Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  “A peaceful resolution.” Ethan would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so focused. “He’s good with that?”

  “He would prefer to handle this in house, but—” Tall and Beady shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  “Fine.” He turned to the dining room, where Michael and David were watching him. “What’s the plan?”

  “It’s your show,” Michael said. “How do you want to play it?”

  Ethan frowned. “I think I walk in the front door, distract while you hit the rear.”

  “That only works if he doesn’t shoot you on sight.”

  “He won’t.” I hope. “He wants to make me suffer, make me pay. He’ll want to draw it out.”

  Michael nodded. “Agreed. I don’t love it, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

  Ethan looked at David. “You comfortable hanging across the street in case he gets past us that way?”

  “At the front?” David pursed his lips. “That’s Mrs. Kenner’s house. She’s in Ann Arbor this weekend for her granddaughter’s wedding. I can set up on her porch.”

  “Good enough.” He checked his watch. It had been about ten minutes since he’d told Honey he was picking up food. “David, go ahead and head over. Can you park at the Kenner’s without anyone seeing you?”

  David shook his head. “No. There’s no garage or carport, just an open driveway.”

  “Then park down the street and walk back. That’ll look better than if you park in the driveway.” Ethan glanced at the goons. “You two are with Michael at the back. He’s in charge, understood?”

  They both nodded, faces impassive. It was business as usual for them.

  “Okay. Seth is upstairs with the rifle; he’ll cover the backyard. I want to get everyone on a conference call so we can—”

  He broke off at the thunder of feet on the stairs. Seth appeared, breathless and panicked. “We’ve got a problem. Milo’s headed for the dog door.”

  “Oh, shit.” Ethan dove for the window, his eyes searching frantically through the drizzle for the dog. He finally spotted him loping across the lawn, his brindle coat all but blending with his surroundings in the dim light, headed for Honey’s back door.

  David was right next to him, his face deadly pale. “This guy likely to shoot a dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  David’s eyes lit with fear. “Honey would do anything she could to stop him from hurting Milo. Including throw herself in front of a bullet.”

  Ethan knew it. Goddammit. “We’re moving now, screw stealth. Seth, back upstairs. Michael at the back, I’m going in the front. Don’t shoot my woman, don’t shoot me, and don’t shoot that dog.”

  Then he bolted for the back door, Michael and the goons on his heels. He split off, running around the side of the house furthest away from the dining room as the others went straight to the back door. He was nearly to the front steps when he heard a sharp cry, a frenzy of deep barking, and a single shot.

  His heart in his throat, he flew up the stairs and burst through the front door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Honey sat at the dining room table, her hands flat on the tabletop, and tried not to shake.

  She wasn’t having a lot of luck.

  She tried frantically to think of some way out of this. She was pretty sure Ethan had gotten her warning, but she had no way of knowing for sure. It had been almost ten minutes since he’d called, and Damico was getting agitated.

  He’d switched on the lamp by the front door, casting a bright circle that would spotlight whoever came in, then herded her with a hard jab of the gun to her back into the dining room. The light there was off, and with the rain still falling, it was dim enough to put the dining room in almost complete darkness.

  She flinched as Damico kicked at one of her dining room chairs, sending it flying across the room to crash into the wall. “Where the fuck is he?” He pinned her with a look. “Where’s that burger joint?”

  “Not far,” she told him. Her voice shook despite her best efforts to steady it. “They’re probably busy. It’s Saturday, and the carnival was probably rained out.”

  “Fucking small town bullshit,” he muttered, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. He paced back and forth, his movements jerky and erratic, and she wondered if he was simply worked up or if he was on something. Her gaze kept darting to the gun in his hand, bouncing and jerking as he clenched and unclenched his fist, the chrome glinting in the low light.

  It terrified her, down to her bones, to know he was planning to use that gun on Ethan. And that he would, without hesitation, turn it on her.

