Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  “Yes. That.” She nodded, her hands clenched hard on the headboard. “Do that.”

  “Later,” he said, and she could’ve cried with frustration. “Right now, I want to taste.”

  When? she wanted to wail, but before she could open her mouth, his tongue swiped across her clit.

  “Yes,” she hissed and shoved her hips up. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  He laughed low, vibrating against her eager flesh. “All right, baby. No more teasing.”

  “Thank God,” she said fervently, and then she couldn’t say anything else because his mouth was there.

  His fingers remained buried deep, not moving, as if he knew a few hard pumps would finish it for her. So he kept them still, using his tongue and teeth to tease and torment until she was writhing on the bed, sharp little cries breaking from her throat as the pressure in her pelvis grew all but unbearable. Sharp and heavy, it threatened to break her apart, and still, he pushed her higher.

  Higher and tighter, swamped with pleasure, the tension building and building until she hovered right at the peak, right on the edge of bliss, just a little more and she could come. Just a little bit, there it was, yes, oh yes—

  And he turned his head slightly to the side.

  Her eyes flew open, and the words flew out of her mouth before she could think. “My God! Don’t stop to breathe!”

  He froze for half a heartbeat, then he was laughing.

  “I was so close,” she moaned in despair as she sagged against the mattress. The urgency was already fading, drifting away, and she knew it would take a lot to get her back to that point again.

  And it was all his fault.

  She picked up her head to glare at her lover, who laughed so hard he shook the bed. He rolled from between her legs to lay beside her as he roared with mirth. “It’s not funny,” she told him and had to control the twitch of her lips.

  “Are you kidding?” he gasped between guffaws as he levered himself over her. “It’s hilarious.”

  “I was so close,” she said again, knowing she was whining but unable to help it. Dammit, she’d wanted that orgasm. “It’s going to take me forever to get there again.”

  Still chuckling, he crawled up to lower his mouth to her neck. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” she pouted. Her hands had relaxed on the headboard, though she didn’t lower her arms.

  “Poor baby,” he murmured, nibbling his way up her neck to her ear.

  “That feels nice,” she told him, sighing a little as she mentally kissed her morning orgasm goodbye. “But it’s not going to get me there.”

  “No?” He traced his tongue over the shell of her ear, making her shiver.

  “No,” she breathed and arched her neck to give him better access.

  “Then maybe this will,” he murmured, and in one smooth, fast move slid between her open thighs and drove home.

  Her knuckles went white as she clamped down on the headboard, her body arched hard into the heavy jolt of his cock inside her. “That might do it,” she managed, and with his laugh rolling in her ear, wrapped her legs around his waist and held on for the ride.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ethan was putting up drywall at the Market Street house, the screw gun humming as he worked his way around what would be the living room. It was hot, and since they’d closed up the outer walls, not much air moved through the space. Sweat trickled down his back to pool at the base of his spine, and the bandana he’d tied around his head was saturated.

  He glanced around the room with a now-familiar sense of satisfaction. “Starting to come together.”

  Seth set down another box of flooring and planted his hands on his hips. “Yeah. I figured Jacob was flat crazy when he bought this place, but it’s going to look good.”

  Ethan sent another screw home. “Is that the last of the flooring?”

  “Couple more boxes in the truck.”

  Ethan set his last screw and stepped back. “Ready for tape and mud in here.”

  “Which, praise Jesus, is not my job.”

  Ethan grimaced. He didn’t want to do it, either. “I say we make David do it.”

  “He always does anyway,” Seth informed him. “Says he finds it soothing.”

  Ethan shook his head. “I knew he was a sick bastard.”

  Seth barked out a laugh as he headed for the door to get the last load of flooring. “Yeah. He won’t touch roofing, though. Scared of heights.”

  That surprised Ethan, but he shrugged. “Everybody’s afraid of something.”

  Seth paused at the threshold. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Vegan cheese.”

