Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
Sunrise Malice: Chapter 5

In contrast to the enormous mansion where Julien’s staying with his grandfather, the Hayes Group family house is small, comforting, and inviting.

Well, mostly inviting, or at least it used to be. These days I get hard stares from most of the cousins if I get anything at all. Mostly I’m ignored and treated like a piece of fungus growing under a log. Nobody’s outright rude or mean to me, but they’re not interested in having a conversation, and that’s fine.

The Hayes Group hasn’t always been my favorite place in the world. Cormac was obsessed, and Dad was obsessed through Cormac, but I always saw these people as selfish and self-important. They’re a bunch of fancy thugs with a good drug-smuggling business, and they all pretend like they’re blood brothers and family, when really, we’re just a bunch of strangers thrown together to sell coke on the streets.

But at least they pretend like they care about each other. I keep thinking about the ugly disdain Julien’s grandfather showed him and the way Julien stood up for me despite how angry it made the old man. I don’t know why he did it, considering we’re not even really fake married yet, but it was like a point of pride for him or something.

Ronan welcomes me into his office. I sit across from the young leader of the Group and try to get my thoughts together. I’m anxious and nervous, and I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by coming here.

“How are you holding up, Brianne?” he asks, and I swear he even cares about the answer. If anyone should hate me, it’s Ronan—my brother’s the one that nearly ruined his life and destroyed his organization. And yet he really doesn’t seem to hold a grudge against me, not like the rest of the uncles and cousins.

“I’m alright. Hanging in there.”

“Your dad’s okay?” He asks it casually, but there’s a vague implication behind the question.

“He’s the same as always.” Still drunk and still a piece of shit. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Honestly, I’ve had a fucking parade of complaints this past hour, and so long as you’re not about to ask me for money, you’re probably my best meeting of the morning.”

I grin at him and shrug. “Well, I was thinking, I could use a few million…”

“Couldn’t we all.” He leans forward again with a sigh. “I’m guessing this is really about Julien?”

I nod and glance away. There’s a picture on his desk of his wife, a beautiful Italian woman named Valentina. Apparently, she’s newly pregnant, and all the aunts are going crazy for the future heir to the Group. I wonder if I’ll ever have a relationship like Ronan had with his wife—they seem to genuinely love each other, or at least from what I’ve seen.

“I think I want to move forward with marrying him.”

Ronan doesn’t say anything. He only watches me, and a dozen thoughts drift through my head. I could be making a mistake, or Julien might be as much of a bastard as I think he is, or if I were smart, I’d keep my five grand in cash and run away somewhere and start my life over. This little family doesn’t matter—I don’t have anything to prove to any of them⁠—

And yet I do. And yet I care. Kim’s a Hayes, and I love Kim. I miss the way things were before Cormac went crazy and got himself killed. I wasn’t hugely into the family life, but I liked coming to the big parties, the holiday gatherings and the summer picnics. I felt like, even when things were bad, at least I had a place where I belonged.

I lost that when Cormac died. Maybe I never really had it to begin with.

But marrying Julien is my chance to carve out a space for myself.

“Are you sure about that?” Ronan asks finally. “I’ll be honest, this is what I wanted, but I need to make sure you’re making this decision because it’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” I tell him. “But I think it’s a good idea anyway. I think it’ll get me what I want in the end.”

“Which is what?” he asks softly.

“A life.” I stand up and nod at him. “You can tell Julien if you want or I can give him a call. Whatever’s easier.”

“You should talk to your future husband.” He sits back again, studying me. “For what it’s worth, I think Julien’s a better person than he lets on.” He frowns slightly. “For the most part, anyway.”

I think Julien’s a selfish prick and he only wants to marry me for his own selfish reasons. But that’s fine, because I don’t need him to love me.

I don’t say any of that though. Instead, I move toward the door but pause before leaving. “I have a condition.”

“What’s that?”

“My father can’t be involved in any of this.” I don’t look at Ronan. A spear of shame jabs down into my guts. Maybe I’m just as bad as I think Julien is if I’m willing to cut my own father out of this situation. “This is just between us, okay?”

“If that’s how you want it, that’s fine by me.”

“My dad’s not at my wedding, he’s not part of the deal, and he’s not in my life.” I grip the doorknob. “That’s all I want.”

“Brianne, if you need a place to stay⁠—”

“No, thanks.” I glare back at him. “Those are my conditions.”

“Whatever you want,” he says gently, head tilted to the side, a serious frown on his face. I know what he’s thinking: another Irish girl with a shitty drunk father looking for a way out of her miserable situation. I’m practically a cliché at this point, but Ronan doesn’t know me and he has no clue what I’ve been through. And I don’t plan on telling him anytime soon.

I get out of there before his confusion turns to pity.

The TV’s on so loud I can hear it from the basement. Another load of laundry moved from the washer to the dryer, and it’s all my father’s stuff: soiled shirts, gross underwear, stained pants. The guy doesn’t have a real job and he still somehow makes a mess of himself every day.