  She licked her lips as her eyes darted back to his face, taking in the pinprick pupils that should’ve been dilated in the dim light. Opiates, maybe, and the thought did nothing to lessen her fear. Drugs would only make him that much more unpredictable, that much more difficult to subdue.

  Oh, God, they were going to die if she didn’t do something.

  Ethan was coming, that she knew. He’d never leave her alone, never leave her in harm’s way. The only question was when and how.

  She didn’t know anything about tactics, had no clue if he’d choose to walk straight through the front door or try to sneak in through the back. Maybe he’d even try to get in through one of the windows. He’d almost certainly try to use the element of surprise, but she didn’t know if that would mean a full-frontal assault or a sneak attack. Whatever he’d do, it had to be soon. Ten minutes had passed since he’d called, though it seemed like an hour with that gun in the room.

  He was coming, and she was just sitting there, just sitting there waiting to be rescued like some stupid fairytale princess with more hair than brains and fuck that. She wasn’t going to just do nothing, wasn’t going to sit by as Ethan put himself in harm’s way for her.

  She was going to do something.

  She swallowed the huge ball of fear that lodged in her throat and drew herself up. She opened her mouth just as she heard the distinctive slap of the doggie door in the kitchen.

  Damico whirled toward the sound, the gun coming up. “What the fuck was that?”

  Oh God, Milo. “The doggie door,” she managed, shoving to her feet as Damico bolted toward the kitchen. She scrambled around the table, panic making her stumble. “I have a dog, please don’t hurt him!”

  “Sit the fuck back down,” he growled and swung the gun back toward her.

  She froze halfway around the table, her hands held out in an unconscious plea as she lowered herself into a chair. “Please,” she said again, her voice hoarse with strain. “Don’t hurt my dog.”

  He swung out, the gun clenched in his hand, and caught her across the cheekbone with his fist. Pain burst in her head, a lightning flash of agony. She heard herself cry out, felt herself falling. She tried to catch herself, grasping for the edge of the table. But she missed, fingernails scraping on wood, and hit the floor with a jarring thud.

  The air seemed to explode with sound, sharp barks and shouts. Her vision had gone blurry with pain, but through the haze she saw Milo leap out of the kitchen doorway, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. Damico swung around, anger and terror and disbelief on his face as Milo leapt up, all one hundred and seventy-five pounds of him going for the jugular.

  The gun went off, and she screamed and screamed and screamed.

  ETHAN BURST THROUGH the front door, all plans for finesse or stealth having fled at the sound of the shot. The light by the door was bright, blinding him, but he could hear the sounds of a scuffle coming from the dining room. Thinking only of getting to Honey, he charged forward.

  And came skidding to a halt.

  On the floor in front of the dining room table was Milo, snarling, with his muzzle bloodied, on top of a bleeding Anthony Damico. A chrome revolver lay several feet away from Damico’s outstretched hand, and a pool of blood had already formed, soaking into the patterned rug under the dining room table.

  Milo turned his head and gave a low woof, and Ethan vowed then and there to buy the big
lug the biggest, meatiest bone he could find as soon as possible. He scooped up the revolver and emptied it, shoving the bullets into his pocket before laying the gun on the table.

  Talking softly to Milo, lest the dog mistake his intentions for anything less than friendly, he leaned over to peer down into Damico’s face. Not unconscious, he surmised, but not exactly alert, either, and having nearly two hundred pounds of dog pressing him into the floor was likely making it hard to breathe.

  He really didn’t care.

  The clamor of feet in the kitchen made him raise his head, and he caught a glimpse of movement out the corner of his eye. “Michael, come in slow,” he called out as he made his way around the dining room table. “Damico’s down, but I don’t want you to startle Milo.”

  “Milo?” Michael eased into the dining room, the two goons close behind. When he spotted Damico sprawled out, bleeding and semi-conscious under the dog, he started to grin. “Well, hell. I feel a little superfluous.”

