My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  This baby was my reason.

  I’d gotten in too deep with the drugs and the gang and the selling. But now, I had a way out. If I could pull this off—and Luke had assured me that Jerry Stefano was the best hitman in the business—then we had a chance.

  And we had a plan.

  A perfect plan. A perfect crime. That would lead to a perfect life.

  Everything would fall into place.

  Luke had promised he’d leave town with me. We’d escape with the life insurance money and go to Arizona, Florida, Texas . . . anywhere. Start a new life with the man I adored. Be with him, my new baby, and all my kids. All five of my children under one roof with the man I loved madly. And with his mother. He’d take care of all of us, and I’d take care of my babies.

  That was my dream. My big, wonderful, perfect dream.

  I could taste it. I could sense it.

  It wouldn’t be easy, but it was my only choice. It would be worth it, the end result, the freedom.

  Thomas came up behind me and placed a hand on my back. “Come to bed. You’re so tired these days. Get some rest.”

  He kissed my hair, and I shuddered.

  Once more, I wondered if I could go through with this.

  51

  Annalise

  “The piano store?”

  To say I was surprised was an understatement. More like shocked, but also excited. The latter because Thomas had driven past the piano store once while giving me a ride, and made a passing comment about a guy from work that we saw there being an unlikely musician. But I’d never have thought it was the epicenter of the local gang that had ripped Michael’s family to pieces.

  I gripped the edge of the iron latticework table in my fifth-floor flat and stared at him with wide eyes through the computer screen. “I drove past there. With your father. We drove past it one day.”

  He sat up tall. “You did? Why?” he asked from the other side of the world. He was in his condo, the steel counters of his kitchen framing the video screen.

  “You and I went to the movies one Saturday afternoon, but before that your father had come over to play poker with Sanders and Donald. He drove me to your house. Do you remember?”

  It was all so clear in my mind. It wasn’t as if I had been lingering on that particular memory, but now that Michael mentioned the piano shop, that day splashed to the surface of my thoughts with a particular clarity.

  “That’s where the Royal Sinners run the operation from,” he said in a breathless whisper.

  “A piano store. That’s so clandestine,” I said.

  He nodded. “My private detective found out last night. Apparently, they run everything through there. Do you remember anything else from when you drove past it? Did my dad say anything unusual?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not at all. He simply noticed someone from work going inside the store. He didn’t give a name, but I remember the man was big and broad and incredibly tall.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he hissed the name. “TJ. Must have been TJ.”

  I clasped my hand over my mouth, shock coursing through me. I collected myself, then said, “That was TJ? Your father was surprised that he was at the piano store. That was really all he said about the place. But before then, we were chatting about his work.”

  Michael gestured for me to tell him more. “About the promotion he was hoping for? He always told me he was hoping to impress the guy who ran the company. But nothing came of it. Obviously.”

  I cycled back to that day, the pieces coming back to me. “I overheard him and the others at the house that day talking about ‘extra work trips.’ I believe he said someone at work told him to stop asking so many questions. Oh, and when we drove past the store, he said the guy heading into the shop had been giving him a hard time at work, but that was all.”

  Michael’s eyes went wide. “That’s got to be the missing link. That must be how it’s all connected. If TJ worked there too, the Royal Sinners must have been operating somehow at the limo company.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “We looked into his employer when the case reopened, and the cops did too, but nothing came up as a cause for concern. Even the guy who ran the place—he was squeaky clean, and now he’s long gone. Retired in Canada. Not a single blip or issue, but hell,” he said, stopping to blow out a long stream of air. “That’s how they operate. Under the radar.”

  “Yes. If they run it out of a piano store and have been avoiding capture for years, they’re smart. But you’ve figured it out,” I said with a smile, because I was so damn proud of him. His work had gotten the investigation that much closer.

  Michael paced in front of the screen. “Everything from the Sinners must have been flowing through my dad’s company, I bet. Maybe the owner didn’t even know, and it was all right under his nose. And that’s how my mother met Luke in the first place. At a work party. I found pictures. So Luke must’ve been running everything—all these illegal operations—through the back of the piano shop, but it was actually being funneled through West Limos. The drugs and the guns. And my mother was a part of it, since she was involved in selling drugs. That must be why the investigation was reopened. My mother was behind it all, but there were other people who had a hand in offing my dad. Christ,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair.

  I nodded sadly. “He said something about finding some discrepancies at work. Rides or items that were missing. Maybe they were missing because the Sinners were transporting guns or drugs through the company. And your dad found out about it.”

  He snapped his fingers and pointed at me, his eyes lighting up with that aha moment. “You know you’re beautiful and brilliant?”

  “So are you.”

  “I need to tell John.”

  I waved him off. “Go, go. This is important. I’ll see you soon,” I said, and I was ready. Ready to have him come see me here in Paris, to have him in my home, to share some of my life here with him. I wanted to show him the local bakery, wander through the alleys, through the shops, take him to my favorite places in Paris. To make new memories with Michael.

