Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  “I’m the one standing,” he pointed out.

  “My hero,” she sighed.

  “And now I really need a shower.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. “Me too, I guess. Carry me up?”

  “I might drop you on your ass,” he warned.

  “You didn’t last time,” she pointed out.

  He grunted out a laugh as he hitched her a little higher, his hands clamping onto her butt as he prepared to move. She gave a sharp shudder as his still hard cock shifted inside her, setting off little aftershocks of pleasure.

  “Don’t start,” he muttered as he carried her out of the room. “I want a shower, food, and beer. Maybe after all that, I’ll let you jump me again.”

  She snorted. “It’s not me,” she told him. “You’re the one who’s still hard.”

  “Your fault,” he replied as he started up the stairs.

  She caught her breath as the climb bounced her on his impaling flesh, fresh need curling through her. “How is it my fault?”

  “You’re here,” he said simply as he strolled into her bedroom.

  “Oh.”

  She heard the laughter in his voice as he stepped into the connecting bath. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Oh’?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah.”

  He chuckled as he carried her into the shower and flicked on the water. She jumped as cool water hit her back, then sighed into his neck as it warmed just enough to be comfortable as well as refreshing.

  “Don’t go to sleep on me,” he warned.

  “I’m not.”

  “Good.” He shifted slightly, his hands curving under her buttocks as he let her drop a little. The action shoved his cock deep, and he grinned into her hair when she jolted.

  “Oh, God!” Her head shot up, into the spray. She blinked water out of her eyes as she stared up into his face. “What happened to food and beer?”

  “I changed my mind.” His eyes glittered at her as he reached up to redirect the showerhead, then sat on the built-in bench with her on his lap. “But this time, you get to do the work.”

  “Oh.” The cool water was proving restorative. “Okay. But you have to wash me after.”

  Laughter sparked in his eyes. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Later, when the sun had set, and their more carnal appetites had been satisfied, they shared a large pepperoni pizza and a six-pack of beer on the front porch.

  “I went over to see Abby and David today,” Honey commented.

  “Yeah?” Ethan leaned back on the porch swing and rubbed a hand on his full belly. He was contemplating another piece of pizza, but figured he’d regret it later. “How’re they doing?”

  “Good. They’re not getting much sleep, but other than that. The baby’s so cute. She looks just like Abby.”

  Ethan grinned. “Thank God.”

  She chuckled. “David said the same thing. He also said you came by yesterday.”

  He shrugged. “Just popped by to see if they needed anything.”

  “You brought them groceries, and the baby swing.”

  He shrugged again, vaguely uncomfortable. “They had it on their registry, and I figured it’d be nice if they didn’t have to go to the store for a while.”

  She nudged him in the ribs, a grin on her face. “Aw.”

  “Shut up.”

  She snorted out a laugh and snagged a slice of pizza. “You’re an awfully nice guy.”

  He winced. “Not really.”

  “Sure, you are.” She nibbled on pizza and tucked her legs underneath her. “Such a sweetie.”

  “A sweetie?” He gaped at her in shock. “I’m not a sweetie.”

  She plucked a piece of pepperoni off her slice and tossed it to the dog. “Abby told me you held the baby for almost twenty minutes. Make that a sweetie and a softie.”

  “I am not a softie.”

  She leaned over and patted his leg soothingly. “Of course you’re not. I must have been thinking of someone else.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m a ruthless son of a bitch.”

  “I’m sure you can be,” she said with a wide smile that didn’t fool Ethan for a minute.

  “You think I’m a sweetie?”

  She made a sound in the back of her throat, like laughter quickly smothered, and her eyes went round with mocking sincerity. “No, of course not. You’re a ruthless son of a bitch. Clearly.”

  He refused to let the laugh loose and bared his teeth in a snarl. “Damn right. You better watch it, or you could get hurt.”

  “Oh, no! Milo, save me!”

  Since Milo simply leaned forward and nipped the pizza from her waving hand, Ethan figured the dog didn’t buy her terrified tone any more than he did. “You mocking me, woman?”

  She pressed a hand to her chest and leaned back dramatically. “I would never. Softie.”

  “That’s it.” He reached out and scooped her up, plopping her on his lap. “I’ll show you a softie,” he growled.

  She grinned up at him and looped her arms around his neck. “Oh. I am so scared. Someone, please help me get away from this terrible, terrible man.”

  The deadpan delivery had his lips twitching before he could control them. “No one can save you,” he said with a sinister grin and dug his fingers into her ribs.

  She squealed, laughter bubbling up as she twisted and wriggled on his lap, trying to evade his dancing fingers. “What do you think now, huh?” Ruthless, he grabbed the blade of her hipbone and squeezed, then had to hold on tight as she bucked. He grinned and did it again. “Still a softie? Still a sweetie?”

  “No!” she shouted, laughing so hard she could barely talk. “You’re an asshole, okay? A big fat jerk asshole who never gave a crap about anybody!”

  “That’s better,” he grumbled, and unable to resist, pressed a kiss to her laughing mouth while Milo helped himself to the rest of the pizza.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ethan was scrubbing shampoo into his hair when Honey poked her head into the bathroom. “Ethan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You left your phone in the kitchen, and you’ve missed a couple of calls. I’m going to put it on the sink.”

