"You want us to set a trap?"

"Yeah. I would really like that," John said, his tone somehow casual but also intensely serious.

Michael's eyes swept from John to the two men he was making this request of. Leaning against the back of a royal blue lounge chair, Curtis scratched his square jaw with his thumb, glancing at Charlie before answering. "So we've got to bring those f.u.c.kers back into our business?" he asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically as he waved a hand around the club, quiet now during the day. Jazz music hummed from the same speakers that played dance music after midnight.

John nodded. His arms were crossed. "I know it's not what you want, but if we bring him in, and I've got the warrant for his arrest, we can take the gang apart. He's the last linchpin left, now that we've got their head guy. One of my witnesses has named the places he's been seen."

Curtis shook his head. "This isn't one of them."

"No. But by using the guy who started trouble here a few weeks ago with the knife in the bathroom, we think we can lure him. That guy is willing to invite T.J. here. Make it look like just a regular night out. Once he's here, you make the call and we'll take him in."

Charlie blew out a long stream of air. "I don't like bringing them in here. We've been trying to keep guys like that out. I don't want any guns in my club."

"I hear you loud and clear," John said. "But we're close, so close to blasting them apart. We'll have plainclothes cops here. They will be the only ones with weapons, besides my men and myself. We'll do thorough checks at the door to make sure. And Michael's team will ramp up security. We will keep your business safe."

Charlie hummed and raised his chin at John. "I heard you talk at the benefit a few months ago."

Michael's ears p.r.i.c.ked. He hadn't attended that event, but both Ryan and Colin had. It was a fundraiser for the local community center where Colin volunteered. His girlfriend Elle ran it. Colin's company was one of the main donors, and so was White Box. These guys were committed to cleaning up the city, and Michael hoped they'd take this chance, even if it put them at risk.

"You had a friend who was injured when you were younger," Charlie said, meeting John's eyes.

The detective nodded.

"I know what that's like," he said through tight lips. "I lost one of my brothers when I was younger. To street crime, too. That loss changed me. Led me to make some choices I wasn't so proud of. Now, I'm trying to live a better life, in his name. He would have wanted this."

Curtis nodded and patted Charlie's shoulder. "He would have. He really would have."

Charlie turned back to them. "We will help you."

The waiting was miserable. Minutes ticked by as if they were hours. The days were elongated, like melting Dali clocks. Michael walked through town as if in a surreal dream. He was glued to his phone, and his phone was stuck to him. Just in case there was news. In case Morris, or Mindy, or John, or Ryan, or Annalise, or his White Box guys called.

Waiting sucked. Waiting was torture. But he understood this was the safest way to bring in T.J. The f.u.c.king 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 compet.i.tor. Turned out she kissed like she'd never wanted anyone so much before. He felt the same for her, and he sure as h.e.l.l 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s. 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 gla.s.ses, Michael with Brent, Ryan, Sophie, Elle, his grandparents, even Mindy. He tapped his gla.s.s to the flute of Diet c.o.ke Colin held, and to the water gla.s.s 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.

The long, overdue exhalation.

It was blissful relief, hard-earned justice, and delicious victory. Nothing would ever change the course their lives had taken that fateful night, but at last, at long f.u.c.king last, there was the promise of peace once again. It tasted so good.

Shannon beamed, and Brent rubbed his hand on her belly. Sophie began slicing the cherry pie she'd made for the occasion, as Ryan once again thanked her for the key part she'd played in helping decode the names of the accomplices. Colin wrapped his arms around Elle and kissed her cheek, then whispered something in her ear. She shot him the sweetest smile, and for a moment Michael found himself wondering if Colin would be down on one knee, too, popping the question to the woman he loved.

Love.

There was so much of it here in this house. It was a surplus. They had an embarra.s.sment of riches when it came to love. His brothers and sister. Their husbands, girlfriends, and fiancees. His grandparents. Even the dog had joined in, rubbing his side against Michael's grandmother's leg.

