A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

As she continued to search her mind, a knock came to the door. Gretchen cautiously walked to the rounded wooden door and crossed her arms. "Come in." As the door slowly opened, a tall elderly gentleman with long white hair and beard stepped into the room. "Good morning, Miss Mason. How are you feeling this morning?" Gretchen looked the man over and squinted her eyes. He looked harmless enough so she shrugged her shoulders. "I'm...I'm fine. Thank you... If you don't mind, can you please tell me where I am?"

She went back into the room he told her she could sleep in. Moscow walked into Gemma's building, she stared at his phone, and Wesley still hasn’t replied to his text. This was the only place he could find since he wasn’t home. He was getting glances at them when he walked past them. He bow and greeted them with a smile on his face. “Doctor Moscow.” The Director called. Moscow stopped and waved at him. He hurried with his short legs to meet him. “What a pleasant surprise!” He clapped his hands together with a smile.

“I have a reservation. Under Romanov.” The man checked his list and nodded. “Of course. Mr. Romanov is already seated. This way, please.” My heart began to hammer. This was it. Three months of messages, filled with carefully constructed lies and late-night conversations that had felt too real, all leading to this moment. Calm down, Irina. It will soon be over. The maître d' led me through the main dining room, past tables filled with Moscow's elite, oligarchs and their mistresses, businessmen sealing deals over wine that cost more than most people's monthly salary. Eyes followed me. I ignored them.

Present day, Moscow… It was a snowy night in Moscow. No cars dared to occupy the roads. Every single thing in the range of vision was stark white. The winds blew relentlessly, causing a whistling sound to echo across the deserted roads. Only a few shops remained open and the faces of the employees sitting within the glass walls clearly indicated that they didn't want to be there either. A bunch of homeless people gathered around a metal trash can with a fire raging inside it. Far from all the despair and chaos, Ivan Volkov rested on his ornate sofa in front of his fireplace in a dimly lit room. He was in his late fifties and had a head full of white hair in a typical soldier haircut and a si

He was fairly handsome, with short dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, he had average muscular built and a soft tan skin. Height wise, he was a few inches taller than Clara. The man clearly had a style as he was seen wearing a white t-shirt and a plain leather jacket with jeans on. It was not exactly the typical street style she expected to see in Paris but she was not complaining. Clara looked up to meet his eyes, his eyes was naturally deep but his gaze was penetrating. He scratched his fingers before walking over to Clara with an eased yet firm gesture. "Pickpockets, there are a few in Paris, you must be more careful, fortunately that rascal was easily scared. Next time, don't make yourself

With their numbers, and the positions they held up above us, they could see our every move anywhere we went. “Bravo, bravo. I must say, seeing you two in action is just as entertaining as I thought it would be.” A Russian accent boomed throughout the basement. I looked up to see Moskov, standing in the center of his men in front of a rail, clapping as he smiled evilly at Ace and I. “It’s too late for you Moskov. Our families will be down here any minute to end your pathetic fucking life!” Ace yelled up at him, as my hands tightened their grip on my gun.

With just one glance at him, I could tell he was nothing but a pompous fat man who thinks the whole world is right in his palm. “Gentlemen,” he said, his Russian accent a bit too broad as soon as he sat. “I hope you don’t mind getting your food ordered for you. I thought you all could do with this.” And a dictator too. Fan-fucking-tastic. “We don’t have a problem with that, Romanov. I believe you know why we are here.” Luciano asked, and I watched as Romanov filled his glass with wine, picked it up, and drank from it.

And now he was telling me there was more? The paradoxical man I met, a biker with a gentlemanly manner and overly masculine persona, does not live in an ivory tower. I keep waiting for someone to jump out from behind a wall with a camera ever since we first stepped foot in the building. The way he was greeted by the doorman with such reverence and the way he treated the other man was like seeing a whole other person in action. I feel like I’m about to pass out again. That man had all but bowed, and I’m not going to start on how he greeted me. I almost looked behind me to see who he was talking to.

“You’re a long way from home, Visconti,” Jaxon says, his voice smooth but unmistakably hostile. His fingers flex on my thighs, parting them wider as he grips hard, a deliberate move because of the man at the table’s head whose gaze washes over me like honey on skin. “Most find the climate in Moscow harsh and the streets hostile. In truth, I had hoped you might get mugged to death in the streets, but it’s not too late, I assume.”

His stomach hurts so much. He sat down on a sofa, he picked out a cigar and lited it. His legs were crossed while he smoke, He had a belt around his trim waist and his top hugged his body revealing a huge collarbone. His Adam apple bobbled sexily and his entire presence exuding an indescribable masculinity and charming. He is so Damm sexy, he exuded a perfect gentleman and woman could go crazy seeing him like this. A moment later, Butler Ji won walked up to him, he bow in respect. Butler Ji won is the man steward of old master Lin, he knows practically everything about him.