  “Okay. What time is it?”

  “Just after seven,” she told him. “I’m headed out in a few minutes. I promised Sadie I’d meet her at the florist, then we’re going to swing by and visit Abby. It’s David’s first day back at work, and she’s kind of freaking out about being alone with the baby.”

  “Thank God he’s coming back,” Ethan muttered and ducked under the water. “Sadie’s driving Seth crazy with wedding shit, so he’s driving me crazy.”

  She chuckled. “She told me he’s trying to convince her to elope.”

  “Please, God, let it be so,” he muttered fervently and shut off the water. He eyed her as he dragged a towel off the shower door. “Wow. You look good.”

  “Yeah?” She smoothed her hands over hips showcased to perfection in the snug pencil skirt. Paired with a tailored blouse and black high heels with thin straps that wrapped around her ankles, it was a far cry from the casual summer dress he was used to seeing her in.

  “Yeah.” He hooked the towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I have a teacher’s meeting at the school today.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The superintendent insists everyone adhere to the school year dress code.”

  Ethan’s brows shot up. “This is how you dress to teach junior high art?”

  She glanced down at herself. “Pretty much, unless we’re doing a messy project. Why?”

  He grinned. “Just wondering how many of your male students fall stupid in love with you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “None that I know of.”

  He eyed the shoes, felt his cock stir, and shook his head. “Those poor kids.”

  She waved that away. “I have meetings at the community center tonight about the fall curriculum, so I w
on’t be back until late.”

  “No worries. Jacob’s out of town visiting his sister. She had cataract surgery and needed someone to stay with her for a while. Aunt Winnie’s a little lonely, so I’m going to take her out to dinner tonight. I’ll check in with you tomorrow?”

  “Okay.” She sent him an easy smile and turned to leave, then turned in surprise when he hooked a finger in the waistband of her skirt. “You’ll get me wet,” she protested.

  “Not if you hold still,” he quipped. He kept his hands on her hips and a good four inches between them as he lowered his head.

  By the time he lifted it again, her eyes were cloudy, and they were both breathing hard. “There,” he said, and because he wanted to hold on, made himself drop his hands. “That ought to hold me.”

  “Glad to be of help,” she said with a little laugh and rose on her toes to nip at his mouth.

  “Well, if you insist,” he murmured, reaching for her again, and she twisted away, laughing.

  “Down boy,” she admonished with a wink.

  “I’ll lock up when I leave,” he told her as she turned to go, and she shook her head.

  “You know when you do that I just have to dig out my key when I get home,” she said.

  “Tough.”

  She laughed again, her eyes dancing. “Milo’s been fed, so don’t let him con you into a second breakfast.”

  “Got it. See you later.”

  She paused by the door, eyes glinting with humor and something more as she eyed him, wrapped in one of her towels. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow night, how about a bonfire on the beach? We’ll roast hot dogs and marshmallows and drink beer and make out on the sand.”

  “That’s a date.”

  Her dimple deepened as she blew him a kiss. “See you.”

  He listened to the light click of her heels on wood as she went downstairs, then looked ruefully at his cock making a tent out of the towel. “Down, fella. She’s already gone.”

  He was heading back into the bedroom to dress when his cell phone, perched on the edge of the sink, began to chime. Recognizing the ringtone, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

  He tapped the screen to answer. “Michael.”

  “Ethan. You’re a hard man to get ahold of.”

  “Sorry about that,” Ethan replied, his voice deliberately mild, though his instincts were humming. “I was in the shower.”

  “Ah.” Ethan could hear the amusement in his old friend’s voice. “Well, I have some information for you, if you have a few moments.”

  Perched on the side of the bed, Ethan was about to reply when he heard footsteps on the stairs again. “Hang on a second.” He hit mute just as Honey, flushed and slightly breathless, appeared in the doorway.

  “I forgot to tell you. I left you an omelet. It’s in the oven so Milo can’t get to it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She glanced briefly at the phone in his hand, curiosity lighting her eyes, then smiled. “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He waited until he heard the front door open and close before he re-engaged the call. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Company?”

  “Of a sort,” Ethan replied, too used to keeping his cards close to the vest to say anything more.

  “Sounded like high heels,” Michael mused, amusement ripe in his tone. “Stilettos.”

  Ethan bit off the curse that wanted to slip free and worked to keep his voice mild. “You called for a reason?”

  The chuckle came over the line loud and clear. “I did. Per our last conversation, I made some inquiries. I think you’ll be interested to hear what I’ve learned.”

  Ethan rubbed a hand over his beard. “I’m listening.”

  “Your target on the Italian job had a nephew. Anthony Damico.”

  Ethan frowned. “He had about a dozen nephews, along with various other relatives, most of them in the organization. I don’t remember an Anthony.”

  “Well, young Anthony took the death particularly hard,” Michael went on. “He and his uncle were fairly close in age, more along the lines of brothers. Anthony looked up to his uncle, wanted to be just like him.”

  Ethan frowned. “Did he question the cause of death?”

