Clubs: The Suit’s Book 2
Clubs: Chapter 1

Fifteen years ago . . .

Iwatch the way his hands curl around the sweating glass of vodka. He sits at the bar like he owns it. He could. By the way his suit clings to his body, it looks as if it was tailored to fit his every curve perfectly. Everything about him screams money.

I look down at myself. I look nothing like him. My clothes are ripped to shreds and my shoes are on their last life. The rubber is falling off, the seams frayed beyond repair.

“Mikhail.” Kirill mutters my name. “You need to do it this time.” His pale skin is far more bruised than mine.

“Okay.”

His gaze his cold, though I’m not surprised. It has been for a long time. There was once life in those spotted amber eyes of his. It doesn’t matter how long you stare into them—there is nothing left. They’re dark. Deadly.

Just as I’m about to take a step toward the bar, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me back to him. “You need to be strong if you want to eat.”

“Okay,” I tell him again.

Sometimes this way of life is illegal, but no one cares to acknowledge that.

Money is paper, and yet people go feral over it—myself included.

But here’s the thing about money: it doesn’t matter how much someone makes, they will always live paycheck to paycheck. The more buck they make, the more their standards for living increase. I could have a very high-paying job, but would I pocket anything? No. Because once I get to that point, I’d want a house with ten bedrooms I’d never use and a six-car garage for the cars I’d never drive.

Money is the most fucked-up thing mankind relies on, yet here I am stealing it.

I know how wrong stealing is, but it’s our way of life. Going back home isn’t an option for us anymore.

“Home” isn’t the right word for that place. It’s a hole-in-the-wall filled with my father’s things. Empty bottles cover the table. Every passing hour he adds three more. The couch is stained with his urine. Maggots crawl over the half-finished meals he spends all our money on. The house never sees the light of day. The TV’s on for hours on end while my father sits on the couch with his mouth gaping open attracting flies. His teeth are rotting, and he never does anything to fix them. He eats like a king while Kirill and I only get an uncooked box of noodles for dinner every night. My body screams for nutrition, but I’m not able to get any.

Every time I come home to see him shoving mounds of food into his mouth, I cling to the hope that one day . . . one day I will be able to eat like him. There is a thing about hope that no one cares to acknowledge: it only answers the people who already have everything in life.

People who have money don’t have the worries I have. Their vision isn’t clouded by the foul play life constantly throws in my face.

I hate the life I have. While I am thankful to have a roof over my head, I can’t help but wonder how grand my life could have been if I had a parent who actually cared about me.

No child my age should have to worry about when their next meal will be or if they will even get it. Is a warm meal really that much to ask for? The kids at school have it. Most of their parents even write notes in their lunchboxes wishing them a good day.

My mouth salivates when I see their lunches. If their midday meals are that good, I can’t even begin to imagine what their dinners look like. Their parents probably tuck them in at night and wish all the bad dreams away before they shut their eyes.

I will never have that.

All my life I’ve been called “responsible for my age” as if it’s the biggest compliment I’ll ever receive, but it never was and never will be.

It’s the most backhanded excuse of a compliment I have come to know. I was forced to take on a parental role for myself as if I know how to parent. My peers get praise when they did something right. They get a C? That’s life-changing for them. But what do I get when I run home with excitement pumping through my bloodstream to tell Father I got the best grade in class?

I get nothing.

Receiving a common education is like replaceing a gold mine, but my work is worth nothing. It’s a standard that I’m meant to uphold.

Most of the time, people like me don’t even realize they’re neglected. Neglect doesn’t transfer as an act of trauma, although it should. I am never noticed in a positive light.

But hey, I have a shirt on my back and a crumpled-up pillow to lay my head on at night, so all is well in the world.

Sue me—I want more.

I force down a sickening feeling I’ve been holding onto for days on end. The built-up shame rolls down my cheeks as my throat thickens with sobs. My cries for help will never be answered. No one cares, and I’m not even sure if I do at this point.

All I want is for something to point me in the right direction. The thought of doing this for my whole life opens an endless pit of dread in my stomach.

I bring my hand up to my warm, wet face only to notice how much I’ve been drowning in my own grief. I’ve suppressed so many emotions, and the bubble finally popped. I use my dry sleeve to wipe away the tears that fall effortlessly down my face.

I’m not crying out of weakness; I’m crying because I’m fucking angry at the world for

giving me nothing.

“Mikhail.” My brother whispers my name. I don’t dare to look back at him. If he sees that I’m crying he’ll call me weak. I don’t want to be weak. “You’ve got this,” he says with a strong voice.

With my back still to him, I nod.

A woman bumps into my shoulder as she walks past me wearing clothes that scream “Daddy’s money” while I walk off with a twenty I slipped from her purse. She looks like the kind of girl who’d spend thousands of dollars on a bag just to hold more of her dollars.

