party,” I said, then showed the detective the photos I’d found.

  John nodded several times. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  “You think I’m right?” I repeated, because I was hoping for something more.

  “I’ve gotten similar information.”

  “So this isn’t news to you?”

  “I’ve been working leads on this case for a long time. This is one of them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that’s how they met?”

  “Because it’s not my job to tell you every detail. This is a police investigation. I’m grateful for all your help—don’t get me wrong. But I have to be able to investigate, and sharing every detail with the family could slow me down on the way to answers.” He took a beat and then leveled his gaze at me. “The answers we both want.”

  “Fine,” I said, reminding myself that even though John was the gatekeeper, we had the same end goal. Ever since the police reopened the investigation this summer, thanks to a tip from Bianca Rosa, the hitman’s long-ago girlfriend, I’d been laser focused on doing everything I could to help the case. So I tamped down my annoyance. “Let’s put our heads together, then. I have some thoughts.”

  John nodded. “What’s on your mind?”

  I took my time before speaking, carefully weighing each word so that I could extract something from the detective. There was so much on my mind, so much I wanted to know—like why the Royal Sinners were so goddamn powerful, why they were stronger than the average street gang, and why they were smarter, nimbler, and had more firepower. But those were broader questions, and they wouldn’t necessarily get me any closer to the answers I needed. Like the depth of the connection between my mother and the gang’s leader. I needed specifics.

  “The question we both want to know is why,” I said. “We know my mother’s lover is the head of the gang. We know the shooter was in the gang. We know the other accomplices are part of it too. What I’d like to know is how my mother got involved with the Sinners, and did it somehow start at my father’s work? If she met Luke at a work party for my father’s company, was Luke a regular there? He operates undercover, and that makes me question everything about where he’s been and what he’s done. Were the other guys in the gang involved in these work parties? Did they know my dad?” I held out my hands. “Maybe I’m reaching. But what if there’s something more to it?”

  John met my stare straight on. “That’s what I want to know too. I want to know if your father’s work is where they met, and if so, if that sheds new light on the accomplices. Luke played piano at a handful of these parties at your father’s company. What does that tell us?” he asked rhetorically. “Not enough on its own, but now that we’ve learned that Luke is part of the Sinners, we have reason to believe he has knowledge about a number of gang-ordered hits over the years. That’s why we want to know if your father’s murder had a deeper connection to the gang. Was this just your mother’s hit, or a part of something bigger with the Royal Sinners?”

  19

  Bianca

  A few weeks ago

  I marched into the visiting room, the day after my son was arrested for selling stolen electronics.

  Sat down across from Lee.

  Stared hard at him. But I didn’t have anger in my eyes. They were brimming with disappointment. And shame, too, over what he had done. It wasn’t even the electronics. It was the stalking charge. The detective had told me about that. And dammit. That infuriated me, those damn messages that he sent to those women—the community center director and to Angie Carlton, the woman who raised that boy after his mother gave birth to him in prison—harassing them, scaring them. Messages to other mothers. Shame burrowed deep inside me, but so did determination. That had been my strong suit, my whole damn life—dogged determination. When I ran away, and when I came back, determined to raise this boy on my own, to teach him how to be a man, without any father figure to look up to. And to think, to goddamn think, he’d chosen those thugs to look up to. No way. No more. Not on my watch. This is not why I went to the police four months ago. Not for this.

  “How the hell could you do that? I raised you better than this.”

  He nodded, gulping, saying nothing. His shoulders slumped, and I hoped to hell he was experiencing precisely how every last drop of remorse tasted. Bitter. Like something he never wanted to try again.

  “Didn’t I, Lee? Didn’t I teach you better than this? Didn’t I teach you so much better than this? I taught you not to be like your father. I taught you to make better choices.”

  In a small voice, a small, barely eighteen-year-old voice, he whispered, “You did, Mom.”

  I clenched my fists, fighting like hell not to let anger get the better of me. This was the moment when I would either keep him or lose him. Anger could not win. Love had to. Tough, fierce love. I reached for his hand and grabbed it. “You are my son. You are not your father’s son. You are better than that, better than your blood. You know better, you were taught better. I expect you to start living better.”

  His shoulders shook. He nodded a few times, his lips quivering. In a wobbly voice, he asked, “What do I do now?”

  The question came out so scared, so terrified. He was on the cusp. A boy who could travel one path and take on the true mantle of his birthright as the son of a murderer by following in his father’s footsteps into a gang life, lured by the same damn men who were supposed to keep him out of that gang.

  Or he could go the other way. Away from them. Away from the criminals who broke their promise—surprise, surprise—and instead tried to corrupt him.

  My son could choose redemption. Correction. Contrition.

  Making up for the mistakes he’d made.