  “Nothing could stop me from seeing you.”

  52

  Luke

  Play me some Beethoven.

  That’s what my mother had always said to me when she needed an escape from her troubles.

  Beethoven had been that for her.

  And for years I’d given her that escape through the choices I’d made.

  As I flipped on the blinker to turn into the cemetery, the rising crescendo of “Ode to Joy” filled my car, reverberating off the windows, reaching the far corners of my vehicle. I was bathed in music. It encased me.

  It drowned out my thoughts.

  Thoughts of my own orchestra, and how it had been falling apart.

  Thoughts of the men under my control who’d become increasingly uncontrollable.

  Thoughts of my sweet wife, Angie. Innocent Angie, who knew nothing of my life, just as my mother had known nothing before. As it should be when it came to the women you love.

  And briefly, thoughts of Dora.

  Every now and then, I thought of her.

  Rarely though.

  The life we’d planned, the life I’d wanted with her—to run away, raise our kid, bring my mother along—had fallen to pieces.

  But Carltons were strong.

  Carltons rose up.

  So that’s what I’d done.

  I’d taken my son out of town, protected him, looked out for him, and taken my mother too, until she breathed her last breath several years ago.

  Now, I parked the car as the final notes rang loud and true in my head.

  Turning off the music, I got out of my car, a simple hatchback that fit the façade I’d carefully crafted of mild-mannered piano teacher. I shut the door, and headed to my mother’s grave.

  Trudging across the grass, I could still hear the music. I could always hear music.

  When I reached the headstone, I kneeled, set down the tulips, and pressed my
fingers to my lips, then to the cold stone.

  I sighed, then told her I was worried. “Too many questions, Mother. They are asking too many questions. But I’ve made it this far. Twenty years in this life. Twenty years taking care of my family this way. I’ll make it twenty more.” I scrubbed a hand across my chin, reflecting on how I’d pulled it off. And the answer was remarkably simple—routine.

  A front.

  An act.

  “But was it an act?” I asked her. I shook my head adamantly. Deep in my heart, I knew none of my life was an act. I was a family man. I loved my children. I adored my wife. And I cherished the memories of my mother.

  That was how I’d pulled it off. By being true to who I was—a man who loved his family.

  And a man had to do what a man had to do.

  I rose, said goodbye, and continued on my day.

  53

  John

  Missing rides.

  That was an interesting development.

  One that I tucked away, knowing I’d look into it soon.

  Very soon.

  But right now?

  I had what I needed when my partner dropped a new stack of photos on my desk early the next morning.

  The final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” I asked, that sense of calm starting to set in, the sense that things were going in the right direction.

  He parked himself in the chair across from me. “This is it,” he echoed.

  We flipped through the pictures in silence at first, the images doing all the talking, and they were worth so many thousands of words.

  At last. At long last.

  Shots of Luke in the parking lot of a gas station off the highway thirty minutes from town. Checking out a shipment of stolen guns.

  I raised my face, released a satisfying breath, and met Manny’s gaze. “Guess he goes to a few more places than the grocery store and the piano shop.”

  “Just a few,” Manny said.

  After my best friend had been paralyzed by a drive-by gang shooting when I was fourteen, I had vowed to always do my part to keep this town safe. Sure, Luke Carlton had done so much more than sell guns. But all I needed was probable cause to bring the man in. Thanks to Michael’s tip, coupled with months of investigation, and now these photos, we had the necessary evidence.

  I could smell justice in the air.

  No one was home. We knocked on the door of Luke Carlton’s house at a quarter past ten in the morning. But the sound of my fist rapping on the wood echoed without an answer.

  I turned around, scanning for Luke’s car on the street. I hadn’t seen it when I’d pulled up, but even so, I looked once more. He was slippery. He’d skirted the law for a long damn time.

  But I didn’t have him yet.

  And I needed him.

  I leaned to the right, trying to catch a glimpse through the window into the home. It looked just the same as it had when I was here over the summer. I’d interviewed Luke when the case was reopened. The man claimed to know nothing. He played up the whole fear factor, sticking to his story of being terrified the Royal Sinners would come after him.

  So ironic.

  My jaw clenched as I remembered his routine, the way he’d tried to distance himself from his army on the street.

  In truth, they were in his back pocket, and the man probably figured he was still getting away with it. That his long, time-honored practice of hiding behind his fake life and pushing others to take the blame would keep working. Hell, even the handful of gang arrests made recently were for other crimes—none were related to the murder.

  And so Luke kept going about his business.

  If he stuck to his schedule, and he sure seemed like the type, that meant I might need to track him down at the piano shop this evening. But as we returned to the car, then headed out of the neighborhood, Manny and I debated whether arresting the man at that place was the smartest approach.

  “That would be like walking into . . . well, into target practice,” I said.

  The shop was the center of their gun trade, and if I wanted to keep this arrest as quiet as I possibly could until I had TJ too, I needed a different way in.