  Ethan barely heard him. He’d spotted Honey sprawled on the floor on the far side of the table, half under an overturned chair. She struggled to push herself up, a broken moan spilling from her lips. Her hair was tousled, her eyes dazed with pain and fear. He could see the marks on her face, the split skin over her cheekbone that was trickling blood. Bruises were already blooming, her skin waxy and pale under her tan.

  “Ethan?”

  “Easy, sweetheart.” He gathered her in his arms, lifting her to cradle her against his chest. He pressed his lips to her hair, swamped with relief. “I’ve got you.”

  “You came.” Her voice was thick with tears, and a hard shudder went through her. A sob broke through as she buried her face against his throat, and he felt the warm, wet trickle of her tears on his skin.

  “Of course, I came.” He maneuvered around the table, glancing at Michael as he passed by. “You got this?”

  “Yeah.” Michael’s eyes were dark with concern. “She okay?”

  “I think so. Just give us a minute.”

  He walked into the living room just as David stepped tentatively through the open front door. His eyes widened as he saw Honey cradled in Ethan’s arms, and widened further still when he looked past them to the scene in the dining room. Ethan nodded at him, saw the other man’s eyes light with understanding. He sat down on the sofa, cradling Honey against his chest. She continued to sob, her whole body shaking so hard he feared she’d be sick. He stroked her back, her hair, whispering nonsense that he hoped would soothe. Finally, after what seemed to Ethan like an eternity, she quieted.

  “Okay?” he murmured against her hair, and she nodded into his shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Her voice was thick and hoarse from crying. “I’m sorry.”

  He kissed her head gently. “Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.”

  She pulled back slightly to peer at him with red-rimmed eyes, her face blotchy. “You got my warning.”

  “I got it.” He brushed the tears from her lashes, being careful to avoid her bruised and bleeding cheek. “Pretty damn smart of you.”

  “Thanks.” Her breath shuddered out. “I was so scared for you.”

  He stared at her. “For me?”

  She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes again. “He was going to kill you.”

  He would’ve killed you, too, he thought but didn’t say it. “I know. But he didn’t. And he won’t.”

  She stared at him for a beat, then her eyes went wide. “Oh God, you didn’t kill him?”

  He shook his head. “He’s still breathing.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, her eyes closing in relief as she slumped against him.

  He frowned. “Why ‘thank God’?”

  She sniffed as she wrapped her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. “Because. I know you’d have done it if you had to, but I’m so glad you didn’t have to.”

  His breath soughed out in a sigh, and he buried his face in the warm, soft skin of her neck. “Yeah.”

  The sound of a throat clearing brought his head up.

  Michael stood by the chair, a cell phone in his hand, his dark eyes faintly amused. “Hate to interrupt, but we have a little business to handle.”

  Ethan nodded, shifting his grip as Honey sat up straighter on his lap. “I need to talk to Michael, babe.” He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Be right back, okay?”

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t shut me out of this, Ethan.”

  “Honey,” he began, then sighed as he saw her face settle into familiar, stubborn lines. “Okay. I guess you earned the right to be in on this conversation.”

  He set her carefully on her feet, then rose to stand beside her. Her hand slipped into his as he looked expectantly at Michael.

  His friend’s lips twitched once before he sobered once more. “I take it you don’t want to handle this personally.”

  Ethan shook his head, giving Honey’s hand a gentle squeeze when she jerked beside him. “No. I’m done with that.”

  “I thought you would be,” Michael nodded and held up the cell phone. “Marco wants a word.”

  Ethan glanced at Honey as he took the phone. She was still too pale, and her cheek was beginning to swell. But her gaze was steady, and her hand gripped his firmly. He sent her a small wink as he put the phone to his ear and felt her answering smile all the way to his toes.

  “This is Ethan.”

  “Ethan.” Marco Giordano’s voice carried clearly over the line, strong and calm. “I wanted to make sure you’re unhurt.”

  “I’m fine.” He glanced at Honey, at the bruising and swelling marring her lovely face. His voice went hard as steel. “My woman isn’t.”