  Tension radiated in me. But so did hope. I was flooded with it from head to toe.

  I leaned back in the chair, crossed my arms, and did what I had tried to do for all these years. Teach him better. “Lee Rosa,” I said, using the name I gave him at birth, the name he’d stopped using a few months ago in favor of his father’s. “What do you think you should do?”

  He drew a deep breath, dragged a hand over his head, and with the reluctant sigh, said, “Cooperate.”

  More hope. Because that was the first step. “Exactly. You should do the right thing. You should cooperate with the police. You need to tell them everything you know.”

  “Okay, Mom. I will.” He squared his shoulders, swallowed, then raised his chin. “I’m not Lee Stefano. I’m Lee Rosa. I’m your son.”

  My heart squeezed, and I hoped to God he started acting like it.

  20

  John

  Michael asked more questions. “And I want to know if Luke knew about the murder. It seems likely now, don’t you think?”

  I spun around in my chair, pondering.

  Yes, it would seem like Luke had to have known about the hit. It would seem, too, that Luke was deeply involved in the planning of it. He also had motive, and it would sure as hell seem as if Luke Carlton had gotten away with several other murders over the years, based o
n the information I’d obtained from my informants.

  But evidence was evidence, and it needed to be hard.

  We were closer to getting Luke, but there were things I simply couldn’t share with Michael—details I couldn’t speculate on with a witness or family member. Things like that the shooter’s son, Lee, had started singing. We’d nabbed him a few weeks ago on grand theft of electronics, of all things. The kid was trying to follow in his dad’s footsteps, living a life of crime. But a visit from his mother, who’d knocked some sense into him, had changed his tune.

  Since then, he’d been cooperating.

  He’d shared more about the two men who’d looked out for him after his daddy went to the big house—Kenny and TJ Nelson, his father’s accomplices in the murder of Thomas Paige. Seems when Jerry went to prison eighteen years ago he’d asked his closest friends to keep an eye on his son, and to keep him out of a life of crime. For a while, they had, but Sinners are Sinners for a reason, and when the boy grew older they stopped honoring the promise to the incarcerated. Instead, they took Lee under their wing, started teaching the kid the ways of the street, first with fencing stolen goods.

  That broken promise led Bianca to us, though she didn’t know the names of the men.

  But her son knew plenty.

  Turned out, Lee knew some details about how the Royal Sinners operated, and he had some hunches about TJ’s whereabouts these days. I was hoping to piece together enough information to find that slippery bastard and take him into custody too. I clenched my fists, thinking of TJ Nelson’s rap sheet, and the long trail of evidence linking him to other crimes over the years. Some of my colleagues had gathered information about the gang as a whole, and the way the Royal Sinners had expanded in power, operating a lucrative drug ring throughout the city of Las Vegas and across the state.

  TJ’s involvement was clear, but connecting the Royal Sinners dots was proving more complicated than I’d expected. Did the hit have anything to do with the gang, or with things Thomas might have learned about the Sinners? Or was this simply what we’d thought all along, a crime designed so a woman could be with the man she loved?

  Those questions kept me up at night, but I had witnesses to talk to and leads to chase down, which might bring me answers. As soon as I had the details, I’d get that fucker.

  “Listen, I appreciate what you’re doing,” I said, taking my time with each word. I had to tread cautiously with Michael—men like him wanted to save the day. I couldn’t tell him not to, but he did need to be smart. “You need to be careful, but I can’t tell you not to look into things on your end using the resources I know you have. What I can tell you is I’ve heard that TJ had words with Thomas Paige a few weeks before he died. That conversation took place at your father’s work.” That was why it mattered to the investigation that Dora had likely met Luke at West Limos. I needed to tie Luke to TJ, and if I could just pull those threads a little tighter, I’d be able to tie it all together. “I’d like to know why, and what was said.”

  Michael nodded, an intense look in his eyes. “If you’d like to know, then I’d like to know too.”

  21

  Michael

  On the way to the gym that evening, I tried to reach my father’s friend once again. Becky answered, but when I asked for Sanders, she said, “He’s busy for a few days, hon.”

  “Busy with what?” I asked, trying to sound casual rather than suspicious, even though I was starting to feel that way.

  “He got called out of town. He has things he needs to get done before he finishes work,” she said, as I turned on the blinker of my black BMW to exit the highway.

  “Hmm. Okay. But I’ve got to see him soon, Becky. Can you have him call me as soon as he can?”

  “Of course, love.”

  The line went dead.

  As I hoisted a barbell a little later, I replayed the conversation with John, then the brief chat with Becky, trying to read between their words, to line them up like missing puzzle pieces alongside my conversation with Annalise earlier. And as I pushed up the heavy weight in my bench press, I zeroed in on some ideas, but they were fuzzy, hazy around the edges, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I lowered the bar, wondering if there was more to Becky’s odd behavior, to Sanders’s absence, and to the conversation TJ had with my father.

