Clubs: The Suit’s Book 2

“See you in a couple of hours.”

That was complete and utter bullshit. It’s been two days since I last saw him.

I walk downstairs to see what Dimitri is up to, only to find a body lying on the couch with blood covering the whole white seat. Rushing closer, I notice it’s Mikhail. Why the hell didn’t he tell me he got back? Better yet, why the hell is he lying on the couch covered in blood?

I flick his forehead hard, hoping he’ll wake up, but he doesn’t. Panic clouds my mind as I think about the possibility he could be dead.

“Mikhail!” I scream his name and dig my fingers into his shot wound.

He hunches over quickly, reaching to cover the hole in his body. “What the fuck is your problem, Sloane?”

“I was just making sure you were alive. Fuck, Mikhail! Who the hell passes out on their living room couch with a bullet in their body?” I scream at him. I’m fuming.

“I dug it out—I’m fine.” His voice is different. He doesn’t seem as if he cares about anything right now. He stands up from the couch and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask hesitantly. Was this Giovanni’s doing? I was never able to put a face to the name, and now I have, things feel serious.

He shakes his head again and looks at the ground.

I step up to him and lift his head. “Hey, talk to me. Who did this to you?”

“You need to back the fuck up, Koldunya.”

I’m taken aback by the anger he directs at me. I’m not the one who shot him—he has no reason to be pissed at me. If anything, he should be thanking me for being kind and worrying about him.

“No,” I say, taking small steps toward him.

He brushes past me and stalks off to the kitchen.

“What happened to the version of you from a couple days ago? Why can’t you just pick one mood?” I ask.

“That would be too easy.”

I talk back to him, saying things I’m sure I’ll regret, but my anger gets the better of me while he ignores me. Taking the flowers out of the vase I put them in the night I got back, I throw the whole bouquet at him, and Mikhail slowly turns toward me, his smile so bright it irritates me.

“You get it out of your system?” he asks.

I clench my jaw and walk toward him. “Did I get it out of my system!” I practically yell.

“That was my question, yes.”

I push his chest, but he doesn’t budge—not even an inch. I pound my fists against him until he wraps his fingers around my wrists. “I told you not to fucking leave me!”

“Is this your way of telling me you missed me?” he asks, bringing his lips close to mine.

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He steps away from me, taking containers out of a plastic bag on the counter.

“What’s this?”

“I got you dinner,” he says. “A movie and a board game. What we do tonight is up to you.” He hands me a container of Thai food. It smells so good my mouth waters.

“Thank you,” I say carefully, feeling the anger I just had wash away.

He nods his head and takes a phone out of his pocket.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I tell him.

“I know.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him walking away. “Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’m going to change.”

“No, you need to call someone to stitch you up—you can’t just walk around with a hole in your body.”

He looks around, obviously trying to come up with something smart to reply with, but instead he sighs and mumbles, “All right.” He tilts his head for me to follow him, and I do. We walk near the front door into a smaller bathroom.

Flipping on the light, I watch him lean to the ground and rummage through a bunch of things in a disorganized pile under the sink.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, growing curious.

“Medical kit,” he answers. Then, looking back at me, his eyes suggest he’s about to make me do something I really don’t want to do. “You’re going to stitch me up.”

A white container falls out of the cabinet, and he picks it up. Reaching for my hand, he leads us back into the living room.

“I can’t do this,” I say while I shake my head and stumble over my feet.

He leans his weight on the arm of the couch and begins to unbutton his shirt. My teeth clench down when I watch him undress.

Now is not the time, Sloane.

Even though he has a gunshot wound, he still looks undefeated. “Just stick me with the sharp end and make sure the string holds my skin together.”

I could full-on laugh right now. “This is unbelievably unsanitary. Why can’t you just get someone like Knox to help you like you had him help me?”

“Because you needed the best care I could provide for you. This is just a simple fix.”

His chest is bare, and blood is everywhere. The shot wound doesn’t look bad, but I can see the tears in his skin where he most likely dug a knife into the wound to retrieve the bullet.

“How are you not bleeding out?” I ask, avoiding his sweet comment.

“A lot of it isn’t mine. Do you take me for an amateur?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m sure you’ve searched the top one hundred ways to die and you’re testing out which one works the best.”

“I can’t lie to you, I’ve searched it more than once.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.” He smirks. “Next on my list is using an icicle as a weapon. No fingerprints to track.”

My eyes flutter as I realize I’m sharing a bed with a psychopath. “You’re the worst.”

“Ah, well, I think you’re the best. Now stitch me up, Slo.”

I take the needle and thread from his hands and take a deep breath. I swallow, trying to gather myself. Feeling queasy, I ask, “Do you have any rubbing alcohol?”

