Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

The mansion is silent at five in the morning. Outside, the sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but it will soon. I stand in the hallway outside of Kim’s room. Brianne’s in there, asleep on Kim’s couch; they had a little movie night together, at my request.

The door is shut and barred, and it should stay that way until I use my key to open it again.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and check a message on my encrypted texting app.

Jean: In position. You give the word.

Julien: Hold. Two minutes.

I shove my phone away and glance back at Kim’s door. They’ll be safe—they have to be safe. I wish I could’ve gotten them out, but with Kim’s injuries, it just wasn’t feasible. And I knew there was no way Brianne would ever leave without her friend.

This will have to be enough.

I walk through the halls, taking my time. The mansion’s the heart of my family’s presence here in America. Grandpère insisted on buying it when I first began my branch of the organization, even though I told him it wouldn’t be necessary. And I was right: I’ve barely used this place over the years, preferring to live in my old apartment, pre-bomb.

Although it has been nice for meetings. Everyone’s impressed by a big, old house.

And having a base of operations hasn’t been so bad.

It does mean our power is concentrated. If I had my way, the organization would be much less centralized, much more dispersed, but this is Grandpère’s old way of thinking.

He’s still stuck in the old days where a single man sits atop the family hierarchy and sends orders down to the soldiers.

But those days are gone. The US government is very good at using RICO statutes to dismantle organizations like ours, and we’ve only survived this long because we’re too small to go after.

Grandpère has done nothing but jeopardize that tenuous peace.

I reach a room on the far side of the building. It’s not a suite I’ve been in before, but this is my house, after all. I take a key from my pocket and hold it up to the light.

There aren’t any doors in this place I can’t open.

The key slides into the lock and turns. It clicks, and I push the door open.

Inside, the suite looks a lot like my own. A central sitting area with a fireplace and comfortable couches, a small kitchenette, currently messy and filled with dishes, and a hall leading back to the bedrooms. Two glasses of wine sit on a nearby table. Three empty bottles are on the counter. I smile to myself as I move down the hall.

He’s going to be in rough shape this morning.

The first door is open. It’s a guest room, untouched. I pass it and head to the next door. This one’s closed, but it’s not locked.

The bedroom is dark. I step inside, straight into a shaft of light as the sun begins to rise outside. There are clothes on the floor and a pair of high heels look like they were carelessly tossed beside a chest of drawers and a pair of men’s underwear.

Two shapes are lying under the sheets. One is snoring softly, a low grumble, and the other is facing the other way, body curled into a little ball. I pull out my gun and click back the slide, chambering a round, as I walk to the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Henri stares at me with confusion. He’s not snoring anymore. The girl in bed with him stirs, grumbling something, and pokes her head up. She’s young—nineteen or twenty at most—and some kind of Eastern European. I’d bet just about anything she’s a prostitute.

“You know what your only mistake was?” I ask Henri, aiming the gun at his face.

The girl yelps and scrambles away. The sheets fall away, revealing a petite, pale body, naked in the red and pink sunrise. I don’t even glance in her direction.

“Julien, you’re being foolish,” Henri says, sitting up slightly. I press the gun tighter to his head. “Your grandfather will not stand for this.”

“You’re definitely right about that. Grandpère will be very unhappy when he hears about what I’ve done.”

“Then what are you thinking? You still need him, boy. His heroin connections. The shipments. Without those, you’re nothing.”

“Are you sure about that?” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “You forget. I have new allies now.”

“We’re stronger together.” Henri’s tone hardens. I think he’s beginning to understand that he’s finished. “We’re a family. For fuck’s sake, boy.”

“Family? That’s really the word you want to use? Grandpère adopted me, but kept me at a distance. I was never a part of this family, not really.”

“You ungrateful fool.”

“But you want to hear your real mistake?” I lean closer, rage rolling down my skin like electricity through a wire. “You never should have messed with my wife.”

“Julien—” he says, eyes wide with panic.

I pull the trigger. The bullet rips through his skull, spraying the wall with blood and brains, a beautiful, gory abstract painting blooming behind him.

The girl screams. She pulls the sheets up as if they’ll protect her and starts begging for her life in Russian.

“If you want to survive this,” I tell her, turning and walking away, “stay in bed until the shooting stops.”

I leave Henri’s suite and send a single message to Jean.

Julien: Go.