A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

Stalin gives me a quick look as he loses his belt and comes to my height. “Let’s do this man.” His Russian words are spoken with a thread of determination. I give a nod of my head and zoom outside. Standing on the tarmac coated with New York’s air, I stand by and watch my boys alight the plane with bags of our weapons. Lastly, Leonid and Akim step out. “Hey, pakhan. Nice to meet again, huh.” The air traffic guy, Wilson, comes into view, face cushioned in goggles. I give him a curt nod and allow Stalin to tip the guy for his job.

Yet, amidst the sea of curious gazes, it was the piercing stare of the middle-aged gentleman and the captivating Anastasia by his side that truly captivated my interest. [Milan Argnar - Level 109] [Title- Viscount] As my eyes fell upon the status of the individual seated beside Anastasia, my intrigue withered away in an instant. I had anticipated a spectacle, for Anastasia had brought a gentleman to this gathering. Yet, what a feeble creature he appeared to be – "Wait a minute, isn't this scoundrel the one who had been dispatching assassins every night?" A lethal glimmer ignited within my gaze.

I hope tomorrow will be better than today. ******* SOMEWHERE IN MOSCOW There is a minimalist study with floral curtains. An aged mahogany table lies near the window on a couch nearby sits a wizened old man with salt and pepper hair and beard. His features and body Did not reveal his true age. He was looking outside the window staring away at the horizon when he heard boots on the wooden floor, which was soon followed by a knock on the door. "Come in" the wise man said. A young brown haired man in his early 20's walks in.

“I just spent nine hours removing a glioblastoma from the motor cortex. Zero deficits. But please, continue your little plumbing project.” “Plumbing project?” I glance up at the gallery. Mistake. Alexei leans against the glass like he’s watching theater instead of surgery. Tall, dark-haired, those sharp Slavic features that belong on magazine covers. Even in surgical scrubs, he looks like money. Because he is money. Morozov Oil. Three generations of Moscow elite. He’s also—I force the thought away. Not relevant. Not professional. Definitely not something I should be thinking about while knuckle-deep in someone’s chest cavity.

People dramatically cleaning dead bodies and guns in every hallway? I wasn’t sure. Because this place looked more like the home of a billionaire with excellent taste which somehow made it creepier. I guess those mafia novels were spot on after all! “Miss Morozova.”She murmurs as the woman smiled politely. The smile on her lips is quite genuine. Not a blink twice if you need help smile but an actual smile and It threw me off. “Hello?”I murmur cautiously as she blinks back her expression warm. “Your dinner.”She says as my gaze drops back down to the cart.

the gentleman replies "I am Francesco Ramires, the butler of the house." "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ramires" I introduce him with a smile. "I'll change your plate. Do you have a preference?" "I really like pasta." "I'll have them prepare it for you." Boris didn't seem to mind, he just ate while looking at his iPad. He appeared to be working. "Mr. Mikhailovich" he looks at me. "Why do you insist on calling me that?" "May I know why this woman chooses what I eat, Boris?" I emphasize his name.

"Come in." The door opened slowly and Ricardo Romanoff enters. SvetozarVolkov’s right hand and most trusted man. The man was in his early 50's and even took the bullet on several occasions saving the Boss of Russian Mafia. Ricardo's eyes and throat burned as the poisonous smoke touched his senses. Holding his breath, he walks towards the balcony doors and opens them first to let the fresh air in, without acknowledging the Boss. Once done, he stood in front of Svetozar and nodded his head in greetings.

She felt a little embarrassed for space out. "S-Sorry Sir. Actually I came to tell you that the Russians are here. Should I arrange the meeting? " she informed him before apologising for her silly act. He just gave her a curt nod before telling her to leave. "Fuck" he cursed under his breath losing his tie. "Great pleasure to meet you again Alexander " Zacarias Casso the Russian mafia leader said, shaking his hand with Alexander. "Well I can't say the same. By the way, it's Mr. Kingston for you" Casso instantly felt embarrassed by his rude remark in front of his employee. He clenched his jaw to shallow the insult the young man threw at him.

he winked as he stalked off and she shook her head with a small smile as she instructed the special bell boy to wheel his luggage to his assigned room. He went to the private booth and a Swiss knife flew at his face as he drew the curtains which he caught between his index and middle finger. “As sharp as ever I see,” a man with a Russian accent said as he chuckled and puffed a Panetela Gigante as he rose to his feet. “Maurice,” Bruce called as he embraced the man and clapped him on the back, “I see your cigars haven’t killed you yet.” “And you are still single as ever, my friend,” Maurice chuckled and gestured towards the leather seats.

He glanced out the window at the towering skyline, then back at me, his eyes momentarily softening. “This is Moscow, India,” he stated. “The most developed part of the nation. It is where we can find what we need.” He returned immediately to his call, the wall of Russian clicking back into place. We came to a stop in the shadow of a colossal, black glass skyscraper that seemed to claw its way into the gray sky. This wasn’t a hidden safehouse; it was a fortress of commerce, a beacon of brazen, visible power. “End of the line. Enzo, take the boy,” Fabiano said, opening his door.