Page 15 of Sunrise Malice

He complained about the hidden compartment in which I store the ledgers, and he complained about the quality of the men that work for me, and he complained about my handwriting approximately ten thousand times.

It’s almost like he forgets what I am and where I came from. Like he doesn’t remember how I could barely read and write when he found me, and how I worked my ass off to learn. The scars of those years are still with me, burned into the messy way I form my letters and the way it takes me twice as long to read a book as anyone else I know.

That’s what happens when a boy grows up an orphan on the streets of Marseille.

And yet I did learn.

It killed me, but I learned, despite the brutal way Grandpère insisted on teaching me.

A wrong answer was a swat on the hand with a ruler. Two wrong answers were two swats. And so on, until my fingers were black and blue. Then he’d move on to hitting my arms twice as hard.

Despite all that, I still fucking learned.

I let Grandpère grumble to himself and refill my drink. He’s going to be at this for a while yet, and there’s nothing I can do but sit back and ignore his comments. I remember the biting criticism he tossed my way so casually and cruelly when I was growing up, the way he called me stupid and disgusting, nothing more than a pig in a suit, and I worked my ass off to make him remotely proud. Which rarely happened, but the few times I managed to get his approval only made me crave it even more.

I spent my childhood in crumbling apartments, grabbing a few hours of sleep in moldy basements, stealing bread and cheese from street vendors when their backs were turned, and dumpster-diving when I couldn’t find anything better. I sold drugs at ten and robbed houses at eleven. Grandpère found meat twelve, a dirty street rat skinnier than a piece of rebar, and he brought me back to the Moreau mansion to get cleaned up.

I’ll never forget seeing that house for the first time. I thought it was a dream; I didn’t realize it would be a nightmare. I still don’t know why Grandpère did it, or why he insisted on me never calling him father, or what he wanted to get out of adopting a little street thief and training him in the fine arts of running a criminal empire, but from the day Grandpère took me in until the day I left for America, he insisted that I do everything the proper way. Which meant his way. And the consequences for impropriety were always new and always insidious.

“Come sit down,” he barks at me. “Your pacing is driving me insane.”

“You complain that I take forever to read,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him. “But you’ve been at that for an hour now.”

He gives me a hard stare. “My eyes aren’t what they once were. And watch your damn mouth.”

I shrug slightly, hiding my smile behind a sip of whiskey. “The books are good, Grandpère. They aren’t exactly how you’d keep them, but everything is there and accounted for.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that.” He sits back, giving me his normal look, which is caught somewhere between annoyed and murderous. “I never wanted you to come to America, Julien. You remember that?”

“Hard to forget.” We fought about it for weeks before I finally left to set myself up. “But I’ve earned well.”

“Yes, you have.” He says it very grudgingly. “But you have barely expanded in the last few years.”

“That’s why I married Brianne. My connection to the Hayes Group will guarantee steady shipments of new product at good prices.”

“I don’t want to hear about your dog of an Irish wife,” Grandpère snaps. “I am still unhappy about that.”

I lean forward. “I warned you once. Don’t make me keep saying it. You can insult me, but youwillleave Brianne out of it.”

I hold his stare. I want him to understand that I mean this. I have lines, and Grandpère will respect them. It’s strange thinking Brianne is one of those lines, but here I am.

Grandpère’s eyes narrow, but he lets out a huff. “Good. You’re protective of your woman. That’s the way it should be. But don’t forget who I am.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Because the moment I start thinking of him as a doddering old man is the moment I turn my back on a starving bear.

“Your association with the Irish is a reasonable idea,” he says, studying my reaction. Despite myself, I feel a flare of pride. Even still, any praise from Grandpère goes straight to my head, and I hate myself for it, for being so damn weak. “But we can do better.”

I sit up straighter. I don’t like where this is going. “I’m not sure there’s aweat all. You’re here to visit. Nothing more.”

“I’ve been having conversations about your operations. From what I hear, they’re good, but sloppy. I know of a dozen ways totighten things up, from more varied delivery drivers to a wider range of safehouses. But most of all, I believe I know how we can build a stronger foundation on which to grow.”

I rub my face, barely keeping my frustration in check. “And how’s that?”

“Dusan Petrovic.”

That’s not what I expected. Grandpère watches me carefully as I consider that name. Dusan’s the head of the Serbian mob and a former ally of mine, though we never really got along. I respect him, as far as that goes anyway, and generally, I’ve kept my distance from his territory while he’s done the same for mine. We have a working relationship and a quiet truce, but nothing more.

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