  “God. Me too.” Seth gave a mock shudder on his way out the door. He was back in a few minutes, setting additional boxes with the others along the inside wall. They’d let the engineered hardwood acclimate to the house, then lay it after the drywall was finished and painted.

  Ethan drained his water bottle and set it aside. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  Seth’s brow furrowed slightly. “Not sure. Jacob wanted us to install the tile in the bathroom and the kitchen backsplash, but it got delivered today, and it’s hideous.”

  Ethan shrugged. “If it’s what he ordered...”

  “If Jacob ordered this stuff, we’re going to need to get him tested for brain damage.” Seth crossed through the wide doorway that led to the new kitchen, and with a shrug, Ethan followed. Marble countertops buffed to a high gloss sat atop sturdy cabinets painted a light grey. Seth reached for one of the boxes marked ‘TILE’ on the island, lifted the flap, and pulled out a three-inch by three-inch tile. It was a shade of green that made Ethan think of split pea soup, or the contents of a newborn’s diaper, which, after an ill-timed visit to David and Abby’s house, he could now say he’d experienced personally. He narrowed his eyes as Seth held it up, trying to see what was painted on it. Was that...?

  “Is that a turtle painted in the corner?”

  “Yep.” Seth turned the tile to look at it with a grimace. “The ones earmarked for the hall and master bath have dolphins and hammerhead sharks, respectively.”

  “Okay, he didn’t order this.” Ethan shook his head. “There must have been a mix-up.”

  “That’s what I figured. I left him a message, told him what was up. He texted me that he had a call in to his tile guy to straighten it out.”

  Ethan checked his watch. “We have any more subs coming in today?”

  “Plumbing and electric are all done, though I think electric is going to have to come back to fix a couple of can lights.”

  Ethan grunted as his cell phone buzzed an incoming text. “Why don’t we lock up and knock off?” he said absently as he pulled it out of his pocket. He felt a little hitch under his heart when he saw the text from Michael. Call me. Now. Struggling to maintain an easy expression, he glanced up. “I can lock up if you want to get going.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice. You want to grab Honey, meet Sadie and me for dinner?”

  “I don’t know,” he said calmly, while his mind screamed at him to get rid of Seth, get rid of him now so he could make the call. “Her schedule’s all over the place these days, but I’ll ask her and let you know.”

  “Cool.” Seth shot him a grin and a little wave as he headed out the door.

  Ethan waited until he saw Seth’s truck drive away, then moved methodically through the house, making sure all the windows and doors were secure, and that there were no tools left out in plain sight. He checked the yard to make sure nothing had been left behind, then headed up the stairs to perform the same check on the second floor.

  When he was certain the house was empty and as secure as factory basic window locks and deadbolts could make it, he sat on the second-floor landing and called Michael.

  “Ethan.”

  “Michael.”

  “Johnson is dead.”

  It took Ethan a full ten seconds to find his voice. “How?”

  “Brutally,” came the blu
nt reply. “With a few signature details.”

  Ethan’s blood ran ice cold. “Damico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “Ethan, I’m with Marco Giordano right now.”

  He pushed slowly to his feet, shocked rage churning in his gut. “You just called me by name in front of the fucking Giordanos?”

  “They already have it. Ethan, I think you should talk to them.” There was a pause, a hesitancy so uncharacteristic of Michael that Ethan felt his blood run cold. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone.”

  He took a deep breath. Acid churned in his stomach, but his mind was crystal clear. “Fine.”

  There was a slight change in the noise level, a slight fuzz of sound, then Michael said, “You’re on speaker now, Ethan.”

  “Ethan.” A new voice, low and rough with a faint Bronx accent. “My name is Marco Giordano.”

  “Mr. Giordano.”

  “I’m here with my Uncle Aldo. I believe you two have met before.”

  “We have.” Aldo Fiorelli was the old man’s brother-in-law, a fully made member of the family and had been part of the cease-fire negotiations seven years earlier. “How are you, Mr. Fiorelli?”

