Lace and Bullets: A Hitman Romance (2 page)

F
uck
. By the time he’d cleared the perimeter, it had been too late. Angelo had already sent everything straight to hell. He was supposed to go in, intimidate the DA and get the files. Not get into a shootout with the son of a bitch.

Damien popped his knuckles and exhaled. Marcelo expected a clean job, not a bloodbath. Angelo had strict orders. Rough him up. Threaten to expose him. Hurt him where it counts. No bullets.

A crooked lawyer was no good dead.

Now Damien had to clean up the mess and hope his head wouldn’t roll for it. He’d been Marcelo’s faithful employee for five years. Drug runs. Deals with dirty cops. The necessary hits. Never something this fucked up. This stupid.

Thanks to Angelo he would never learn the truth.

He rolled his shoulders and focused his mind.
Easy in, easy out.
He pulled his hood over his head and clicked the safety off his gun.
Pretend it’s any other job.

With a last scan of the building’s perimeter, Damien hopped the bushes and crept to the window. He had disabled the security system hours ago. No one at the DA’s overpriced security firm even knew there was a reason to worry. All they saw on their video feeds was an endless loop of boring old George Davenport, sitting at his desk, drinking scotch. Just like every other night.

Too bad he would never do that again.

Damien eased in through the broken pane and stepped onto thick, immaculate carpet. The hallway stretched on for twenty feet. Every room he passed was full of paintings, sculptures, and a whole host of useless bullshit people with money insisted on buying.

The DA lived in style.

Not anymore. Because of Angelo’s trigger finger, the city was rid of one crook in the legal department. But you cut off one head and another would only rise to take its place. With any luck, the next DA would be even slimier than Davenport. He would probably be even easier for Marcelo to control.

Damien strode into the office.
Christ
. The DA lay back in his chair, a look of horror frozen on his face, blood stains blooming like roses on his chest.

Angelo called out to him. “H-help me.” The man was soaked in his own blood. It bubbled out his mouth and dribbled down his chin. It slipped over his fingers and pooled on the floor. The cloying smell made Damien recoil.

How could you ruin this?

He bent over the man who’d once offered to help him. “You were supposed to wait.” Angelo struggled to speak. Nothing came out but blood.

Damien couldn’t manage more than a whisper himself. “This shouldn’t have gone this way, man.”

“D-d-don’t give up.” Angelo choked out the words and they cut worse than a knife. Angelo was one of the few in the cartel worth a damn. Without him around…Damien clenched his fists and stood up.

“Don’t got a choice. The DA’s dead. He can’t talk.”

He turned away in disgust. Angelo should have waited. Done what he had been told. The asshole always thought with his fist or his dick. Sometimes both.

Damien had left that life behind a long time ago. Emotion got you killed. Worse.

He scanned the room. Maybe he would get lucky. He strode to the file cabinet and tore it open.

Angelo gurgled from the middle of the carpet. Damien kept searching. He reached the last cabinet and stood up.
Fuck
.

He scrubbed his face with his hand. The day had started out fine. He had shoved a hungover blonde with tits like cantaloupes out of his bed and headed to the gym for a training session. Then dinner and a shower and time to prepare.

This had been his chance. An opportunity to finally learn the truth. Now Angelo had fucked it all up.

He stalked back to the man and picked him up by the shirt. He needed to suffer. “Did you ask him?”

Angelo moaned and shook his head.
Damn it.
Damien let him go and he fell to the floor in a heap.

Damien would never know what really happened.

He stepped around the groaning man and pulled a glove from his back pocket. He would clean this up. Then he would tell Marcelo and wait for all hell to break loose with a hundred-proof bottle and a cheap date from the corner bar.

His life would go on as usual.

He bent down and picked up the DA’s gun before turning back to Angelo.

The man didn’t deserve sympathy. Not after ruining everything. He shrugged. “Sorry, my man. I have no choice.”

He pointed the gun at the closest person to a friend he’d had in years and aimed for his chest. He fired.

The bullet pierced Angelo’s heart, the life in his eyes dimmed out, and Damien tilted his head to the side.

He swore he heard something. After tossing the gun on the floor by the DA’s feet, he turned around.

Low couch against the wall. Guest chairs. A bookcase full of leather-bound law the DA didn’t care about.

Aw, fuck no.
A coat closet.
How did I miss it?
It couldn’t have been bigger than a few feet, but it would hold a person.

He pulled out his other glove and slipped it on. Killing a witness wasn’t on the agenda, but it was definitely in the hitman rule book. Damien stepped closer. With the slats in the door, whoever was inside saw the whole thing.

The shootout. The murder. His face.

Maybe he would be lucky and it would be a golden retriever or a ferret. Hell, he’d settle for a wild tiger. But luck seemed to always pass him by. It had died along with his childhood a long time ago.