It doesn’t matter how bitchy she is to her family. One of the many privileges of having a lot of money: being snobby is a given. In fact, it’s considered classy if you have enough of it. Her father must show his love by providing the materialistic items she begs for.

My father has never shown me a sliver of love. Not that I think it exists anyhow. The only thing that can truly connect one person to another is commitment. That’s what Kirill has shown me.

If he can stick by my side, I can stick by his.

I force my eyes shut as I try to gather the strength to do what needs to be done. When I slowly open them back up, my vision is blurred, but I can still see where I need to go.

The man’s suit jacket hangs off the back of the chair. I crane my neck to see around the corner and watch him make his way toward a door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. Only men with money and power are allowed past those doors.

I glance back at Kirill, who stands behind me as if he wants to do it instead. He’ll never stop trying to protect me, but I want to show him I can help. I can be the one who sticks by his side to protect him.

I straighten my back as I walk confidently toward the jacket, exchanging a nod with the bartender as I go. He looks at me strangely, probably wondering what someone as young as me is doing at the bar.

“Do you want water? I have orange juice too,” he tells me in Russian.

“Water, please.” I smile, grateful for his kindness. “Two, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.”

He turns around to make the drinks, his back facing me as my hand slowly reaches into his pocket. I feel bad for stealing in general, but it feels worse now that I’m doing it in the presence of someone who doesn’t share my greed. He doesn’t understand. No one ever will.

The moment I feel the leather wallet in my hands, I want to make a run for it. Instead, I put it in my back pocket and wait for the water.

The bartender places two Styrofoam cups on the counter with lids and straws.

“Thank you,” I tell him. I walk toward the door with a casual pace so I won’t draw any attention. When I meet Kirill there, I hand him one of the waters.

“Did you get it?” he asks as he puts the straw in the cup.

“I did.”

“Then let’s go.”

I follow my older brother outside, but my body slams into his when he comes to an abrupt stop.

“Vor.” Thief.

I look past Kirill. My eyes widen and fear floods my stomach as one of the men pulls a gun out of his jacket. Kirill shoves me in the arm, telling me to run. I take the opportunity to dive through the man’s legs and make my escape.

I laugh with Kirill as we run side by side as fast as we can. There’s a jump in his step while he runs. “You fucking did it!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. He’s proud of me.

Holy fuck. I did do it.

A large smile tugs at the corner of my lips, and I allow it to take over. In this moment, I’m not scared to let this overwhelming feeling of success take over my thoughts.

My legs move faster than I ever thought they were capable of. I turn my head to look behind me and see the men trying to catch up to us, but they’re not fast enough.

None of that matters once we reach the dead end of an alley and I stare into the face of a man who doesn’t look like someone we want to mess with.

My face numbs at the glare he gives to me and my brother. He doesn’t appear to be pissed; if anything he looks intrigued, and I’m not sure what to make of that. The man’s eyes are hooded and have the color of the dark moss that grows on the bottom of aged trees.

Kirill stands with his legs lined up with his shoulders. He doesn’t look as nervous as I am. But then again, he never is. He’s always been the man to be strong.

While my spirits fall, I see his interest spike.

I can feel my heart racing as if it’s about to pound out of my chest. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to refrain from saying something I’ll regret.

“You stole from one of my people,” the man in a light gray tux says to us in Russian. He laughs at my silence. The sound doesn’t bring joy but fear, the vibrations that fall from his throat are coated with power. The sound of his voice alone could make a grown man question everything about himself. “If you steal from a man, you own up to it.”

“I was just trying to feed my brother,” Kirill says, taking the blame for the wallet I stole.

He looks me up and down with his dark eyes. “Your hands and face—what happened?”

“Our father,” Kirill starts.

“I asked the kid. I’m sure he can answer for himself.”

A noise escapes Kirill. I glance at him with a hope that’s quick to wash away. The man I’ve always looked up to seems to be drowning in shame all of a sudden. I pull at his arm, begging for his attention, but he refuses to look at me.

Is he ashamed?

Terrified to speak up, I gulp down my fear. “As he said, it was our father.”

“He beats you two?”

My brother and I nod slowly in response.

The person we stole from walks up behind us, screaming to the world that we’re thieves.

“If it’s that big of an issue, do something about it,” Mr. Gray tells him. His words come out almost as a threat—not to me or Kirill, but to the man.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he says, kicking me in the stomach, only worsening the pain of my already cracked rib—the rib my father cracked just this morning.

Mr. Gray takes a gun out from his waistband and places a bullet in the center of the man’s forehead. He gives it no second thought; shows no sign of mercy. He shows no emotion at all.

