Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

Screams fill the mansion. Shooting follows close behind.

The gunfire is unbelievable as the fighting intensifies. Grandpère is holed up at the end of his wing with several layers of guards in front of him. Jean had his men in position and ready to go, and the second I sent my text, he passed along the message.

The attack was sudden and swift. Ten teams of two soldiers found and eliminated the guards loyal to Grandpère, or at least as many as they could.

But there are still some left, and they seem intent on keeping Grandpère alive. We push them back, slowly but surely, and I lead from the front. I refuse to think about Brianne—she’s safe so long as I keep the fight here—and I march onward. Blood soaks into the carpet. Corpses are left in my path. I kill because that’s all I know anymore. I kill and kill, slaughtering my way to Grandpère’s room, and kick open the door with vicious glee.

I call his name, but there’s no reply.

“Guards are all down,” Jean reports. He’s sweating, but looks unharmed. “We lost a few guys though and there are a lot of injuries.”

“Put the doctor to work.” I stalk into Grandpère’s suite, looking for the old bastard. “Come out, come out,” I call in French. “You can’t hide, old man. There’s nowhere left.”

Killing Grandpère will cause a lot of problems. The organization back in France will nosedive into chaos, and that means my shipments of heroin are effectively over.

Not that I give a fuck.

He thought the drugs were an adequate cover, but I’ve been laying my plans for a long time now.

There’s a reason I wanted to get close to Ronan. His cocaine is some of the best in the world, and his import business is stable and profitable. I knew I couldn’t make any moves against Grandpère while I was dependent on the heroin to make my living, but now that I have a reasonable connection to the Irish, there’s no reason to hold back.

Grandpère doesn’t own me anymore. The bastard never did.

I played the long game, and now I’ve won.

“Grandpère,” I shout, kicking open his bedroom door. “No, I won’t call you that anymore. Do you remember when you first took me in? I called you Pascal back then until you forced me to call you Grandpère instead. You old, washed-up bastard.”

Nothing in the bed. Nothing in the closet. I start to have a strange, sick feeling as I go to the bathroom.

“Come on, Pascal,” I snarl, going in with my gun drawn, expecting to find him cowering in the shower.

I find an open window instead. And hanging out of it is one of those portable fire escape ladders.

“Fucking shit,” I roar, poking my head out. Grandpère is long gone—the street is totally empty. “Come back, Pascal!” I roar into the early morning. “Come back, you fucking coward!”

I turn and rush back into the house. I send some soldiers down to the street to see if they can find the slippery bastard, but I doubt they will. I have a few more head to the airport to see if they can intercept him before he gets on a flight back to France, and have a few more drive circuits around the city, checking the major routes away.

“He must’ve had it ready to go since he came here,” Jean said, sounding impressed. “Old man didn’t climb to the top of the underworld without a few tricks.”

“It’s a goddamn child’s escape ladder. We should’ve had the windows covered.”

“He’s nearly eighty. Nobody thought he had it in him.”

I should’ve known. Pascal’s old, but he’s a fucking cockroach.

He’ll survive just about anything given the chance.