Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
Sunrise Malice: Chapter 46

The old trucking depot is deadly quiet. I stand with Ronan, Niall, and Jean near the main loading bay. Pascal sits in a wheelchair nearby, tied up tightly. I reluctantly gagged him this time; we can’t have the old piece of shit make trouble.

“Did you have to maim him?” Ronan asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“No, I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.”

“It makes things harder.”

“The doctor patched him up. He’ll be just fine.” Jean shoots a look at me and rolls his eyes. “What? He will.”

“He’ll never walk right again,” Niall says, but he doesn’t sound like he minds very much.

For his part, Pascal sits still and quiet. It helps that he’s on a lot of painkillers right now. Once those wear off though, the poor old bastard’s going to be in some serious agony. I can’t wait.

A young soldier comes jogging from the fence line. He’s wearing all black with body armor and a helmet. A rifle’s slung over his shoulder. It’s some serious gear, but Ronan decided to go all out for this little meeting.

“Boss, we cleared the perimeter. Frenchies are watching the back and we’re on the front.”

“Good work,” Ronan says and glances at me. “Don’t call them Frenchies though.”

The kid winces and looks at me, eyes wide with sudden worry.

“Don’t worry, we Frenchies have long memories.” I flick my fingers at him and he runs off.

“Kid’s just on edge,” Ronan murmurs by way of apology.

“Can’t blame him.” I gaze out toward the road. It’s two minutes past the meeting time, but there’s still nobody coming. “We could be in the middle of a real fucking shitshow right now.”

“It could,” Ronan agrees, “but I have a feeling that’s not how this is going to go down.”

We make idle small talk—mostly about the city, about our wives, that sort of thing. Jean and Niall seem to get along fairly well, which is good. After a few more minutes, and checking in with my team at least twice, I’m beginning to think this was a waste of time.

Truck lights appear coming toward us.

We don’t move as three vehicles pull in. Out in the darkness, I can almost feel a couple dozen high-powered rifles trained on them, plus the three men with armor-piercing sniper rifles on the nearby roof. The engines remain running, but the doors open, and well-armed men pile out.

Dusan steps into the space between us and his soldiers.

For a moment, nobody moves. The last time I saw him, Dusan was on the first floor of my mansion throwing a grenade up at me. We nearly murdered each other that day, and I just barely slipped from his grasp.

I bet he wishes he’d finished me off.

“I almost didn’t show up,” Dusan says, sounding tired and angry. “But then I got a phone call. Guess who it was?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I say truthfully.

“It was Marco. Remember good old traitor fuck Marco? He told me that everything you were going to say was true, and that the Biancos would appreciate it if I listened. So that’s why I’m here. Go ahead and fucking talk. I’m going to listen, and then I’m going to get back in my truck and leave.”

I nod slowly and glance at Ronan. He looks grim and serious, every inch the crime lord prepared to do serious violence should the night call for it.

“Dusan, I want you to meet my grandfather. Former grandfather, actually, and really, not even my grandfather. I was adopted.” I gesture at Pascal who stares back at everyone. “He’s a bit glassy right now from the Fentanyl. I shot him in the knee last night.”

“I don’t give a shit about your family problems.” Dusan looks at Ronan. “What are you thinking, taking his side in all this? I always thought you were smarter than that.”

“Funny, I used to think the same about you,” Ronan says, completely deadpan.

“We’re here to offer you a trade,” I say, pulling Dusan’s attention back to me. “I’m offering you Pascal Moreau, and all I’m asking for is a truce in return. Pascal is the man that ordered your cousin’s killing. Pascal maneuvered me into a war I never wanted, and he was going to use both of us to further his ultimate goals in America.”

Dusan shakes his head the whole time I’m speaking. “It’s too late for that now. One old man, no matter how culpable, is not enough.”

“Pascal is worth millions. There are people in France that will happily pay for his return. He’s the perfect hostage. Think of him as a briefcase full of cash if you prefer.” I pause for a moment and let the idea settle in. “A very, very big briefcase.”

Dusan strokes his face. He considers for a moment, looking from me, to Pascal, and back again. The tension is heavy, and one wrong move could fill this night with bullets and death. Eventually, Dusan shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone in France.”

“I’ll give you the relevant people to speak with. You’ll get paid, Dusan.”