My heart drops and I shudder at the loud gunfire. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears and makes everything around me sound muffled. I had no idea they could be so loud.

The man falls to the ground, and I watch the endless stream of blood flow from his skull. I stare at the dead man as if I’ve seen many bodies drop to the floor. It doesn’t shock me as much as I thought it would. Seeing the man fall to the ground isn’t what scares me—it’s the sound of him choking on his own blood. It gurgles through his closing throat while he fights for his final breath of air.

Mr. Gray walks up to the dead man and mutters something under his breath. He’s calm and collected. That should terrify me, but it doesn’t. In fact, I admire it. Even at the age of thirteen, I’m not ignorant to the idea the man who hit me deserved to die.

“Never speak empty threats. If you have a purpose, you stay true to it.” Mr. Gray looks directly at me. His hair is slicked back and his eyes have dark shadows. I look up at my brother and notice he’s just as in awe of him as I am. “Never let a man beat you when you’re already down, kid.” His words are aimed at me. Then he demands, “Your names?”

I normally refrain from telling anyone anything about me, but there’s something different about Mr. Gray. I feel obliged to tell him everything.

“I’m Mikhail. This is Kirill.”

“Did you two deserve the beating you got?”

I ponder his question. Do we deserve to be beaten for stealing something from another person? Yes. But does anyone ever deserve a beating if they haven’t done anything wrong? Father hit me because I started to clean up his mess—at least, I tried to. I started by sweeping the bugs off the ground and gathering his trash. He didn’t like that. He grabbed me and beat me until I was choking on my own breath.

“No.”

“Does he deserve the same beating you got?”

I nod in response because my own voice fails me.

The man walks a circle around me and my brother, looking us up and down as if he’s inspecting us. “I’ve heard about the both of you. I don’t think you realize how fast word can travel.”

“It took you long enough,” Kirill says with determination.

My mouth falls open and I look back up at Kirill. There isn’t any shame in his glare. It’s as if he’s wanted to get this man’s attention for some time, but why would he want that?

The stranger tilts his head, welcoming the idea Kirill has been committing crimes to get his attention. Almost . . . proud.

A wicked smile takes over his lips. “Okay.”

I turn and pull at my brother’s arm, begging to get out of this situation. We shouldn’t be standing near a dead body asking for problems. He said I needed to steal so we can eat, but I’m starting to think he did all this on purpose.

We stole from the wrong person, and that’s exactly what Kirill wanted. Does he think he and I can’t conquer the world by ourselves?

“All right, get in the car.” Mr. Gray turns on his heels and begins to walk out of the alley, leaving the dead man to rot.

“Us?” Kirill asks as if he expects anything less.

Mr. Gray stops and turns around slowly. “Unless you’d like to go back to what you were doing.”

I race after him, afraid he’ll leave. He has a long stride to his walk, and I struggle to keep up with him. Kirill and I must look like little ducklings following their mother. The thought alone is kind of embarrassing, but I’ll own up to it. The man is direct with his words and holds a strong sense of purpose. I fear him a million times over, but it’s not the fear that I’ve come to know. In a strange way, I want to follow every step he takes.

A black Mercedes pulls up to the edge of the sidewalk. Mr. Gray opens the door and motions for us to get in. I’ve never been in a car before, and I’m sure it shows. I stare at the shiny leather cushions as I scoot to the other side to make room for my brother.

“Where do you two live?”

“Just around the corner. It’s the gray building with bikes in the yard.”

The man is strong and apathetic. I can tell by the lack of worry lines on his forehead that he doesn’t carry concern on his shoulders. To be a man like him means to expect everyone around you will be just as tough. But what happens if I share my pity for others? No one should ever want to be like him, but a tug at my heart tells me to take note of everything he does.

“Idi k nim domoy.”

Kirill grabs onto my hand and holds it tight to his chest, his heart beating fast. Is he scared? This is what he wanted all along—he should be thrilled about this. My eyes fall to my lap and my mind races in circles. Kirill is a very private person, and I shouldn’t be upset with him for trying to help us, but anger crashes through me when I realize he should have told me about his plan. That’s the least he could have done.

“Kirill,” I whisper as quietly as I can.

The muscles in his neck tense when he leans down to hear me. “Who is this man?”

He licks the bottom of his lip and looks around us to make sure no one’s listening. “He’s Bratva,” he says in a low growl.

Bratva. We shouldn’t be involved with them—I know that much. The crimes my brother and I commit are child’s play compared to what the Bratva does. If Kirill means to work for them, stealing is the last thing we’ll be doing.

The car comes to a short stop, and Mr. Gray opens the door. “Out,” he demands.

I scramble to get out and stand on the sidewalk. I don’t want to go back into that building. I never want to see it again.

