Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
Sunrise Malice: Chapter 12

I drive away from the house. I can’t stay there a second longer. If I did, I might say or do something rash and stupid out of anger, and I need to keep a clear head if I’m going to get through this crisis.

Grandpère started a war, and now it’s up to me to end it.

I have no real animosity toward Dusan. If I had things my way, we’d keep going as we are now, not exactly on the same side but not enemies either. I replace a city with a diverse set of players is actually better for business overall, despite what men like Grandpère might think.

But my personal feelings don’t matter. Dusan wants to destroy me, whether I like it or not, which leaves me with only one option.

I’m in a dark mood as I take a ride around the city. An hour passes as I make plans in my head, but I don’t feel any better. After a while, I replace myself riding through Brianne’s neighborhood, almost as if I’ve been circling closer and closer to her house this entire time. I keep thinking about her, about the taste of her back at the wedding ceremony, about my new wife. I shouldn’t have sent her back to her father’s house. I never should’ve let her out of my sight.

I park outside of Brianne’s house. I get out and do a quick sweep of the nearby vehicles, making sure they’re all empty. It’s paranoid, but I don’t know if Dusan heard about my marriage yet, and I need to make sure we’re safe.

Once that’s done and I’m confident there’s no ambush waiting, I stride to the front door and knock a few times. I wait until there’s a shout from inside, an angry-sounding man slurring his words. He shouts again, and again, until finally there’s some stomping before the door unlocks and opens.

Brianne’s father looks bad. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair’s greasy. His clothes are wrinkled and unkempt, and he squints at me as recognition clicks into place. “You’re—you’re the—you’re Julien Moreau.”

I press my mouth into a tight smile. “Where’s Brianne?”

“I don’t—I think she’s⁠—”

I push past him into the house and get a whiff of beer on his breath. He hurries after me as I check the kitchen. The place is spotless save the armchair where the old man’s been sitting this whole time—a small pile of empty cans is accumulating next to him like a teetering tower.

“I think she’s upstairs,” he says, sounding breathless and worried. He staggers after me, sweating. “I’m not sure, but I think⁠—”

“Brianne,” I call out, taking the steps two at a time. “Brianne?”

I replace her kneeling in a tub, scrubbing the tiles with headphones on. Her arms work hard as she scrapes a brush along the wall, and my eyes move along her skin, to her chest, her shoulders, and her back. She’s wearing only a sports bra and a pair of jeans, showing off her stomach and her upper arms⁠—

And the bruises mottling her skin.

I stare in at her for a few seconds as a strange feeling comes over me. It’s like I’m standing outside of myself, observing the feelings ripping through my skin. Rage builds as I take in the web of pain scattered across her body, and her father stands in the doorway, wringing his hands together and saying nothing, but he must know as well as I do.

Bruises.

All over her body.

All where a normal shirt would hide them.

I’ve been a part of the underworld for a long time. I’ve known real fucking monsters, and I know the signs of abuse when I see them, like an astronomer pointing out constellations in the clear night sky.

She’s working the grout and muttering to herself as she cleans, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes red from crying. “Just stop yelling, okay?” she says without looking over. “I’ll be done in a second then I’ll make your dinner.”

“Brianne,” I say again, and she finally turns.

I snap back into my body as her eyes go wide. She starts and knocks over the bucket of sudsy water, spilling it all over her jeans. She jumps to her feet and rips the headphones from her ears, jamming them into her pockets. “What are you doing here?” she asks, holding up the brush like it’ll ward me away.

I stare at her, taking in all the little black and blue marks. She opens her mouth, but instead of speaking, an embarrassed, shameful expression falls over her face.

That fucking kills me.

I grab her arm and help her from the tub before she can slip. “You’re coming with me,” I say and stare at a particularly nasty mark right underneath her ribs.

“What are you doing here? I thought⁠—”

I drag her out of the bathroom, pushing her father aside. I hit him in the chest, hard enough to knock him to the floor. Brianne yelps in surprise as her old man hits the wall with a grunt and slides down, groaning in pain.

Her room is the smallest in the house, even though there are two other spares she could be staying in. There’s a twin bed, a dresser, and a small desk, and all of her things are neatly organized.

“Pack your things,” I say, trying to keep my tone gentle even with the anger flowing through me.

Her cheeks are pink as she grabs a shirt from a drawer and pulls it on. I turn away from her, but she puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t,” she says, and it’s all there in that word, an admission of guilt and a plea rolled into one. We both know, and she knows I know, and now I have to decide what I’m going to do.

“Tell me why not.”

“He’s my father.” She squeezes my arm and comes closer. “I didn’t want you to know. Just, please. Don’t.”

My hands curl into fists.

Anger flares so hot and bright I can barely stand it.

“Pack your things. The faster, the better.”

I walk out of her room. Her father’s getting himself to his feet, leaning on the wall to do it. I grab him by the hair and hit him hard once in the stomach, doubling him over, before dragging him stumbling and staggering to the stairs. He nearly falls as I take him down, and when we reach the bottom, I hit him a second time in the ribs, right where that ugly bruise mottled Brianne’s beautiful pale skin. I shove him into his chair and he sits there, groaning, drunk, pathetic.

He’s been abusing my wife. No wonder she was willing to marry me. A husband, even a stranger, is better than getting hit by a drunk asshole father. Brianne clicks into focus for me: her defensiveness, her stubborn attitude, her pride. She must hate that I caught her unaware like that and found out her secret. I bet she was planning to keep her clothes on around me until the bruises faded away and healed, and then I might never have found out.

“You will never speak to my wife again.” I lean down and stare into her father’s face. I see my Grandpère in him, a weak and malicious thing, and I want to kill him. “Do you understand me?”

“Please, it’s not what you think. I’m just weak, I’m a weak man⁠—”

I hit him. I hit him again. His nose cracks under my fist. Blood gushes from his mouth. “If you say anything but yes sir again, I will go against your daughter’s wishes, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he moans.

I hit him a third time, just because I despise him so much and want to make him suffer. He whimpers, curling in on himself, the worthless piece of trash.

“You will never speak to her again. You will never see her again. As far as you’re concerned, Brianne is no longer your daughter. She is my wife now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispers.

“If you ever contact her, I will kill you slowly. I will make you suffer for a very long time before you die. If you so much as speak her name and I hear about it, I will come here, and you will wish I hadn’t. You will beg to die, and you will still suffer. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” He’s sobbing around his wound. Blood stains his armchair and drips down onto the pile of beer cans next to him.

I drive my fist into his guts then wrap a hand around his throat. I squeeze, shoving him back, until he starts to gag and choke. His eyes go wide, turning pink as vessels break, and all I have to do is hold a little longer. His expression will dim, his body will go limp, and he’ll be gone, gone forever, a fate he more than deserves.

“Julien.”

I look over my shoulder. Brianne’s standing at the foot of the stairs with a suitcase at her side.

She looks so fucking beautiful in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She’s not afraid, and she should be.

I release her father. He gasps for air, clawing at himself and cringing away from me. I turn my back on him and walk to my wife, every inch of my body yearning to finish her abuser off.

Instead, I offer her my arm.

“You’ll live with me now,” I say softly.

“What happened to it’s safer here?” Her lips quirk.

“I changed my mind.”

“Is that why you showed up? You couldn’t wait to see me again?”

“Something like that.”

She shakes her head and glances past me. Her father’s wheezing in the fetal position. There’s no pity in her eyes, but there’s also no anger.

She should hate him, but she only looks exhausted.

“Let’s go,” she says.

I take her bag and lead her to the car.