He points to the table, where I see a bottle of vodka.

“Of course,” I say and reach to grab it. Looking at him in anticipation, I bring the mouth of the bottle to my lips and take a couple of gulps before dumping the rest on him. I expect him to jump from the burn, but he lies on the couch perfectly still with a smile painted clearly on his face. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t even see him flinch with pain when he got up from the couch—only when I pushed my finger into the hole.

It’s strange how accustomed his body has become to pain—which only makes me think about all the terrible wounds he’s endured.

Seeing blood makes me nervous. I don’t know how he expects me to do this. A part of me wants to wait for the vodka to kick in, but this needs to be done.

“How many times have you been shot?” I ask, trying to distract him, just in case.

“Not my first rodeo.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I line the needle with his skin and begin to stitch him up as if I know what I’m doing. I’ve cross-stitched before, but that was with yarn, not on a body.

“This would be the tenth, I think.”

I scoff. “You think?”

“That’s what it means to be in my line of work. That’s like me asking you how many books you’ve read.”

Pulling the string through his skin, I direct my attention to him. “This year I’ve read a total of one hundred and twenty-six books. Twenty-seven if I count your journal.”

“You can count it.”

My face burns with heat for some reason. I’m not embarrassed or shy, but I feel happy in this moment. Him, sitting here with me—it’s starting to be a comfort I could get used to.

I try to hurry up because I can feel the alcohol threatening to rise in my throat. “You’re all done,” I tell him a few seconds later while I gather the trash and clean up the mess he made. Once I’m finished, I begin walking up the stairs to call it a night, but his voice stops me.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To bed,” I tell him. “I just assumed—”

“You do that a lot.”

“I do. Is that a problem?” He didn’t even let me finish my sentence. He interrupts me all the time, and it’s the most frustrating thing.

“Did I say it was?”

“Mikhail, I’m trying my hardest not to fight you right now.”

“Try harder.” A smug smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and I want to smack it off. He’s testing me. The mind games don’t stop, and a part of me doesn’t care. It’s the toxicity I provoke.

My lips press together as I try to contain my comments. It’s proving a lot more difficult than I hoped.

“When you get flustered, your nose scrunches. Do you know that?”

I make a face at him. I have no problem with keeping my attitude to a limit, but I didn’t think that would give him an open invitation to push my buttons.

“Don’t worry, it’s cute.”

I step down the couple of steps I just took and lean my arms on the back of the couch. “Mikhail.”

“Yes, moya lubimaya?” My love.

Taken aback by his comment, I choose to look past it, because if I don’t, I’ll lie awake all night thinking about him and what we could be. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away,” he says, motioning for me to take a seat next to him again.

“Why was the event so important to you?”

He reaches down and takes my legs in his lap. “I already told you. That property would change my career.”

“Why just that one?” I ask as my fingers lift to his chest and trace the outlines of his tattoos. I stop the second I realize what I’m doing and take back my hand. He looks at me as if he wants to laugh, and that doesn’t help my situation.

Mikhail clears his throat and says, “Because it’ll connect my section of the city.”

I nod slowly. “Why are you so greedy for so much property?”

“It’s not that I’m greedy. I’m taking back what’s mine.”

“It’s not yours, though, is it?”

His eyes darken, and he looks away from me. “It was my father’s, and that means it’s mine now. He wanted me to take back his section of the city, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Before he passed, he wrote down a list of properties he wanted me to take. I ran into a problem when I found out Giovanni wants the same one.” He lays his head back and lets out a breath.

“What else did Pavel give you?” I ask.

His head turns to mine, though he doesn’t give me a welcoming look. His fingers clench by his sides and the muscles in his jaw tick. “What else did . . . who give me, Sloane?”

My mouth drops slightly when I suddenly realize what I’ve said. I just came clean without having to tell him a single thing.

I lay my hands down on the couch and begin to step away from him slowly. There’s anger in his eyes like I’ve never seen before.

My breathing picks up to an uncontrollable speed as I panic. My mind overloads with feelings of regret. I try to swallow, but there’s a lump in my throat.

He stands up from the couch, messing with his cufflinks. “Tell me what you know,” he demands as I continue to back away from him.

Do not fear him; challenge him.

It’s easier said than done when the man in front of you looks at you as if you are disposable. No matter how hard I try, I will always be beneath Mikhail. He carries the kind of power that isn’t known to many, and I’m at his full disposal.

His eyes are dark, lacking the glimmer I once saw. Whatever it was that he felt for me vanished into oblivion the moment I uttered his father’s name. The name I’ve had to swallow down hundreds of times since I’ve been near Mikhail.