  “I’m well, Ethan.” The older man’s voice was rough with age and a lifelong addiction to cigarettes.

  “Ethan, I reached out to Marco when I found out about Mr. Johnson,” Michael said. “They asked me to put you in touch with them right away.”

  “Ethan, first I would like to offer you my assurances.” Marco Giordano spoke, his voice resonating with quiet power. “Anthony is a member of my family and falls under my hand. I want you to know this will be taken care of.”

  “I appreciate hearing that, Mr. Giordano.” Ethan chose his words very carefully. “Do you have reason to believe Anthony is responsible for what happened to Mr. Johnson?”

  Marco’s voice was neutral. “We do.”

  “Marco, if I may speak freely?” Michael asked.

  “Please.”

  “Thank you.” Michael’s indrawn breath was audible. “Ethan, when he killed Johnson, he got into his records. Johnson kept everything coded, encrypted, but he found someone to hack them. He’s got your name.”

  “Which name?”

  “Your real name.”

  Ethan bit back the vicious curse that leapt to his lips as Marco spoke.

  “Ethan, he came to me and told me your name, told me that you were hired by the Palmieri family to kill Carmine. He asked for my permission to avenge his uncle. I want you to know I did not give it.”

  Ethan wanted to sag with relief, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  “The situation with Carmine was regrettable but necessary. My father never made his peace with it, and because of that, we find ourselves in this situation now. We argued, Anthony and I,” he continued. “I wasn’t able to convince him to let this go.”

  Ethan wanted the bottom line. “Is he coming after me?”

  “You, and the Palmieri family.”

  “It looks like he left New York a few hours ago,” Michael put in. “He didn’t get on a plane, so we think he’s driving.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Ethan resisted, barely, the urge to put a fist through the brand new drywall. “Mr. Giordano, the last thing I want to do is involve myself in your family business,” he began, choosing his words carefully.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Ethan. I warned him that this action would put him on the wrong side of the family, but his grief and anger over his uncle’s death is clouding his judgment.”

  Now he sighed, long and weary. “He will throw this entire family into chaos over something that was settled years ago. Business will suffer, and people, good people will die. I can’t allow that. But I would ask you for a favor.”

  Ethan braced himself. “Yes?”

  “I’m sending my own people after him. It’s my hope they’ll find him before he makes his way to you. But if this isn’t possible, and you’re forced to take matters into your own hands, I would ask you to call me so that I may take care of this personally.”

  Ethan frowned. Was Marco Giordano asking him not to kill Anthony Damico so Marco could do it himself?

  “I understand if circumstances make it impossible for this to happen,” Marco went on. “I would never ask you to risk yourself or your family to do me this favor. But if it’s possible.”

  “If it’s possible,” Ethan agreed reluctantly.

  “Thank you. Michael can send you my private number. Please, don’t hesitate to use it.”

  “Ethan, I’m texting you that number, along with a couple of recent photos of Damico,” Michael told him, and his phone buzzed on cue with an incoming text. “I’m booked on a flight leaving LaGuardia in a few hours. I’ll be there by morning. Just consider me another pair of eyes.”

  Shock was as much a jolt as relief. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll tag you when I hit town, and we’ll figure out what’s what.”

  Ethan disconnected the call, then sat heavily on the landing. The anger seething inside him had nowhere to go; all he could do was sit until it faded enough for him to function. He had to go home, talk to Aunt Winnie, kiss Honey, be fucking normal.

  He didn’t want this. Didn’t want Anthony Damico coming into his world, didn’t want to have to fucking deal with it, but he had no choice. Unless Marco’s men caught up to him, Damico was coming here, putting the two people who meant the world to him in danger.

  Goddammit.