“Brianne!” His shout drifts down the steps like daggers into my skull. “Brianne, I need another fucking beer! Where the fuck are you?” I hear him stomping around the kitchen, which means he got his lazy ass up off the couch when he realized I couldn’t hear him.

I wait until the creaking of the floorboards fades away. The basement is cool and quiet, though it smells a little musty. In the corner is a plastic tub filled with my old gymnastics medals and ribbons, and sometimes I like to pick them up and look through them, just to remind myself that I wasn’t always such a useless sack of garbage.

Tonight’s not that kind of night though. I have another load to put in the wash—my own stuff this time—and dishes to clean upstairs. My back hurts and my wrists ache, but at least I don’t have Cormac’s crap to do anymore.

That’s the best part of my brother getting himself killed: there’s less housework for me to do.

I should be a better sister. I should be a better daughter. But I’ve lived in this house my entire life and there hasn’t been a single day where either of those assholes ever tried to be better brothers and fathers.

“Brianne, what the fucking fuck are you doing?”

I flinch at the sound of my father’s voice. He’s standing at the top of the basement steps. His shadow grows long and thick across the concrete floor.

“Laundry,” I call back. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I was yelling for you. And the kitchen’s a fucking wreck.”

You’re the one that demanded a freaking lasagna, did you think it was going to be easy and simple? “I’ll be up in a second.”

“Better fucking be.” His shadow lingers for another minute before he turns away and leaves me alone.

I stay in the basement, leaning up against the washing machine, looking at my phone. I’m so close to getting out of this place. All I have to do is keep moving forward with my plan. Dad’s on his seventh beer, which means he’s past the hitting stage—he only ever tries to slap me around between beers four and six—and I should be safe for the night. He’ll still yell at me and call me a worthless cunt and all that good stuff, but at least I won’t have bruises tomorrow.

Which is rare these days. After Cormac died and smeared our family’s reputation into the mud, Dad’s been on the warpath. Anything I do wrong, he jumps down my throat, and if he’s in a rotten mood, he’s not shy about punching me in the ribs or knocking me down and kicking me in the thighs. Afterwards, he usually hides himself in his room almost like he’s aware that he’s a monster and can’t face his victim, and I don’t feel sorry for the old, worthless shit.

Before Cormac died, things weren’t so bad. Dad was a controlling prick, but he rarely hit me. Cormac was an up-and-coming member of the Group with a thousand different plans, and Dad thought my brother was going to make sure we were all set for life. All his hopes were pinned on Cormac, and now he’s faced with a miserable existence for the remainder of his days, treated like a social pariah and forgotten about anything that he used to care about.

All thanks to Cormac.

I thought Dad would understand that it was Cormac’s fault. All of that shit was my dumb older brother’s obsessive need to be the best at everything. But instead, it’s like Dad blames me instead, as if I had anything to do with it.

I don’t know why I pull up Julien’s number. Maybe I’m in a worse mood than I realized; maybe I’m even more sad and pathetic than I thought.

Brianne: You need to come up with a new nickname for me before I’ll marry you.

I don’t know why I send it. It’s not even flirty, just a blatant cry for attention, and I hate myself the second I hit the little blue arrow. I shove my phone away in disgust and start to head upstairs to fold Dad’s clothes before doing all the dishes when my phone buzzes.

It’s Julien. To my utter astonishment, he replied right away.

Julien: And yet pussycat describes you perfectly.

Brianne: Yeah? And why’s that? Don’t be gross.

Julien: You are so soft and cuddly.

I smile at the phone, shaking my head.

Brianne: You’re a sarcastic asshole.

Julien: But you think it’s funny, mon minou.

Brianne: If I marry you, you’re going to have to learn how to be a little bit nicer to me.

Julien: When you marry me, I will be merciless and controlling, and I think you’ll enjoy it.

Arrogant bastard. It’s nice that he’s so willing to remind me why I dislike him so much. I put my phone in my back pocket and go upstairs, hurry through the living room where Dad’s staring at the TV and pouring beer down his throat. Upstairs, I fold and put his stuff away, before retreating to the kitchen.

“Get me another,” Dad grunts at me as I pass.

More than happy. After eight, he’s practically catatonic. The sooner he gets there, the better.

Before I can start on the dishes, I replace one more text from Julien.

Julien: But don’t worry, mon minou, I haven’t forgotten about your list. In fact, I think about it almost every night.

I hate that it makes me smile, and to save even the smallest shred of my remaining dignity, I refrain from typing back.

Even though I really want to tell him that I’d rather go through the list with a rabid chimpanzee than with him.

Because as I plunge my hands into cold, soapy water and start to scrub a pan, I’m extremely aware that Julien is my ticket out of this hell, and I’d better not screw it up too badly before I’m gone.