My hands reach into my pocket until I find the pocketknife. I grab onto it, ready to defend myself at any given moment.

He watches my hands, already aware of what I’m doing. He laughs darkly and rolls his tongue over his bottom lip. Nodding, he takes a gun out of the waistband of his pants. Every limb on my body trembles with panic.

“You’re scared,” he says in a tone that almost sounds condescending. “I’d be more concerned if you weren’t.”

It’s as if he blinked and just shut off all his emotions. His words are coated with anger, resentment . . . even betrayal.

I try to listen to my intuition, begging myself to give me an idea of what I should do, but nothing comes to mind when he walks toward me, reloading the chamber. “Please,” I beg. My lip quivers and my legs threaten to give out on me. Tears spring into my eyes when I accept my defeat. At this point, I deserve it.

Mikhail felt like he could finally trust me—give himself to me—and I betrayed him.

He continues to stalk toward me, every emotion clear on his face. “I could fucking applaud you for the performance you’ve given.”

When he lifts his gun at me, I slam my eyes shut.

“Sloane,” my dad calls, and I follow the sound of his voice.

I grab onto the railing at the end of the staircase and swing my weight around it. Standing by the front door, my father holds his hands in front of his body while another man steps inside. I look up at both of the men, suddenly nervous to ask why Dad is letting me see someone who isn’t a part of this family.

He has a difficult time even letting me go outside because he’s nervous someone will see me.

“What’s going on?” I ask hesitantly.

Dad doesn’t say much—or anything for that matter. The stranger looks at me with a kind smile. It kind of contradicts the intimidating look he has. Even for an older man, I can tell many fear him. His body looks weak, but he still carries strength.

“Koldunya,” he calls. Witch. “That is what they call you.”

I nod. I’m aware of what members of the Bratva view me as.

Dad walks up behind me and places his hands on my shoulder. “This is Pavel,” he tells me, and my mouth drops. The man standing in front of me is the boss of the outfit. The palms of my hands begin to sweat, and I suddenly grow nervous.

Am I presenting myself correctly? If I had known he’d be here, I would have worn something other than sweatpants, for Christ’s sake.

I smile brightly and offer him my hand. He grabs onto me, but he doesn’t shake my hand; he just holds it. All my life I’ve dreaded this moment. A part of me thought I’d never meet him. Another part of me thought he’d never want to meet me. I’ve caused him trouble just by being born—why would he ever even want to speak a word to me?

Regardless of the fact he is very close with my dad, I still feel like I don’t deserve to stand in his presence.

“Why don’t we take a seat?” Pavel says on a worn-out breath.

Dad leaves my side and helps him walk over to the couch.

I stand under the archway that separates the living room and foyer of the house. Dark leather couches surround the lit fireplace. Sheer white curtains are draped over the large windows. Outside, the snow falls softly. If it were quiet enough, you’d be able to hear the snow hitting the glass.

I read in this room all the time. It’s calming.

“I’d say I have a few weeks left. A month at most,” Pavel says while he grabs a glass of water from my dad’s hands.

His hands are shaky, pale and veiny. His body is wearing him down, but his spirits are still high. I knew he wasn’t doing well. Dad spoke about how cruel the world can be. From the stories Dad’s told me about Pavel, the man has a heart of gold. While his work is dark, he never loses sight of what matters the most to him.

The outfit hates my father because of all the trouble he’s caused. He fell in love with my mother, who was married to the Capo. If Pavel didn’t have a genuine bone in his body, he would have killed my dad.

I let out the air from my lungs and walk over to the couch. “Can I get you anything?” I ask, only hoping to help.

“I came here to ask for your help, Sloane,” Pavel says as he coughs into his hands.

Dad looks over at me through his dark brows. It’s as if his looks are asking me what Pavel means, and I just shrug my shoulders. Does he expect me to understand what’s going on? I’ve only just met the man.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, hoping he isn’t going to propose a marriage to someone in his family. I like staying here. I mean, I want to go out and explore, but I don’t want my hand to be forced into a marriage. To be trapped down by a man who couldn’t give two shits about who I am as a person.

“I need you to watch over my son,” he tells me in one breath. “He’s going to break. I can feel it.”

“Oh,” I start, but I’m interrupted.

“Your brother killed my son, Kirill,” Pavel says and waves off any incoming sympathies.

What made Giovanni kill Kirill?

“Mikhail is like a ticking time bomb, and once I’m gone, I feel he will go after Giovanni. Maybe it’ll be for payback, or maybe it’ll be to kill him—who the fuck knows with him? But when the time comes, I need you to be there for him. In a way that is not obvious. He will kill you before he allows you to help him.” Pavel laughs, and the sound comes out cracked—painful almost.