Damien ground his teeth and flexed his hands. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle.

Here we go.

He tugged the door open and a whirlwind of brown hair and honey skin flew at him. All limbs and shrieks, the wild thing launched to his left, trying to escape. His arms wrapped around her middle.

She kicked out, her bare feet landing glancing blows on his shins and ankles. She tried to knee him in the crotch and Damien spun the hellcat around.

She clawed at his hands and got nothing but glove. She screamed, but no one could hear her.

His grip around her middle tightened enough to crack ribs. She didn’t care. Her teeth sunk into his sweatshirt but didn’t break the skin. Her legs flew out and she slammed them against the wall before pushing off.

Damn pixie made him stagger. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty, but she packed a wallop in every one.

He admired that.

Too bad she had witnessed the murder and seen his face. With one arm still wrapped tight around her waist, he reached up and wrapped his free hand around her throat. Their bodies crashed into the wall and she let out a grunt.

He spun her around and pinned her body to the wood paneling. From the way she moved, she couldn’t be family. The DA lived a life of wretched excess.

Any daughter or niece of his wouldn’t raise a single manicured nail in her own defense. She would probably just blink her fake-eyelashed lids at Damien until he had squeezed the life out of her.

Staff? Maid? Damien reached up and brushed her tangled clump of hair off her face.

Whoa
. Huge chocolate eyes, bright pink lips and cheeks to match. High cheekbones and a button nose. She was gorgeous. Damien blinked and tightened his grip on her neck.

Her fingers scrabbled at the back of his gloved hand.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice came out gravely and dangerous. Just the way he liked it.

The woman tried to kick him in the balls. He tightened his grip.

She puckered her lips and spit in his face. He wiped it off.

“Don’t make me squeeze your throat until your eyeballs pop out.”

Her body stilled.

“What’s your name?”

The witness opened her mouth, but he held her too tight to speak. He loosened his grip and she gulped in a huge breath of air.

“Fuck you!”

Damien tightened his grip.

Her eyes turned to saucers and her cheeks burned. He held her there, starving for oxygen, until her lips turned blue.

“I’m going to ask it again. Answer or you die, right here, right now. Who are you?”

He loosened his hold and she croaked out a response.

“M…Mia Davenport.”

Damien frowned.

“The…DA’s…daughter.”

Holy shit.
Damien steeled himself so she didn’t see the shock. Any bit of leverage she got over him would cost him his life. He couldn’t afford a mistake.

He stared at her. She looked nothing like her father. Where he was bloated like a fat cat on cream, she was slender. Where he was pale and flaccid, she was tan and sexy.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“Prove it.”

She swallowed and her throat convulsed under his hand. “How?”

Damien frowned. It should be easy. “A photo of the two of you. Something that shows you together.”

She laughed and it startled him. “You might as well kill me now, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father hates me. He would never have a picture of us lying around the house.”

“Then think of something else.”

The pink tip of her tongue darted out and traced a path across her lower lip. Damien thought of very wicked things. “Hurry up.”

“My name’s on my driver’s license. Would that do?”

No.
“Fine. Where is it?”

“Upstairs.”

Shit
. He pulled the gun from his waistband and held it to her temple. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

I should have killed her the minute I opened the closet door.
With one hand on her neck and the gun digging a ditch into her scalp, Damien escorted Mia down the hall and up the stairs. He hated mansions. Everything about them said corruption and dirty money, backroom deals and ruined lives.

She motioned to a room in the hall and he nudged the door open with his foot. Sterile was the best word to describe it.

Feminine and presentable, sure, but not the room of a daughter who stayed with dear old dad more than once in a blue moon.

“This your room?”

“N-no. Dad never gave me my own room here. It’s just a guest room. My purse is on the dresser.” She pointed a trembling finger across the room.

He let her neck go. “Get it. Bring me your ID.”

She scurried away from him and reached for her purse. It fell to the ground and the contents went everywhere.

Shit
. “Pick them up.”

Her hair fell in front of her face as she did his bidding. A handful at a time, the Kleenex and mints and earbuds all went back in the bag. At last, she picked up her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license. She held it out as she stood. “Here.”

Damien glanced at it without moving his gun away from his target. Mia Davenport. Just like she had said.
Damn
.

He opened his mouth to say something when it happened.

A flash of metal, a shriek of fury, and Damien threw the woman to the ground. She landed with a thud and he stepped on her wrist with his boot.

“Trying to stab me isn’t very lady like, is it?” He bent down and plucked the nail file from her hand.

“Let me go!”

“Not a chance.”

“You’ll never get away with this!”

Damien cocked his head. The DA’s daughter. She was probably as dirty as her old man. She didn’t deserve his sympathy.

The faint wail of a siren interrupted his thoughts.
Shit
. “Time to go.”

“Where?”