After he'd taken a bite of pie, his phone buzzed. Grabbing it from his back pocket, he felt his heart warm as he found a new photo from his girl.

A shot of her legs. She looked to be sitting at a sidewalk cafe, and he pictured her perfectly-watching the world go by, observing it all, drinking it in, and thinking of him.

The caption read: Waiting for you. Not much longer.

He'd be seeing her in mere days. The past was behind him. The present was free of its weight. The future was in his grasp, on the other side of an ocean, waiting for him. He could have it, taste it, touch it, love it.

Love her, if she'd let him. He hoped, and he hoped, and he hoped that she was ready.

She was the love of his life, and he'd been given a second chance with her.

Perhaps that was part of this newfound peace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

A blue and white teapot called out to her. Ceramic, with a line of blue ivy snaking along the top, it was pretty and artsy at the same time. Her hand darted out, carefully avoiding the ma.s.s of kitchen items crowding it on a table at a sidewalk vendor. Grabbing the teapot, she held it in front of her, brandishing it for Michael's opinion.

"I need this, don't I?"

They were at the marche aux puces at Porte de Vanves, a ma.s.sive weekend flea market, spread across many blocks.

He gave her an inquisitive stare. "Didn't you buy a teapot yesterday at a fancy shop in the Marais?"

Busted.

"I know," she said with a pout. They'd wandered all over Paris the last few days, seeing museums, stopping at bakeries, popping into shops, strolling along the Seine, and flipping through vintage postcards at the street-side dealers. She stroked the porcelain. "But it is so pretty."

He shook his head, laughing, and squeezed her shoulder. "I would never have pegged you as such a h.o.a.rder."

"I just like cute little objects. If you came to my flat, you'd see. I have all sorts of little trinkets," she said, nudging his side, trying to convince him.

"Someday," he said softly, looking away.

She chose not to press. He hadn't been to her home yet. His trip was only to last for four days. He'd booked a hotel room, and she'd spent her nights there and the days traveling across the city with him. She understood why he didn't want to stay at her house. He had been upfront about it.

"I want to make new memories with you," he'd said. "I hope you understand I just can't step foot in the place where you lived with your husband. Not yet."

Her home was rich with history, with the story of her time with another man. She couldn't fault Michael for not being ready to open the green door to her two-bedroom apartment and walk inside. She didn't want him to feel like a second choice, because he never felt that way to her, so they'd stayed away, enjoying a little vacation in a hotel room.

She set down the teapot and took his hand, threading her fingers through his. He glanced down at their joined hands and dropped a kiss to her cheek. She shuddered at the sparks that raced through her, even from a little kiss like that. He was so affectionate, and he loved touching her. Holding her hand. Wrapping an arm around her. Planting kisses on her face. Anywhere and everywhere. She loved walking through Paris with him touching her so possessively, as if he was telling all the world that she belonged to him.

"My father and mother used to take me here when I was younger. To this flea market," she reminisced as they wove through the crowds of shoppers along this stretch of vendors. "They loved to bargain shop. My father would come here to buy tools and skeleton keys and dusty old books. Funny thing is, he never actually used them. We had to donate them all when he pa.s.sed on."

"Why did he want them?"

"Honestly, I think he loved to haggle."

Michael nodded. "Now that makes sense. I'm quite good at haggling. You should see me do it. It's amazing that Ryan thinks he's the negotiator for our firm, but it's really me. I make sure we get the best deals."

She squeezed his fingers. "Will you haggle for me then? For the teapot?"

He arched an eyebrow, and they stopped, other bargain hunters pushing past them, b.u.mping and nudging in hot pursuit of a deal on corduroy jackets, old costume jewelry, baroque mirrors, and more.

He lowered his mouth to her ear. "Will it turn you on so much that it makes you want to f.u.c.k me again?"

She shivered in response. "That's a silly question. I pretty much always want to with you."

"But will you want to even more?" he asked, his voice gritty, dirty. He ran his fingers down her arm. Since it was November, she wore a jacket, but goose b.u.mps still rose on her flesh.