  Now that—I’d sure as hell like to know more about that.

  22

  Sanders

  A few weeks ago

  I folded. Again.

  “You’re killing me, mate. Absolutely killing me,” I said, slumping dramatically on my friend’s card table.

  Donald scoffed. “If losing a dollar a hand is killing you, you ought to find a new hobby.”

  I raised my face. “Why do I come here and subject myself to this kind of torture?”

  Becky rubbed my back. “It’s called more than thirty years of friendship. Also, has anyone ever told you two that you’re like an old married couple?” She pointed from Donald to me and back.

  Donald and I both scoffed in unison.

  “Becky, that’s not true.” I adopted a serious stare, looking at my friend. “Don, you forgot to take the trash out last night.”

  He straightened his spine. “San, for the thousandth time, pick up your socks.”

  Becky held out her hands wide. “Case closed.” Then she leaned in and dropped a kiss on my cheek. “I need to take off. There’s a water aerobics class calling my name. Next time, try to win, dear. Then we can make a bigger donation to the animal shelter.”

  “It’s not like I’m trying to lose, but thanks for the tip,” I said, then Donald dealt a new round. I wasn’t a big gambler. We simply played for fun, and any winnings went to the shelter. Plain and simple.

  Becky took off, and I watched her leave, feeling a tug on my heart. After all these years, I still felt that tug for her. That pull. I’d do anything for Becky, for our kids.

  I turned around, playing another hand, when Donald boomed, “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  When I looked up from the table, Michael Sloan was there.

  A dart of tension shot down my spine.

  I swallowed nervously.

  Tried to remind myself I had nothing to be nervous about.

  Not a thing.

  Just act like normal.

  Like everything is normal.

  Because it is.

  Michael joined us, as he had countless times in the past. A chip off the old block, he liked to chat with us, to catch up, to shoot the breeze about sports and music. Those were all normal topics, so I did my part to keep the conversation light, with predictions about the football season and discussions about some new bands coming to town. Michael won each round, like he always did, like his father before him.

  Keep it normal, I reminded myself.

  I cleared my throat, laughing at his winnings, keeping it easy.

  “Just like his dad. Thomas always beat us at poker,” I said, and the thing is, saying that did feel normal.

  Especially when Michael grinned, a hint of pride in his face. The kid—well, he was a man now, but he’d always be a kid to me—loved those comparisons, seemed to eat them up like candy.

  “What can I say? I learned from the best,” Michael said, then rubbed his fingers across his chest and blew on the nails.

  Donald chuckled long and deep. “You did, kid. You definitely did.”

  When Donald’s shift ended, the three of us headed to the Chinese buffet, grabbed some food, and debated which buffets in town were the best.

  Yes, this was normal.

  But I nearly choked when Donald shifted gears, pinning Michael with a serious stare. “Any news on the investigation?”

  “None on my end. You heard anything?”

  Donald scratched his head. “Nothing. I keep trying to invent a time travel machine so I can remember the conversations we had, in case there was a needle in the haystack. But about all I can recall is him mentioning once or twice at a poker game that ther
e was some trouble brewing. Maybe it was around the time he was trying to get the promotion? That sounds about right.”

  “Was that all he said?” Michael looked ready to pounce.

  Trouble.

  That word nearly smothered me.

  “Pretty much,” Donald said, then looked to me. “Right, San? You’d know better than I would. Was there anything more?”

  I shook my head, barely able to speak, as I pushed out a reply. “That’s it. That was all.”

  23

  Michael

  Present Day

  But what sort of trouble?

  As I lifted the barbell, I could recall my father mentioning something similar at one of our Chinese restaurant meals too. I just wished I knew what sort of trouble, and if that trouble was connected to Luke. I had nothing to go on now, since West Limos had come up clean in my research into the company. But the details nagged at me as I poked and prodded at my own memories of things my dad had said to me.

  I wished I had Annalise’s memory—precise and, not surprisingly, photographic. Mine was blurrier, and I often wondered if it was because of how I found out my dad was gone. The image splashed cruelly before my eyes, and I grimaced as I jammed the weights back in the holder. I sat up straight with my hands on my knees, trying to shake off the scene that sometimes replayed unexpectedly.

  Taking measured breaths, I focused on the small details around me now. The pounding music in my earbuds. The clang of barbells. The whir of bicycle machines.

  They reset me to the present.

  But the problem was the present was mired in so much uncertainty. I was on the outside, peeking in, trying to assemble the picture while only having access to the barest bits and pieces. I tried to fill in the blanks as I cycled through all the weights then headed to the rowing machine. Sixty sweaty minutes later, I called Mindy, my sounding board, as I drove home.