“To sleep.” He gripped his pistol by the butt and slammed it down on the side of her head.

D
amien crouched
at Mia’s side. One blow to the head and he had knocked her out cold. It was his first chance to really get a look at her.

Damien brushed a lock of dark hair away and traced the defined angle of her jaw, the slender slope of her neck, the swoop of her collarbone beneath the strap of her tank top.

She barely wore anything at all. A scrap of see-through black lace for a shirt. Pink terry cloth shorts that didn’t quite cover enough.

Between her perky little tits that stared at him through the lace, to the firm, sexy ass peeking out from below, Damien didn’t know where to look. Any other situation and he would have called her baby and pinned her to the wall for a different reason all together.

But the District Attorney’s daughter would never go for a thug like him. Especially not once she watched him put Angelo out of his misery.

Damien scratched the stubble on his chin. He had two options.

Kill her and be on the run forever.

Kidnap her and hand her over to the cartel.

Both options had their merits. If he killed her, the cartel wouldn’t protect him. He would have failed at the job. It was a one strike and you’re out kind of family.

If he handed her over, she would be beaten. Tortured. Grilled for information only the DA could provide. Marcelo would use her up before he got a single answer. No way did daddy’s darling little girl know what her father as up to.

He watched her chest rise and fall with her breath. Killing her wouldn’t get him anything but a life sentence. Kidnapping…If he could use her as leverage…

It might set him free.

Damn it.
He was running out of time.

Before he could change his mind, he scooped Mia up and navigated through the mansion and back outside. Her body was too easy to carry. Light and delicate and nothing like Damien. Where he was rough around the edges, she was soft. Where he was scarred and tattooed, she was untouched. Pure.

His teeth sounded like sandpaper as they ground together. It hadn’t been that long ago that he had held another woman like this in his arms. Only she wasn’t passed out.

Her brown hair and blue eyes. Sad, small smile. The image of her burned inside his mind. Damien shoved the memories down and squeezed through a gap in the shrubbery. His trunk beeped open and he dumped Mia, still passed out, inside.

Kidnapping it is.

He hurried to the driver’s seat, started the car, and pulled into the lane. As he left the crime scene behind, he relaxed. Little by little the rush of adrenaline faded and Damien could breathe.

He unzipped his hoodie and peeled off his gloves. Better not to look like a criminal when you were carrying around a hostage. He checked the rear view mirror and softened his expression.

No furrowed brow or shifty eyes. Just an ordinary driver on his way home. Not a murderer. A kidnapper. A thug.

Damien checked his mirror and merged onto the highway one mile an hour under the speed limit. Kidnapping wasn’t part of his game. He stuck to the simple things like easy targets and no witnesses.

Marcelo deemed him worthy because he never fucked up. No one ever had to clean up his jobs. It was why he had been allowed to stick around so long.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek and put on his blinker to change lanes. If Marcelo knew the reason he had insisted on following Angelo wasn’t to make sure the job was done right…

Damien couldn’t think about it. He would take the DA’s daughter to a safe house and come up with a plan.

The ring of his cell phone made him jump. “Damien here.”

“We hear the intimidation didn’t go according to plan.”

Shit. They knew already?
If Donny, Marcelo’s right-hand man was calling, it wasn’t good.

Damien tried to sound calm and matter of fact. “The DA had a concealed weapon. Angelo panicked.”

Silence on the other line. Damien scowled. It wasn’t like Donny to be so reserved.

“I cleaned up. Took care of Angelo. It’ll look like a robbery gone bad.”

“Marcelo is upset. The cops are all over the place. His inside man isn’t responding to his calls. He wants you to come in.”

Damien cursed under his breath. He needed a game plan before he showed up carrying his little bundle of joy. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Are you questioning Marcelo’s judgment?”

“If the scene is so hot, I should lay low. Wait it out. Let the police and the media swarm the place. Once it all dies down, I’ll come to Marcelo.”

“Is there a reason for the police to suspect you?”

“Fuck, no. But I want to be safe. I’m looking out for the family. I’m keeping Marcelo out of it.”

Donny thought it over. “Fine. Use the safe house on Hatchet. It’s empty. Three days. No more.”

“Understood.” Damien hung up the phone as blue lights lit up his rear window. He glanced down at the speedometer and cursed. He had lost track of the speed talking to Donny.

A traffic stop was the last thing he needed. Damien slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the highway. He kept his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two and looked straight ahead. He knew the drill.

The officer rapped on the window. “License and registration, please.”

Damien smiled and spoke loud enough for the cop to hear through the window. “My license is in my wallet in my jeans and my registration is in the glove box. Can I get them?”

The cop nodded. From the looks of him, he was one of the mellow ones.
Thank God.
Damien pulled out the requested items and rolled down his window. He handed them over and the cop flicked his flashlight over both.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Damien winced. “Speeding, right? I’m sorry, I just lost track of how fast I was going.”

