Clubs: The Suit’s Book 2
Clubs: Chapter 17

I’m fucking furious.

I never liked him, but that was the last straw. Sloane is more than just a body.

“Mikhail.” Lev places his hand on my shoulder. “Take this.” He hands me a glass of whiskey.

I turn toward all the men staring at me. “It would’ve happened eventually,” I admit.

“I would’ve done it if you didn’t,” Dimitri grits. “What do you want to do with the body?” Dimitri never cares about the reason someone is killed; he just handles everything. Which is exactly what I need right now. I haven’t been this pissed off in a while. I welcome the feeling. It reminds me of who I am. Sloane has been getting in my head way too much.

Fuck, I’m killing for her? What the hell is going on?

“Tie his feet to a cement block and drop him in the ocean. Nature will take care of him for me,” I say as I sip the whiskey.

“Done deal,” he answers proudly.

“I told you she’d be a problem,” Lev mutters.

My grip around the glass tightens at Lev’s comment. “I just got done killing a man for insulting her—do you not recognize the pattern here?” I say on a worn-out breath. “She’s not the problem.”

“She is. You feel the need to defend her honor.”

I click my tongue. “Yeah, I fucking do. She doesn’t deserve that disrespect.”

“You disrespect her.”

I clench my jaw in frustration and glare at him. I’ve never known Lev to have a mouth on him. The worst part is that he thinks he’s accomplishing something. As if I’d listen to what he has to say. His smug fucking smile lifts more as the seconds pass.

It takes an immeasurable amount of control to keep myself from reminding Lev of his place beneath me. I’d gladly take a chair and bash his face in, but I’m feeling forgiving today.

Max shuffles his feet in the silence, breaking it by saying, “You made him mad . . . That’s not a good place to be.” He laughs.

“Whipped,” Oliver blurts, creating the sound effect of a whip. If he weren’t so young, I’d teach him a lesson.

“What the fuck do you know? You’re sixteen.”

“Dad acts like that with Mom.”

“Because your dad is smitten with your mom. They’re in love. That’s not what this is. This . . . this is . . . this is frustration,” I say, stuttering over every word.

“Can I say something?” Max asks.

“What?”

“This could actually work out to your benefit. Investors might view you better if you have a lady by your side.”

“Holy shit, that’s a good point!” Dimitri says as he falls on the couch laughing. He’s drunk off his ass. I can feel the heat of my anger boiling inside me like a kettle on a flame.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” I tell him.

“We’re kind of at the bridge—it’s only a few days away,” Adrian says with a dry, amused look.

“I’m going to bed,” I tell them.

“Think about it!” Dimitri shouts.

At least someone’s enjoying tonight. Leave it to Dimitri to make light of the situation.

All this started because I wanted to do something for my father. He wanted New York, and I want to give him New York, but it feels like the entire plan I’ve come up with over the past two fucking years is fading away from me. That’s what Sloane is doing to me. She gets in my head and makes me forget my anger.

I wave him off and leave.

Stepping out of the room, I pass the dining room and see Sloane staring at the man I killed. His body is slowly falling out of the chair. I feel no pity for him. He should have known better than to say something like that.

Walking up to her, I crouch to the ground. Her chest is covered with specks of blood. I take my thumb and wipe the red spots off her face. Her lips move as if she wants to say something, but she isn’t capable of forming words.

“Sloane,” I say, trying to break her stare.

Her body doesn’t react to the touch of my skin on hers. I didn’t think she’d be left in a state of shock like this. Has she never seen a dead body before? She’s the daughter of Ludis. There’s no way he raised her for twenty years and she’s never seen a dead body. And on the off chance she hasn’t, I’ll give him credit for keeping her so sheltered.

“Moya lubimaya.” My love.

I force my mouth shut after the words suddenly slip through my lips. Her head turns slowly toward me, rocking as if she understands what I’m saying.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says in a calm tone, the total opposite of her mouthy sass. Her words contradict the look on her face.

“But I did,” I say in a soft voice I haven’t used in ages. “Men don’t get to talk to you like that, at least not when I’m around.”

“I’m sorry you felt the need.”

“Pokoinik. He was dead the moment he looked at you.”

I’ve never seen her so . . . composed. I prefer the sass she always shows me over this. I don’t even know how to talk to her.

Her eyes slam shut for a moment before she reaches across the table and brings the bottle of champagne to her lips. She takes big gulps of it as if this is how she’s choosing to cope. I’m glad I didn’t replace the same outlet after I took my first life. Sure, I drink every now and then, but I know I can handle my wrongdoings with a conscious brain. I had everything I needed after I placed that bullet in his skull. I knew I was capable of it.

I grab the bottle from Sloane’s lips and put it back on the table. If she continues to drink the rest, I have no doubt she’ll get alcohol poisoning.

“What can I do, Sloane?” I ask her.

She shakes her head back and forth.

“Kak ya mogu ubrat tvoyu bol?” How can I take away your pain?

We sit together for a while in silence as she processes everything. Then she lets out a sigh and stands up.

“I think I’m . . . I think I’m going to take a shower.”

I grab onto her hand to help her walk, but her skinny fingers slowly intertwine with mine, and I instantly want to back away. I don’t do this shit. I don’t hold hands with women. I never kiss them either. It carries too much emotion, and then they expect things from me. Things I’ll never be able to give.

I don’t commit to anything but my family and my job.

As much as I want to take my hand away from hers, I hold onto it. My stomach turns because I’m going against everything I believe in, but this is what she needs right now. She needs me to hold her steady and comfort her.

She’s delicate. She’s a wilting flower.

Her feet stumble onto mine. She lets out a laugh and leans her weight into my arm until I’m practically carrying her. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?” she asks.

That’s a first. My brow furrows. “Because I don’t.”

“Oliver. He was talking about his mom.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“I—I don’t know . . .”

“I’m twenty-eight, Sloane. He’s sixteen. There’s no way he could be my son,” I explain. “Oliver is my cousin.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to assume . . .” All of a sudden, she acts shy.

We make it to her room, and I open the door. “You should go clean up. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You’re right. I should shower.”

I glare at her. She’s acting different, like she’s helpless. The witch I know doesn’t ask for help. She figures out everything on her own because that’s just who she is. A mouthy little brat who has to have everything go her way.

“Can you help me with the zipper?” she asks, turning her back toward me.

Hesitantly, I gather her hair and push it to the side. I unzip her dress down to the curve of her hips.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to face me. She pulls her arms out of the dress, but she’s slow to cover her chest with her hands.

My eyes stay on her body even though my brain tells me look away. Her breasts are small but perfectly round. She wants me to see her. She wants me to think about her body. The way her nipple fit perfectly in my mouth . . .

It takes everything in me to turn and walk toward the door. Staring at her will only make my situation worse.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, closing the door behind me.

Getting involved with her will make me no better than Giovanni. I don’t need a wrench in my plans. Everything is working out. Feelings don’t need to be involved.