“Which door?”

I look up at the man whose eyes are filled with purpose. He looks pissed, but not at me or my brother. Lifting my head, I survey the buildings that surround us. They all look exactly the same, built with cheap material, the stone walls threatening to crumble from a single touch. Trash is placed where bushes should be growing. The lights that hang from the walls flicker on and off, hardly guiding the walkway.

I grab onto his hand and lead him to the rusted yellow door that separates me from my failed excuse of a father. Mr. Gray sniffles and kicks the door down as if it’s made of paper. He steps over the trash and wrinkles his nose at the rancid smell.

I follow behind him while my brother waits outside. I don’t blame Kirill for not wanting to come in. He’s suffered at the hands of our father much longer than I have.

My father stands up from the couch, bags of chips and beer cans falling off his lap. “Mikhail,” he grumbles in Russian, “who is this?”

“Kirill, do you need anything from inside here?” Mr. Gray asks, looking back at him.

“No.”

“Mikhail, do you?”

I try to remember the items I own. I don’t have much of anything. I don’t even have a bedroom; I sleep in the hallway in a sleeping bag or in the lobbies of cheap hotels. “Yes,” I tell him when I remember the notebook I want to grab.

“Get it quick and come back.”

I rush past the filth, stepping over things that make me want to hurl. Once in the hallway, I reach under my sleeping bag and grab the notebook.

Scampering back to the main room, I see my father staring at Mr. Gray. It’s strange—I’ve never seen my father show fear, but he is now. He grabs me by the hair and pulls me close.

“Mikhail, remember what I told you?” Mr. Gray asks, pulling me toward him. It’s as if these men are fighting over whose side I’m on.

“Never let a man beat you when you’re already down,” I repeat the words he spoke to me only a moment ago.

“That’s right,” he says, placing a gun in my hand.

I stare down at it and feel its power taking control of my thoughts. The bullet that rests in this chamber could end a life. It could end mine, but I hold its power.

“If you choose to be a part of this, you simply point this at him and press the trigger under your index finger.”

If I choose to be a part of this.

“Mikhail wouldn’t kill his own blood—he knows better than that. You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you,” my father says.

“Do you?” Mr. Gray argues in Russian. “Do you feed him? The boy is nothing but bone.” He steps behind me and places his hands on my shoulders.

I hold up the gun and watch my father stare into the eye of the pistol.

“Close your eyes if you must.”

No. I want to see the life in his body die. I want to hear the last and final breath he ever takes. I want him gone.

I hold my finger down on the trigger and watch the bullet go into my father’s chest. My body jolts back into Mr. Gray and my ears ring. My father’s hands fly to the wound and he falls back into his chair, choking on his blood. It’s poetic really. He lived his life until his death in that very chair.

“Ya gorzhus, Mikhail.”

He is proud of me. I just killed my father, and I don’t feel anything . . . nothing at all. I watched his face turn red and his mouth gape open. I watched him process that his own son just shot him and he couldn’t do anything about it. And I feel nothing.

“Right. You two will come with me now.”

We walk to the car and sit in silence the entire ride. I don’t think Kirill agrees with what I did, but a part of me doesn’t care. I can be the one to stand up for us. He needs me to be.

The driver pulls the car into a long, narrow driveway. I lift my head to look out the window at the beautiful land that surrounds us. Tall cypress trees line the concrete. The house looks huge. Snow dusts the black roof, making it appear a faded gray. Tall windows cover the entire side of the house. A fountain rests in the middle of a small island at the end of the driveway.

“This is your new home. Does it suffice?” Mr. Gray asks with a subtle smile.

I can hardly contain my excitement as I nod over and over again.

“My name is Pavel Stepanov. You will take my last name, and I will take you in as my own. I will raise you as my sons. Be sure not to come into my office. That is where I work and must not be bothered. Kirill, you still need to prove yourself, but we will talk about that later.” He gets out of the car and leads my brother and me to the front door.

“This is insane,” Kirill mutters.

A young woman walks down the stairs with a toddler in her arms. She looks at Mr. Stepanov with curiosity written on her face.

He motions for her to come to us. “See this little one? Her name is Anya. She is your sister, and you will not let harm touch her.”

“Can I hold her?” I ask the woman with long brown hair. She has kind eyes. I almost never come across eyes like hers.

The woman kneels to the floor so I’m level with Anya. Her face looks smooth, and her lips pout. She has big eyes and dark hair. Her fingers move to try and wave at me. I wave back.

“Galina, once they are ready, show them around and let them pick their rooms.”

A wide smile spreads across my face as I hold my sister in my arms. I try to wrap my mind around everything that happened today. I can’t think of a single thing that went wrong.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.