  It wasn’t going to happen, he thought grimly. He wasn’t letting anything happen to Aunt Winnie or Honey, wasn’t going to allow this shit storm of a situation to derail the life he was building. This was his home, and Anthony Damico wasn’t going to take it from him.

  The weight of his sins was heavy, and it was a load he was prepared to carry for the rest of his life. But he wouldn’t let it take from him what mattered most.

  * * *

  Four days later, Ethan was still waiting for the other shoe to drop and wound so tightly, he felt as though he might jump out of his skin.

  Michael, true to his word, had arrived the day after the call with the Giordanos. He’d been staying at a motel a few miles up the road until Aunt Winnie had overheard Ethan talking to him on the phone. Once she knew a friend of his from New York was in the area, nothing would do but for him to stay with them. Ethan’s argument that Michael didn’t want to put her out hadn’t made a dent, and when she pointed out that Michael could have the nice guest room since Ethan spent so many of his nights with Honey, he gave up.

  He’d calmed down when he’d realized having Michael close by made good sense. Ethan could stay with Honey, while Michael kept an eye on things at Aunt Winnie’s place.

  But he was jumpy, and it was starting to show.

  “Are you all right?” Honey asked him Friday morning as he pulled on battered sneakers.

  “Hmm?” He glanced up to see her watching him, a slight frown on her face as she gathered up her purse and keys. “Sure. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave a small shrug. “You’ve just seemed off the last few days.”

  He smiled, easy and casual, as he straightened. “I’m just tired. We put in some serious overtime on the Market Street flip yesterday so we could clear the decks for today.”

  “I know.” She rose to her toes to kiss him. “And we on the Sweetwater Summer Carnival Committee appreciate the support.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he warned her. “I don’t know anything about carnivals, much less building one.”

  She sent him a curious look. “You’ve never been to a carnival?”

  “I don’t think so. A state fair here and there, and the occasional amusement park. But no carnivals.”

  “You’re in for a treat.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll buy you a corn dog when my shift is over.”

  He shoved his keys in his pocket as he opened the front door. “What booth are you running? Maybe I’ll come by and flirt wit
h you.”

  “The psychic’s booth,” she replied, her head down as she walked past him onto the porch, rooting in her purse for her sunglasses. “I’m Psychic Sybil.”

  He stopped, half in and half out of the front door. “You’re kidding.”

  She blinked at him. “No. Why?”

  “Psychic Sybil?”

  “Sybil sees all, knows all.” She slid her shades onto her head. “Keep standing there with the door open, and Milo’s going to think we’re taking him with us.”

  He pulled the door closed behind him, shaking his head. “What does Psychic Sybil do?”

  “Reads palms and minds,” she replied, smiling as he crossed the porch. “Sybil is versatile.”

  “Oh, I can vouch for that,” he said with an exaggerated leer.

  She tilted her head back to laugh up at him as they descended the steps. “Pervert.”

  “You bet,” he told her as he took her hand. “Don’t tell me you believe in that psychic stuff.”

  “I don’t not believe in it,” she said with a shrug. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

  “What is the point?”

  “Fun,” she said succinctly and gave him a nudge.

  “Fun. Right.” He shook his head again. “I can’t believe Jacob talked me into this.”

  “It’ll be good for you,” she told him tartly, then opened the door and jumped into the cab.

  He shut the door behind her, then circled the hood to climb behind the wheel. “That’s what Jacob said when he told me I’d be spending my Friday building carnival booths.”

  She grinned as he started the truck. “He loves the carnival. He always volunteers a crew to help with the setup. You don’t really mind, do you?”

  “Nah.” Ethan pulled out of the drive. “I was going to be swinging a hammer today, anyway. At least this way I get to be outside, and I get to be with you.”

  She leaned over and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek, then settled back in her seat. “Winnie said Michael’s looking forward to coming.”

  “Yeah, he told me. I don’t think he’s ever been to a carnival, either.”

  She shook her head sadly. “A couple of sad cases. Well, we’ll fix that.”