“Happens to all of us. I’ll be right back.”

The cop walked back to his patrol car and Damien exhaled. He hadn’t even taken the time to cover Mia’s mouth or bind her wrists. If she woke up while they were stopped…

A door behind him slammed and Damien braced himself.
Stay cool.
He exhaled as the officer stopped again at his window. He turned with a smile, but the cop’s flashlight blinded him.

“Are you aware you have an outstanding fix-it ticket?”

“For what?”

“Your rear tail light.”
Shit
. Dread slid down Damien’s spine.

“I had that fixed months ago. I must have forgotten to notify the court.”

The officer stepped back. “Hit your brakes, let me check.”

“I really don’t think…” Damien trailed off as the cop disappeared behind his car. From his side mirror, he could see him standing a foot away from the trunk. So close to her…

He clenched his teeth and tapped the brakes. Both tail lights lit up the dark, but the cop didn’t move. Instead, he bent over his clipboard, writing.
Come on, come on.

Every minute the asshole spent back there upped the odds Damien would never see a sunrise again. No one kidnapped a district attorney’s daughter and made it out of jail alive.

At last, the cop reappeared and handed him a yellow slip. “I’ll note in the system that your tail light is fixed. Lucky for you. Otherwise, I’d have had to impound the vehicle.”

Damien took the paper and nodded. “Thank you, officer.”

The cop tipped his hat. “You drive a little slower, now.”

“Sure thing.”

The cop walked back to his vehicle and Damien slumped in the driver seat. At least one thing had gone his way today. The patrol car pulled back onto the highway and Damien waited until he was out of sight before doing the same.

Twenty minutes later, he backed into the carport of a tidy brick ranch on a quiet residential street. Anyone who walked by the place saw a well-maintained yard, a pot of red flowers out front, and all the trappings of respectability.

No one would ever think some of the worst criminals the city of Wellington had ever seen used it as a front. Everyone from murderers to weapons runners to Marcelo’s own family members had stayed there. The cartel might make its money on crime, but it was bigger than the seedy underbelly of town.

Damien stared out from the dark car, watching for any movement on the street. Nothing. All the families of Hatchet Street were nestled snug in their beds, oblivious to the danger in their midst.

He opened his door and got out of the car.

Now came the tough part. Damien fished for the spare key under the mat and unlocked the door. All clean and quiet, just like Donny had promised. He hustled to the bedroom and ripped the comforter off the bed. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

Carting it back out to the car, he braced himself and popped the trunk. If she flew at him, he would muffle her in the layers of fluffy down. But he needn’t have worried. She was just as he had left her. Unconscious and easy.

Damien wrapped Mia up in the comforter and carted her inside. He leaned back on the door, her body still limp in his arms, until his heart slowed. It didn’t matter how many jobs he had done or how many fights he had been in. There was a fine line between adrenaline and panic.

He laid her on the floor, still bundled into a fluffy white mess, and pulled a chair into the center of the living room. She offered no resistance as he shoved the comforter aside and picked her up. He sat her on the chair and used the phone cord to bind her wrists and ankles.

After she was secure, he put the comforter back and searched for something to keep her quiet. The last thing he needed was her waking up screaming. No one screamed in this part of town.

A dishcloth would do. He hustled back into the living room and twirled the soft cotton into a gag before shoving it in her mouth and tying it around her head. Damien nodded at his handiwork. Now he could relax.

He grabbed the rest of his things from the car before slumping on the couch. He had shown up at the district attorney’s place full of hope. There had been a moment where he even thought he would get out. The DA would talk, he would find out the truth, and that would be it.

He could walk away.

Instead, it had all gone to shit. The most powerful lawyer in the city was dead and he had been at the scene. He used the guy’s gun to put Angelo out of his misery. He kidnapped his daughter.

There was no getting around it. Damien was fucked.

He couldn’t go to the cops. Half the guys on the force were dirty. The rest were too stupid to help him. The few who were decent, he couldn’t drag into this.

He couldn’t run. Everyone in the city had to be looking for this girl by now.

The cartel was the only option. He looked up at Mia. Her head lolled to the side and a purpling bruise where he had struck her marred her beautiful face. So innocent. Young.

She had lived a life of privilege and excess. Judging by the DA’s house, the girl had never wanted for anything. Now he was going to hand her over to men who would chew her up and spit her out. Men who would use her, break her, take and take until there was nothing left. Then her body would show up somewhere. A runaway. A suicide.

Mia Davenport would never be free again. If only she hadn’t been in the closet. If only she hadn’t witnessed the murder and seen his face.

Damien stood up and strode into the kitchen. It might look like any other house on the block, but this one was full of so much evil, Damien wasn’t sure he would survive.