  “No, that wasn’t an issue. The coroner ruled the cause of death as a heart attack, and it wasn’t questioned. The way I understand it, it wasn’t commonly known that Carmine Caputo killed young Jason Palmieri, and with his existing health issues, the heart attack was believable.”

  Ethan waited, knowing Michael was working up to his point.

  “In the last several years, Anthony has made himself a model member of the family. Working his way up in the organization, making a bit of a name for himself. He’s not interested in leadership, for which we should all be grateful because, like his uncle before him, he seems to have a propensity for violence but lacks the intelligence or finesse to be successful at the upper levels of the organization.”

  Michael drew in a breath. “Then about six months ago, old man Giordano died.”

  Ethan straightened slightly. “I hadn’t heard that. He had to be in his nineties.”

  “Ninety-seven,” Michael confirmed. “A long life, especially considering his profession. And from what I understand, Anthony was very attentive to the old man in his last days.”

  “I don’t think I like where this is going.”

  “Apparently, there was a deathbed confession.”

  Ethan closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

  “According to my source, the old man never felt right about the hit. He accepted it as necessary, knew it would end the conflict, saving lives and money, etcetera. But it sat heavy on him, and when he knew he was dying, he unburdened himself to young Anthony.”

  “How reliable is your source?”

  “Unimpeachable. Damico doesn’t have your name. I assume you used an intermediary in your communications with the family.” Michael’s hesitation was so brief, Ethan nearly missed it. “So far he’s been asking questions politely, but he’s a spine cracker, both by trade and by nature. He’ll resort to fists and bullets soon unless the current leadership can put a lid on him.”

  “Who stepped in when the old man passed?”

  “His second son, Marco.”

  Ethan frowned. Marco Giordano was smart, a savvy businessman who, by all accounts, had learned well at his father’s knee. “He’s aware of Damico’s inquiries?”

  “That I can’t tell you with any certainty, but I can’t imagine there’s much inside his organization that he isn’t aware of.”

  “Hmmm. Thanks, Michael. I appreciate you letting me know.”

  “Anytime, friend.” Michael hesitated, then spoke carefully. “A word of advice? Anthony will get your name eventually, and he isn’t likely to go quietly into that good night. You’re going to want to get ahead of this.”

  No shit, Ethan thought grimly. “Any advice on how to do that without painting a target on my back?”

  “A delicate endeavor.” Michael sighed. “You’ll want to make sure you’re covered, just in case. If you need help with that, let me know.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You know how to reach me.”

  Ethan set the phone down as it went silent. He dressed automatically in work clothes; jeans and a t-shirt, with the thick socks that kept his feet well-cushioned—and sweaty—inside his work boots.

  He’d come to appreciate, more than ever before, the joys of being barefoot.

  His thoughts were churning as he made his way downstairs and pulled the omelet Honey had left him out of the oven. Milo, who’d been laying on the bed in the corner of the kitchen, looked up hopefully. “Forget it,” Ethan told him, and the dog lay his head back down with a sigh.

  He wolfed the omelet down, barely tasting it as he went over the information Michael had relayed. He didn’t remember Anthony Damico, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d researched Carmine Caputo when he’d taken
the contract, but at the time his concern had been for the higher-ranking members of the family who might not have been on board with contracting a third party to hit one of their own. He’d been careful to keep a layer of separation between himself and the Giordano family, and could only be grateful for that precaution now.

  He frowned as he chewed. It might be a good idea to contact the intermediary he’d used on that job. Mr. Johnson, as he was known, had been contacted by a representative of the Giordano family and asked to provide the curriculum vitae of three or four possible hitters for a delicate job. Ethan’s had been among them and was ultimately chosen, if memory served, because unlike the others on the list, he hadn’t been based in New York.

  They’d wanted to keep local involvement to a minimum.

  Ethan dug out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. When he’d picked up a new smartphone upon retirement, he’d transferred a select few business contacts from his old phone to the new one. There were three Mr. Johnsons; one in Miami, one in Rome, and one in New York. He brought up the information for the New York contact and tapped his screen to make the call.

  A quick check of the time told him he was cutting it close, but he didn’t want to sit on this. When a recording sounded in his ear, telling him the number he’d dialed was no longer in service, he checked the contact again. In addition to the phone number, which now appeared to be useless, there was an email address.

  Keeping his fingers crossed it was still current, he tapped out a quick message—Long time no see! We should talk soon. Give me a call—and hit send before shoving the phone back into his pocket. He took his plate to the sink, rinsing it and his fork before placing both in the dishwasher. He rubbed Milo’s head, chuckling at the look of reproach he received for not sharing his breakfast and headed out the door.

  He’d just stuck the key into the truck’s ignition when his phone beeped an incoming email. It has been a long time, he read. I would love to catch up. The message was followed by a new phone number with what he recognized as a northern California area code.

  A burner cell, most likely. He switched off the ignition and reached for the glove box. The small, no-frills cell phone he pulled out had been purchased over a year ago in Phoenix. He’d stashed it in the truck weeks ago, out of an abundance of either caution or paranoia, and now he was glad he had. He pulled up the email and punched in the California number. He was going to be late for work, but it couldn’t be helped.