“Why me? I’ve never even met him,” I say.

“You are Koldunya. You are capable of many things.”

I smile through my questions. Not to be a bitch or anything, but Pavel has no idea who I am, nor if I’m even capable of helping his son with whatever it is that he needs. “I don’t know about this,” I say.

“Sloane, I need you to challenge him. Beat him down if you must. But you will overpower him—I need you to. He needs to understand he has someone by his side, and I feel you’re a perfect match to challenge him. But you cannot fear him.”

“You make him sound terrifying,” I say.

“He can be.” He laughs again. “But you’ll see past it.”

Dad makes a sound and crosses his arms. “Pavel, I’m not comfortable with having my daughter leave.”

A smug smile tugs at Pavel’s lips. “Oh, I don’t really care what you’re comfortable with. I want the Stepanov name to continue, and that won’t happen if Mikhail doesn’t make an alliance with Giovanni. The Clarkes will be coming for them, and they need to be a team before that happens.”

“The Clarkes haven’t made their presence known in years. I’m sure they know about Sloane as well, and they still haven’t made a move.”

Pavel adjusts his suit jacket. “They’ll be coming. The property Mikhail will take over is in their part of the city.

“You mean to wed Sloane to Mikhail?” my dad asks.

My mouth drops.

“Not quite,” Pavel adds. “I just need Sloane to remind Mikhail that Giovanni is not the enemy. They will be strong by each other’s side. Giovanni will be willing to hear him out because of Sloane. She is the glue of this fucking family.”

“So, when am I supposed to go to him? How do I even go about this situation?”

“I’ve listed your information in an envelope for Mikhail. You’ll work for him. I hope he opens the letter, otherwise you’re all going down with me.”

He tries to make light of the situation, and I admire him for it. How can such a powerful man have a gleaming personality?

My eyes fall, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “What happens if I can’t convince him Giovanni isn’t an enemy? I’ve never even met my brother.”

“You can. But you need to make him believe it is his idea, otherwise he’ll see right through you. Mikhail is smart; he is calculated. That is why I want you to push him. Once his walls are down, you’ll see who he truly is.”

Mikhail’s hand wraps around my throat tightly while I sob an ocean’s worth of tears. My hands wrap around his wrists, and I feel the water rolling down my cheeks effortlessly.

“Pozhalusta. . . Misha, eto ya,” I whimper. Please . . . Mikhail, it’s me.

He’s caught off-guard by the language—just another indicator I’ve fooled him. “Ty mne nikto,” he seethes. You are nobody to me.

His words hurt me more than any weapon ever could. I drown under his hurt.

“Tell me what you fucking know.”

I shake my head as fast as I can. I can’t tell him. Pavel wanted him to think it was his idea, and if I come clean, he’ll never side with Giovanni.

Mikhail brings the eye of the gun to my temple. I struggle to breathe through the sobs that crawl their way out of my throat. My entire face is drenched, and I can hardly see Mikhail through the water in my eyes. I never wanted to hurt him.

“Stop it,” I whimper with a shaky voice.

He brings his lips close to mine, but his face remains clear of any emotion. The sound of the gun clicking against my skull makes my entire body freeze up.

“I—” I choke back.

He just tried to shoot me.

“Tell me,” he demands again.

My heart pounds inside my chest, and I place my hand on his neck. I acknowledge the pain I’ve caused him, but I wish he would still see me. I’ve been by his side the entire time. I’ve been here to help him, to guide him. I’ve been here to love him.

The gun lifts from my skull, and he places it against his. “Tell me what I need to know, Sloane.”

My chest tightens as I stop breathing. “Mikhail!” I scream at him. I’d let him kill me before he found out, but now the gun is pointing at him, I can’t help the words that will follow.

He stares at me, the veins in his neck sticking out when his head falls back slightly.

“Your father,” I sob. “He wanted me to help you.”

“Help me with what?” he demands. There is nothing familiar about the man I’ve come to know. The person standing in front of me is unrecognizable.

“He wanted me to help you and Giovanni team together. To protect you both from the Clarkes,” I explain to him. There is so much more to say, yet I can’t seem to find the best way to describe any of this situation. Weeks went by quickly with Mikhail, and I got comfortable.

What Pavel wanted me to do wasn’t even my main thought or priority. I wanted to get to know Mikhail more. I found myself enjoying his company.

I take a step toward him, and he doesn’t step away. Carefully, I stand on my toes and grab the gun from his hand.

Just as I go to empty the chamber, I see there are no bullets inside. My mouth drops, and I look up at him.

He tricked me.