Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

The fireplace in my office crackles and the warmth of the whiskey spreads into my toes. I look at my phone, wondering if Brianne’s going to text again, but force myself to put it back into my pocket.

I don’t know what made her text to begin with, but I’m glad she did. I needed the distraction.

“Merde, Julien, your books are absolute shit.” Grandpère’s hunched over my desk skimming through my accounting ledger. Those books include all of my organization’s income, including the illegitimate sales and expenses. Most criminals don’t keep books—but most criminals aren’t running multi-million-dollar operations and can afford to forget a few dollars here or there.

Grandpère has had nothing good to say for the past two hours.

He complained about the hidden compartment in which I store the ledgers, and he complained about the quality of the men that work for me, and he complained about my handwriting approximately ten thousand times.

It’s almost like he forgets what I am and where I came from. Like he doesn’t remember how I could barely read and write when he found me, and how I worked my ass off to learn. The scars of those years are still with me, burned into the messy way I form my letters and the way it takes me twice as long to read a book as anyone else I know.

That’s what happens when a boy grows up an orphan on the streets of Marseille.

And yet I did learn.

It killed me, but I learned, despite the brutal way Grandpère insisted on teaching me.

A wrong answer was a swat on the hand with a ruler. Two wrong answers were two swats. And so on, until my fingers were black and blue. Then he’d move on to hitting my arms twice as hard.

Despite all that, I still fucking learned.

I let Grandpère grumble to himself and refill my drink. He’s going to be at this for a while yet, and there’s nothing I can do but sit back and ignore his comments. I remember the biting criticism he tossed my way so casually and cruelly when I was growing up, the way he called me stupid and disgusting, nothing more than a pig in a suit, and I worked my ass off to make him remotely proud. Which rarely happened, but the few times I managed to get his approval only made me crave it even more.

I spent my childhood in crumbling apartments, grabbing a few hours of sleep in moldy basements, stealing bread and cheese from street vendors when their backs were turned, and dumpster-diving when I couldn’t find anything better. I sold drugs at ten and robbed houses at eleven. Grandpère found me at twelve, a dirty street rat skinnier than a piece of rebar, and he brought me back to the Moreau mansion to get cleaned up.

I’ll never forget seeing that house for the first time. I thought it was a dream; I didn’t realize it would be a nightmare. I still don’t know why Grandpère did it, or why he insisted on me never calling him father, or what he wanted to get out of adopting a little street thief and training him in the fine arts of running a criminal empire, but from the day Grandpère took me in until the day I left for America, he insisted that I do everything the proper way. Which meant his way. And the consequences for impropriety were always new and always insidious.

“Come sit down,” he barks at me. “Your pacing is driving me insane.”

“You complain that I take forever to read,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him. “But you’ve been at that for an hour now.”

He gives me a hard stare. “My eyes aren’t what they once were. And watch your damn mouth.”

I shrug slightly, hiding my smile behind a sip of whiskey. “The books are good, Grandpère. They aren’t exactly how you’d keep them, but everything is there and accounted for.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that.” He sits back, giving me his normal look, which is caught somewhere between annoyed and murderous. “I never wanted you to come to America, Julien. You remember that?”

“Hard to forget.” We fought about it for weeks before I finally left to set myself up. “But I’ve earned well.”

“Yes, you have.” He says it very grudgingly. “But you have barely expanded in the last few years.”

“That’s why I married Brianne. My connection to the Hayes Group will guarantee steady shipments of new product at good prices.”

“I don’t want to hear about your dog of an Irish wife,” Grandpère snaps. “I am still unhappy about that.”

I lean forward. “I warned you once. Don’t make me keep saying it. You can insult me, but you will leave Brianne out of it.”

I hold his stare. I want him to understand that I mean this. I have lines, and Grandpère will respect them. It’s strange thinking Brianne is one of those lines, but here I am.

Grandpère’s eyes narrow, but he lets out a huff. “Good. You’re protective of your woman. That’s the way it should be. But don’t forget who I am.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Because the moment I start thinking of him as a doddering old man is the moment I turn my back on a starving bear.

“Your association with the Irish is a reasonable idea,” he says, studying my reaction. Despite myself, I feel a flare of pride. Even still, any praise from Grandpère goes straight to my head, and I hate myself for it, for being so damn weak. “But we can do better.”

