Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

“That’s his place.” Jean leans forward over the steering wheel and gestures with his chin toward a check-cashing place in the middle of a strip mall. The front’s gaudy, covered in signs and advertisements. “Word is he’s got an office in the back.”

I’m staring out the window. A big truck’s parked a few spaces away, and even though the front is tinted, I know who’s behind the wheel. “Is that what Ronan said?”

“Niall, actually. Ronan’s staying home.”

I grunt and shake my head. “Typical fucking coward.”

“From what I understand, it’s not really normal for the boss to go on jobs like this.” Jean gives me a meaningful look. “But for what it’s worth, I believe them.”

I grunt and let the issue drop. It’s a little after eleven and the check-cashing place officially closes in an hour. I settle in to wait, trying to keep my mind focused on the night ahead, but still drifting back to her.

Brianne’s mouth on mine. Her lips wrapped around the head of my cock. Her legs spread, her moans in my ear, her orgasm ringing through the air.

All I want in the whole world right now is to plunge myself inside of her.

It’s complicated and messy. I could tell she didn’t like it when I left earlier. But I couldn’t help myself, and I don’t regret fucking her, not even the slightest bit.

If anything, it made me want her even more.

She’s my wife. Not in some ceremonial sense, but literally, physically, all the ways that matter. When the bomb went off, all I could hear were her terrified screams, and those keep playing in my head, over and over, like a horror movie on a loop.

I can’t lose her. I just can’t. But I also won’t let myself squander the time I have with her, either.

“You’re quiet over there.” Jean’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Does this have anything to do with you and your wife living back in the mansion?”

“I’m trying to focus on the mission, that’s all.”

He snorts and looks at me. “Come on, don’t give me that shit. You haven’t left that room in over a day.”

“That’s not true.”

“I went looking for you this morning, asshole. Alexandre told me the door hasn’t opened in nearly a day. Then you call about setting up hospital equipment, but you rush off the phone without explaining.”

My jaw tenses. “Tell Alexandre he’d better watch his fucking mouth.”

“Don’t take it out on the guards, Julien. What’s going on with the girl?”

“Nothing’s going on. She’s my wife. It’s a business arrangement. That’s the end of it.”

Jean goes quiet. He brushes his fingers over the steering wheel before speaking again. “It’s okay to like your wife, you know.”

“Thank you, I’m aware.”

“I just mean, I understand that you two didn’t start off the way most relationships do, but who the fuck cares? We aren’t exactly normal people.”

He’s got a point there. “That’s not the problem.”

“What is then?”

“She made it clear that she doesn’t want something long-term.”

He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “And you do?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t know how to. I never thought I was the marriage type. In my head, when I asked Ronan for a wife, I was getting out of my arrangement with Collette while also strengthening ties with a worthwhile ally. Now though, now that I’ve been with Brianne for a little while and experienced what it’s like to be her husband, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve always been the marriage type, only I hadn’t found the right wife.

“She pisses me off,” I say after a while. “She’s stubborn. Self-absorbed. Headstrong.”

“She’s beautiful. She makes you laugh.” Jean rolls his eyes when I glare at him. “I know you better than anyone, you prick. Just admit you like the girl.”

“Fine. I like her. She’s my fucking wife. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. That’s the point I’m trying to make. Let yourself be happy for once, for fuck’s sake.”

I grunt in reply and stare at the check-cashing place. “We’re at war. Grandpère is trying to undermine my grip on this organization. This is a very bad time to fall for my wife.”

“But you admit that you’re falling for her.”

Jean’s grin is infuriating and I don’t bother responding.

I try not to think about Brianne for the rest of the evening, but that’s more or less impossible. The second I think I’ve mastered it, suddenly I see her in my head again, her devilish smile, her proud smirk as she takes my cock into her mouth, her moans as she comes, her sweaty, satisfied grin as she lounges on the bed naked and happy.

When midnight finally rolls around, I know there’s only one way to get my head right.

“Violence time,” I murmur as I open the car door.

There aren’t many vehicles left in the parking lot. But as soon as I step out, the truck’s door opens too. Niall appears, followed by several Irish soldiers from the back. Further down, some of my men pile out of an SUV, and a grand total of eleven armed and dangerous men storm across the parking lot.

Niall takes point. Half the soldiers go around the back to make sure nobody can escape out that way. I nod at Jean, and Niall yanks open the door, and the whole crew crashes in the front.

The place is dim. The front windows are covered with bulletproof glass. There’s a lone clerk typing on a computer and he doesn’t notice until Niall starts kicking down the door that leads into his part of the building. The man shouts in alarm, and I have to step up and help before the door finally cracks off its hinges in a shower of wood and plaster.

The employees’ section is filled with safes, registers, money bags, and piles of cigarettes for sale. The soldiers fan out and start trashing the place, smashing everything and stealing as much money as they can get their hands on. They have orders to make it look like a robbery.

There’s a scream from further on. I follow a narrow hallway with Jean and Niall at my back. Ahead, the clerk is cowering on his knees, as one of my men stands over him, gun pointed at his head. The fluorescent lights dim and flicker as I approach.

“Please, take what you want,” the clerk says. He’s in his forties or fifties, balding, heavy, with a hooked nose and a distinctly Eastern European look. Grubby white shirt tucked into jeans. Puma shoes, smudged and worn in. “I do not care, just don’t hurt me.”

“Where is Dusan?” I ask him.

The man’s eyes widen. “Who? I do not know this⁠—”

I shove the barrel of my gun against his left eye. I push hard and feel his eyeball flex. “Where is Dusan?”

“He has an office,” the man whines. “Please, I don’t know. He’s not here.”

I curse and look around. “Which room?”

“That door there.” The clerk points. “Stairs go up. His office is there. Please⁠—”

I pull the trigger. His blood and brains shower the wall in a gory spray. I kick his body over and gesture for Jean to stick with me. “Keep an eye on the back,” I order my soldiers. “Niall, take the front. Two minutes.”

We break apart. Jean’s on my tail as I follow the clerk’s instructions. The door leads to a narrow, rickety staircase, and on the second floor is a large office area with several desks. Dirty posters are tacked on the walls, and a huge safe takes up an entire corner.

We rip it to shreds. There’s money, papers, receipts, the sort of shit I expected, but nothing about Dusan’s organization. Someone likely heard that gunshot, which means we don’t have that much time anymore, and I’m betting there are cameras all over the place. Best-case scenario, the cops are on their way. Worst case, it’s Dusan with twenty men.

“Over here,” Jean says, kicking over a chair. He’s got a knife out and he’s ripping into the seat. “Look at this.”

Inside the fabric, hidden under the cushion, is a narrow ledger. He holds it up, grinning, and I take it from him. I flip through, heart racing as I try to make sense of the names and numbers.

In the distance, sirens blare.

“Time to go,” I say, shoving the ledger into my back pocket.

We hurry back down the steps. The place already smells like kerosene: Niall’s men are splashing it all over the front. I step over dark pools of the stuff and follow them out the front door. They spill a line of accelerant in a zig-zagging pattern before Niall tosses a Zippo into the mess.

It burns with an audible whoosh. The air sizzles as the fire swallows the storefront. All that paper, all those cigarettes, they’re good kindling. The kerosene just helped it all get started.

“Find anything good?” Niall asked.

“Might have.” I show him the ledger, but I don’t hand it over. “I’ll have a copy made for your boss.”

“Good.” Niall looks grim. “This wasn’t my idea, you know. This fucking war.”

“Maybe not, but you’re in it now.” I grin at him viciously as the building begins to burn.

The sirens are still distant, but they’re coming.