Sunrise Malice: Chapter 39

The house is quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears and it freaks me out. I try to get comfortable on the narrow couch, rolling onto my side, sitting up again, stretching my legs, but nothing works.

I keep hearing the gunshots.

They’re in my head—it’s quiet here early in the morning. But I swear they’re real, and I keep flinching at the memory of the terror that nearly ate me from the inside.

I don’t know how Julien got us out, but he did it, and he even saved Kim. She was in rough shape when we finally stopped for long enough to regroup, and Julien sent her on with Helga to a private medical facility on the edge of the border with Canada. Somewhere he promises she’ll be safe and extremely well cared for, especially considering Helga seems to have taken an active interest in her recovery. I keep telling myself she’ll be okay, she’ll have the time and space to heal far away from this mess, but there’s something wrong with being apart from her.

This is my fault. I never should have brought Kim into this nightmare. And if what happened causes her injuries to heal wrong and messes up her life, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.

Sunrise finally comes and I make coffee in a cramped kitchen. The apartment is on the top floor of a nondescript rowhome in a quiet neighborhood on the west side of the city. It’s not nice, but it’s not a piece of crap either. The furniture is new, there are plates and cups and such in the cabinets, and Julien even stocked the refrigerator and pantry with everything we’ll need.

The shower water hisses in the pipes. I hear it like a whisper in the walls. Ever since the attack on the mansion, we haven’t been apart for more than an hour—the amount of time it took him to go get supplies—and even having him away from me in the shower feels like too much.

But I know I’m being clingy, and I’m trying to let him have some alone time.

I’m relieved when he emerges wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt. He ruffles his hair with a towel and accepts a mug of coffee as we sit together on the couch, our knees touching. “I needed this,” he says, taking a long drink, and sighs. Bags hang under his eyes. I don’t think he’s slept more than a few hours since everything went down two days ago.

“You don’t have to sit around this apartment with me, you know.” I lean on his shoulder, snuggling in close, which I know sort of contradicts what I’m saying.

“I want to be here.” He tilts his head, studying me. “Besides, things are in flux.”

“Have you heard from Jean?”

He nods and looks toward the window. “He’s updating me every hour. Half the guys are injured and the other half are lying low. We need a base of operations, but nowhere’s safe. Not with Pascal still out there.”

I close my eyes and feel sleep tug at me, but every time I think I’m going to finally pass out, another jolt of adrenaline hits me, like I haven’t been able to come down. I’m stuck in fight-or-flight mode and I don’t know how to make myself normal again.

“I’m sorry, you know. For what it’s worth.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” He stares at me, a slight grimace on his face.

“I just feel like that whole thing was so much worse because of me. You know, if I hadn’t been there, if Kim hadn’t been there⁠—”

“You were there because you’re my wife. Kim was there because I brought her there. If anyone’s apologizing, it’s me.” He leans down and kisses me gently. “But I’m not sorry.”

“You’re not?” My eyebrows raise.

“No, baby. I’m not sorry I married you. I’m not sorry you’re in my life. And yeah, maybe it didn’t work out, bringing Kim to the house. But it made you happy, and I’m not sorry about that, either.”

I snort, shaking my head, but I’m smiling. “You’re a sick man, you know that?”

“I’m looking on the bright side. We’re alive. We’re together. Which means we can still murder Pascal and rebuild.”

“What an optimist.”

“That’s me, looking on the bright side of life.”

“Seriously though, if he’s talking with the Biancos, that’s really bad, right?”

“Depends what the Biancos think.” He kisses me again before standing up and checking his phone. He dashes off a text and paces across the room. “They might see through his bullshit. Or they might decide it’s in their best interests to take his side.”

“Can they really do that much damage?”

He nods grimly. “Yes, my wife, they really can.” He kneels down in front of me and takes my hands between his. “But we’re alive. That’s what matters.”

“We’re alive,” I echo, leaning my forehead into his. “I’m just scared, that’s all.”

“I know you are, but we’re getting through this.” His grip on my hands tightens. “I swear to you, baby, we’re going to survive this, and when we do, you’re going to thrive. I’m going to make you my queen.”