“What’s stopping me from ending this war myself?” he asks, glaring death at me. “What’s stopping me from finishing what I started?”

Ronan sighs like this is all so dramatic. “Julien is the carrot,” he says and gestures toward the fence. “And I’m the stick.”

Armed men step forward, melting into the light. Each of them is covered from head to toe in expensive and high-quality ballistic armor and carrying high-powered rifles. Dusan’s men raise their weapons, but Dusan himself holds out his hands to keep his men from starting a shooting match they will absolutely lose.

“Here I was thinking you really wanted a truce,” Dusan snaps, shoving the barrel of a nearby soldier’s gun down toward the ground. “Tell your men to stand down.”

Ronan gestures again, and his people melt back into the night.

It’s impressive. Honestly, really impressive. A little less so, since I know they practiced that fucking maneuver for like an hour earlier, but still. Dusan’s probably shitting himself.

“You’re outmatched,” I say loudly, making sure his soldiers hear this too. “I understand you’re angry. I want stability in Chicago. I want business to continue. I’m not asking you to forgive, but I’m saying that if you keep pushing, we will crush you. Ronan’s men, plus my own, are more than enough to finish this.”

“I bloodied your nose,” Dusan says, showing his teeth in a snarl. “I should’ve finished you off.”

“You sure as fuck tried, but here we are.” I grab Pascal’s wheelchair and roll him forward. “Take the old prick. Sell him to the highest bidder. End this goddamn war tonight, Dusan.”

The Serbian kingpin says nothing, only stares death at me. I don’t blame the man for wanting me dead; he can hate me all he fucking wants, so long as this is over and I have the space to rebuild my empire.

We both know whatever agreement comes from tonight will only be temporary. He’s as hurt and diminished as I am—there’s no way he got through any of those firefights without losing significant numbers of men, bodies he can’t easily afford to replace. He knows he’s trapped, but he can’t lose face in front of his men.

That’s why I’m giving him Pascal. That’s why I’m letting him sell the old bastard back to France. This way, Dusan can look like a savvy businessman, pay his soldiers, and let peace win.

But that peace won’t last forever.

I made an enemy in Dusan, and he made an enemy in me.

He won’t forget.

Neither will I.

“Alright, Julien,” he says at last. “I’ll take the old man. I also want names and numbers to reach out to for his ransom. And if they don’t pay, I’m breaking our truce and coming for you.”

“They’ll pay.” I nod at him and cross the zone between our two groups.

He meets me in the middle and takes over Pascal’s wheelchair.

“You should thank Marco for this,” he says very softly, quietly enough that nobody else can hear. “He really went to bat for you. I guess someone feels guilty.”

“Yeah, well, he can fuck himself.”

Dusan grins as he takes Pascal away. I return to my group and watch as they hustle the old fuck into one of the trucks. Dusan barely looks back once they’re loaded, and the whole group pulls out as a convoy, driving off into the night.

Slowly, the built-up tension deflates.

“How long do you think that’ll last?” Jean asks, which is probably what everyone’s thinking right about now.

“Months, maybe years,” Niall says, sounding thoughtful. “Depending on how much he makes.”

“He’ll make a lot. Despite how it may look, Pascal’s still worth something to the right people.” I shake my head, sick of this whole situation, sick of everything. “Ronan, it was a pleasure.”

“Wish I could say the same.” But he shakes my hand all the same. “You and Brianne are welcome to Sunday breakfast whenever. Just call first.”

“I’m sure she’ll want to take you up on that eventually.”

“Jean. Good luck.” Ronan nods at him and walks off with Niall.

Leaving me alone with my best friend.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Well? How’s it feel?”

“Feels like shit. That would’ve been more satisfying if I got to shoot someone.”

“Ah, come on, you got to wreck Pascal’s knee. That’s kind of great.”

“Wish I could’ve put a bullet in his head.”

Jean laughs and heads off toward his truck. “Never say never, mon ami. See you soon then?”

“We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do,” I call after him. “Don’t get lazy on me now.”

“Me? Lazy? Never.”

He waves and drives off. I stay alone in the night, thinking about the future. Pascal will get back to France eventually, and he’ll be angry. That’ll be a problem—I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for some French hitman to show up with a contract to take me down.

But that’s a problem for another night.

Now, at least, the war’s done. The truce will stand. Pascal’s dealt with.

And I have my pretty wife waiting for me back at the apartment.