  Honey scowled at him, whether it was because she took exception to being called his woman or to being discussed with a mob boss, he didn’t know.

  “So my men have informed me,” Marco said. “Does she require medical attention?”

  “I’m taking her to the ER to get checked out,” Ethan responded, eyeing her split cheek critically. She shook her head at him, her frown intensifying, and he shifted the phone slightly away from his mouth. “You’re going if I have to hog-tie you,” he informed her, and Marco’s deep chuckle sounded in his ear as her mouth fell open in shock.

  “She sounds like a stubborn woman,” Marco said, amusement ripe in his tone.

  “An understatement,” Ethan muttered, and Marco laughed again.

  “You’ll inform me if she requires further treatment and forward all of her medical bills to me.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Ethan didn’t bother to answer.

  “I want to thank you for honoring our agreement,” Marco continued, the humor fleeing his tone. “If you’re comfortable with it, my men will escort Anthony home.”

  “I’m fine with that,” Ethan said slowly, “as long as we agree that you’ll keep him from ever coming my way again.”

  “You have my word,” Marco said, and the calm certainty in his tone sent chills up Ethan’s spine. He very carefully didn’t look at Honey, didn’t want to answer the question he knew he’d see in her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “I wish you the best with your new life, Ethan. Make it a good one.”

  When the line clicked off, Ethan passed the phone to Michael. The other man slipped it into his pocket, his eyes knowing as he watched Ethan. His gaze flicked to Honey. “I wonder if you could do us a favor.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “What?”

  He tilted his head toward the dining room. “Call off the dog?”

  “Oh, my God!” Honey gasped, and jerking her hand from Ethan’s, darted around Michael. She skidded to a halt a few feet away from where Milo still lay, sprawled over a moaning and still bleeding Damico. Ethan saw her pale slightly at the sight of the blood, then she went to her knees.

  “Milo. Come here, baby. Here, boy.” She clapped her hands lightly, her voice soft and cajoling. The dog lumbered to his feet, stomping all over Damico in the process, and ambled in his loose, disjointed
way over to her.

  “That’s my boy,” she crooned as tears sprang to her eyes again. She buried her face in the loose skin of his neck. “That’s my good, good boy.”

  Ethan stepped up next to her, angling his body to block her from the sight of Damico being hauled, groaning and cursing to his feet. Giordano’s men flanked him, each maintaining an iron grip as he sagged slightly between him. Ethan noted dispassionately that the bleeding on his left arm had slowed somewhat, though it still dripped onto the floor.

  “We’ll be going now, Mr. Sullivan,” the short one said. “Mr. Giordano is waiting for him in New York.”

  Ethan didn’t trust himself to speak, just nodded. He didn’t flinch as Damico’s eyes latched onto him, the confusion in them clearing as the other man recognized him. “You,” he choked out, his eyes filling with a seething hate that, despite everything, caught Ethan by surprise. “You should be dead.”

  Ethan simply stared, saying nothing for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the goons. “Get him out of here.”

  Both men nodded and began to walk toward the front door, half dragging, half carrying Damico between them. He jerked against their hold, shouting as they pulled him along. “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch! You’re dead, you and your fucking bitch—”

  “Shut him up before the whole neighborhood hears him,” Michael growled, and with a sickening crunch, Tall and Beady delivered a short-armed punch to Damico’s face. Unconscious, his head lolled back and his body sagged as they dragged him out the front door.

  A wide-eyed David shut it behind them. “Holy shit.”

  Ethan had an absurd urge to grin. “Yeah. Do me a favor, give Seth the all clear? I never did set up that call.”

  “Sure thing.” David’s eyes darted to Honey, still curled on the floor with Milo all but on her lap. “In fact, I’ll just head back over. Um.” He shifted awkwardly. “You guys need anything?”

  Honey turned her face up to smile at him. It was shaky, and there were fresh tears on her cheeks, but her face held an oddly peaceful look. “Thanks, David.”