My stomach does twists. That’s all I want—to be his queen, to be his wife in earnest—but right now, it feels like that’s not possible. Not here, not in this city, not with Dusan hunting us and his grandfather trying to finish us off.

“I’ll do anything for you, you know that?”

“I know, baby. All I need is for you to stay here and to stay safe.” He runs his thumb down my cheek and kisses my neck before standing. “I need to make more coffee. We have guests on the way.”

I let him poke around in the kitchen while I think about all the different factions at play here. There’s Julien and Pascal; Dusan and his family; the Biancos and their forces; Ronan and his people. Plus, a dozen other little groups, Capos, squads, related businesses, and more. All these moving pieces whirl around the room and I don’t know if I can keep up with them.

The knock at the door makes me jump. Julien settles me first before answering.

Ronan and Niall enter, both men looking grim. Julien gets them settled at the kitchen table and brings them coffee as I take a seat across from the pair. Ronan looks surprisingly good for a guy that got shot just a couple of days earlier—the bandage on his shoulder is hidden underneath a crisp white button-down and a slim jacket.

He was lucky. The bullet entered his right shoulder, missed his lung by inches, and went straight out his back. All that blood was from the clean entry and exit wounds. Since he got relatively quick medical care, all he needs to do is heal.

“You know, Ronan, you need to get shot more often,” Julien says as he sits down beside me at the table.

Niall snorts. “That’s what I told him.”

“You fought like a beast even though you were bleeding all over the place.”

“Not much of a choice.” Ronan frowns at Julien and leans back, crossing his arms. He looks stiff and moves gingerly. “It’s a miracle we got out of there. All credit to your men.”

“Half of whom are dead at this point.” Julien looks to the side as though he’s remembering something. “I’m guessing Dusan is very proud of himself.”

“Dusan won’t be a problem for long.” Ronan sits forward, his face hard. “That fucker shot me. I don’t take that kindly.”

“I guess if there’s one silver lining to my mansion burning to the ground, it’s that you’re finally coming around to this war.”

“We need to discuss next moves,” Niall says, cutting in. “The whole city’s in an uproar right now. That attack was much too big to bury.”

“He’s right, it’s all over the fucking news.” Ronan gestures with his mug and some coffee sloshes over the edge. “Dusan’s usually smarter than that. Now we have everyone’s fucking attention.”

“We’ll have to be careful,” Julien says. “But we also have to move fast.”

“How much strength do you have left?” Ronan asks.

“That I can count on? A couple dozen men, plus a few more wounded. I’d say twenty-five that are reliable.”

Ronan grunts and I can tell he doesn’t like it. Twenty-five men isn’t very many, all things considered, and I can tell the situation is dire by the look Niall and Ronan share with each other.

“We still outgun Dusan,” Niall says after a long pause. “If we bring our full strength on him and combine our forces, it won’t even be a fight. But at this point, the whole city’s watching everything we do.”

“None of them matter,” Julien says. “Only the Biancos. And we don’t know how they’ll react.”

“No, we don’t, but we need to come up with a plan.” Niall sighs and rubs his face. “Personally, I think we should deal with Dusan immediately. Hit him hard and fast. Hit him at home if we can. Kill him, kill as many of his captains and lieutenants as we can, and handle the fallout from there.”

“It might weaken us too much,” Ronan says, sounding like he’s continuing an argument they’ve been having.

“I’m with Niall, but maybe we can split the difference. A mixture of my men plus some of yours should be enough to hit Dusan hard enough to either bloody his nose or take him out completely. Either way, I’m tired of sitting around and waiting for events to unfold. I need to get out there and steer this shit.”

Ronan rubs his shoulder and Niall looks like he’s considering it, and the three men begin to discuss specific actions: burning buildings, attacking clubs, targeted killings. I get up and wander from the table, unable to listen to all the violence, not with the fresh memories of all that blood and dying and killing running through my head. But as I turn back to the table, Julien’s phone starts ringing from the kitchen. I grab it and frown at the screen.

“Someone named Marco is on the phone,” I tell him, holding it out.

Everyone at the table freezes.

Slowly, Julien reaches out and takes it. He turns and exchanges a long, hard stare with Ronan.

Neither of them moves, and the phone keeps vibrating.

Finally, Ronan speaks. “Let’s see what the motherfucker has to say.”