  I zeroed in on a brand-new approach.

  When evening rolled around, Manny headed inside the grocery store, strolled around the aisles, and reported back via text.

  A small sense of satisfaction took root inside me.

  Yes.

  Criminals had patterns.

  Life-long criminals tended to stick to them.

  And Luke Carlton was indeed a man of routine. That routine was his camouflage. It had shielded him for years. His clockwork schedule had made him appear one way to the world, and that masquerade made it possible for him to live a life of crime undetected.

  With my senses on high alert, homed in on every detail, I got into position. I waited by the automatic doors of the supermarket—ready.

  Truly, I’d been ready for this for a long time.

  Tension coiled in me, but a kind of excitement too. This was why I did what I did. The chance to clean up the streets. Put the bad guys behind bars.

  The air was charged with electricity, with possibility.

  The doors slid open, and my partner crossed from the tiled floor of the grocery store onto the sidewalk.

  Briefly, a small knot of guilt wormed its way through me as I thought of Marcus, the courageous boy who’d helped us start down this path. Marcus and the rest of his family would be safer, though, I reminded myself. The sooner I could dismantle the Royal Sinners, the better off everybody in this town would be.

  Sixty seconds later, Luke Carlton neared the exit of the grocery store. It was a little after six on a weekday evening. He carried two bags of groceries. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. His gray hair was freshly combed, as if he’d taken a shower before he ran his errands.

  Luke didn’t notice the two men in slacks and button-downs loitering outside the local market. He kept walking, his keys in one hand, whistling under his breath. Sounded like Beethoven, something he’d probably taught to a young student recently.

  I burned with frustration over the freedom this man had enjoyed for so many years. But it was also Luke’s Achilles’ heel. He thought he could keep it up indefinitely, living like an average, ordinary guy.

  I stepped away from the brick wall I’d been leaning against and stepped in the path of the head of a dangerous street gang.

  “Pardon me,” he said, shifting to the right to avoid me. Funny how Luke didn’t even look up. If he had, he might have recognized the detective he’d lied to a few months ago.

  Fucking mild-mannered piano teacher, my ass. But the guy had pulled it off, living a double life for years. That was about to be blown wide open.

  “Good to see you again, Luke Carlton. You’re under arrest,” I said.

  The second the words left my mouth, Luke dropped his grocery bags and bolted. It was an instant reaction—he took off along the sidewalk of the cavernous store, running like hell.

  I went after him, sidestepping the groceries that had spilled from the bags. Luke had more speed than I would ever have expected. He ran past a line of shopping carts, grabbing the handle of one and yanking it out onto the sidewalk.

  I dodged the cart, and my partner was right behind me as Luke rounded the corner, heading for the back lot. Luke seemed hell-bent on escape, and I completely understood his drive. The man had lived a scot-free life for two decades. That could drive a man to run like hell.

  Even though the bastard was fast, he wasn’t fast enough. No fucking way was I letting Luke Carlton get away from me in the back-parking lot of a grocery store.

  With my heart pumping, my feet pounding, and my breath coming in fast, powerful spurts, I neared him. Ten feet, five feet away now. I closed the distance across the asphalt, stretched out my arm, grabbed the back of his shirt, and tackled him.

  Luke twisted in my arms. “Let me go. You’ve got the wrong man.”
>
  He was like an eel, flinging and swishing and desperately coiling his body. But I wasn’t letting go. I yanked Luke up as Manny reached us, pinned both wrists, pushed him against a dumpster, and slapped on the handcuffs.

  I breathed out hard. “As I was saying. Luke Carlton, you’re under arrest for illegal gun trafficking.” Then I rattled off a litany of violations that this man had committed over the years, from selling guns without background checks, to peddling weapons to convicted felons, to giving firearms to fugitives.

  And I read him his Miranda rights.

  Then at last, we took him in.

  54

  Luke

  The questions from the detectives were relentless.

  Irritating, frankly too.

  I let Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony play in my head as they peppered me with inquiry after inquiry.

  “Did you meet Dora Prince at Narcotics Anonymous?”

  I crossed my arms in the interrogation room, and nodded a yes. They didn’t need the truth. That I’d met her at work. Met her at the West Limos party. Met her, romanced her, fell in love with her.

  All that was true. I’d planned to marry Dora Prince.

  To take my mother and Dora and her children and our child and go so far away. Maybe Texas. More likely Florida. To live in the sun, to listen to music, to play Bach and Mozart and “Chopsticks” too. To teach our children how to play.

  But life doesn’t work out the way we plan, does it?

  Rarely.

  The detective went again. “Why did you say you were terrified of Jerry Stefano?”

  Oh, I don’t know, why would anyone say that? Because there’s no one better to pin all the blame on than the man already behind bars?

  Turn him into the boogeyman and protect yourself.

  I didn’t answer.

  Another question came my way. “Why did you leave Vegas after your son was born?”