I sit up straighter. I don’t like where this is going. “I’m not sure there’s a we at all. You’re here to visit. Nothing more.”

“I’ve been having conversations about your operations. From what I hear, they’re good, but sloppy. I know of a dozen ways to tighten things up, from more varied delivery drivers to a wider range of safehouses. But most of all, I believe I know how we can build a stronger foundation on which to grow.”

I rub my face, barely keeping my frustration in check. “And how’s that?”

“Dusan Petrovic.”

That’s not what I expected. Grandpère watches me carefully as I consider that name. Dusan’s the head of the Serbian mob and a former ally of mine, though we never really got along. I respect him, as far as that goes anyway, and generally, I’ve kept my distance from his territory while he’s done the same for mine. We have a working relationship and a quiet truce, but nothing more.

“I’m not sure what you want with Petrovic,” I say, trying to be very careful. “But we don’t bother each other.”

“That’s your problem.” Grandpère sneers. “You’re too tentative, boy. You’re afraid to change things. To get your hands dirty.”

“This isn’t France,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I don’t have the same power here that you enjoy back home. I have to be more careful.”

“Careful. Pathetic.” Grandpère waves a hand in the air as if warding off flies. “Petrovic has good territory. He’s got a large customer base, lots of pathetic junkies buying his shitty product. That’s a market waiting to be taken.”

“You’re not seeing this clearly.”

“On the contrary, I see it much more clearly than you. Petrovic is weak. His family is tight-knit but they haven’t been in a war in a long time. You have better soldiers, and with my help, we can crush him in a matter of weeks. Once he’s out of the way, it’ll be easy to move in, take control of his territory, and double the size of your own in one fell swoop.”

I can’t believe what the crazy old bastard’s saying.

From an outsider’s perspective, it might make sense. Dusan’s family is very concentrated. There aren’t a whole lot of Serbians in the city, and they’re extremely wary about working with outsiders. It took a lot of effort to make Dusan agree to work with us during the first alliance, and that fell apart very quickly.

In a vacuum, I could take Dusan down. Grandpère’s right about that. I have the manpower and the resources to make it happen, mostly because I can hire muscle much faster than Dusan can train up new soldiers.

But that’s not how Chicago works. If I took down Dusan, it would mess with the balance of power. The other, smaller gangs would be pissed, and the largest mafia in the city would notice.

“What you’re saying would guarantee the Biancos would try to take us out.” I shake my head at the absurdity of the whole idea. “They’re ten times our size and even more powerful than you are back in France. If you think we can take them⁠—”

“The Biancos will not be a problem. You are correct that we cannot hope to defeat them in an open fight, but I will make sure the situation doesn’t escalate to that point. Before we destroy Petrovic, I will approach Don Bianco and cut a deal with him, one that I hope will be mutually beneficial.”

I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Bad enough the old man wants to start a war with Dusan—but he wants to ally himself with the Biancos too?

“Absolutely not. There is no way I will ever get involved with them.”

“Think clearly, Julien. They are the power here. If you’re smart, you’ll be on their side.”

“Then I’m not smart. I’ve opposed the Biancos for years and nearly started a war against them. I won’t go crawling to their side like a mangy dog.”

Grandpère’s lips curl as he shakes his head. “You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”

“And you don’t know a thing about this city.” I shove my chair back and stand. “I will not go to war with Dusan, and I will never ally myself with the Biancos.”

“Careful, boy,” Grandpère says, his tone sharp. “Remember who runs this family.”

“And you remember who came to America with almost nothing and established this branch. Half of my men don’t even know who you are.”

Grandpère stands. Rage flashes across his face. I stand my ground, but I can see where I went too far: to him, it just sounded like I was threatening to rebel.

And maybe I was.

“I will give you a day to rethink that position, boy. I made you once, and I can unmake you just as easily.”

Grandpère leaves my office. I watch him go, struggling to get my emotions under control. I hate the old man, but I also want to earn his respect and approval. It’s the exact dynamic that forced me to leave France to begin with, and now it’s playing out all over again across the ocean and in my own house.

I have to find a way to get rid of the old man before this situation spirals even further out of my control.