Novel & Cerita A Gentleman In Moscow

He looks over at us then frowns and he walks towards us with the four guys close to his sides. I keep my cool telling myself that he does not know, at least not yet. “Morning gentlemen.” He greets with his rich access, it's very intimidating but this is not the time for that. “Good morning.” I greet him casually and he smirks then turns to the guy next to him with a clean-shaven head. “You see Michail, I want people close to me to address me like that but not be too cocky thinking that I won’t kill them when the time comes.” The Russian tells the guy on his right.

That’s a dumb question, Julianna, My subconscious muttered. “Nikolai’s of course,” she replied, “Who is he? Who are you people,” I asked, my voice steady as I spoke to her, she doesn’t make me nervous like Nikolai. “Nikolai Vasiliev is a Russian mafia don, I’m here just to take care of you,” she said, “I guess he already told you this… You have to work with me in the kitchen every day from now,” “Yeah, he told me,” I said,

It was not really hidden, but it was positioned in a way where those in the normal club could not see what was happening. This section had a glass, that can be activated with a click of a button and can also become tinted. Volkov was busy ducking a girl, with her tits out. He saw me approaching, and smirked. “ Gambino, good to see you I can't help but say your city has good forms of entertainment.” He said as his hands went deeper to somewhere out of my view. “ It seems as though I have been to nice to you Russian rats” I said calmly.

The architecture was a blend of classic elegance and modern austerity, much like the man who awaited within. The car came to a halt, and the door opened to a man whose presence commanded attention. Nikolai "Niko" Romanov, Damian's right-hand, offered a curt nod. "Miss Vasiliev," he greeted, his tone formal. "Welcome. Please, follow me." I stepped out, squaring my shoulders, determined not to show the turmoil within. The interior of the mansion was as imposing as its exterior—high ceilings, marble floors, and artwork that spoke of both wealth and a discerning eye.

His hair was gelled and styled backward, and his impeccable stance looked like a finely carved sculpture ornamented with attitude and sophistication. "Welcome, Miss Kira." He spoke in an awful tone, his voice soft but deep. He was certainly not welcoming. He appeared displeased by my presence. He said plainly, maintaining that look, "My name is Gus, The Butler of the Monsorries." "Come with me, and I'll show you to your chambers." That was all he muttered before beginning to enter Mansion while still maintaining his hands crossed in the backward position. Is that all there is to it?

Saint Petersburg, Russia Inside a big spacious room, three men were standing side by side with their heads bowed down. A man in his late twenties was sitting behind a desk holding a cigar in his hand. A girl with bare minimum clothes was massaging his shoulder while giggling seductively. The scene was pretty much common to what an author could describe as an already degraded man with no moral values. There were plenty of papers kept on the table but the man's eyes were fixed on a specific one.

He muttered a series of words which Presley was certain in English were all four letters long. The stomping of feet sounded again, and she was wide-eyed. The Russian man held out the cupboard door by his feet. It was small and tight, but she managed to get in with the door barely closed when the Russian stood in front of it. Through the small crack she could see the way he leaned against the counter, lazily drinking his tea and chomping a cookie. He was cool as a cucumber, and she was aware this man was not a simple seaman. He was highly trained in whatever work he did for Belkin, probably running drugs.

I purse my lips but I don’t refuse, I might’ve even jumped at the opportunity with an internal smile. Not more than three minutes later, while I’m still struggling to dice the tomatoes as perfectly as Madam C ordered, a young gentleman I’ve most likely seen before, walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator to get himself a glass of orange juice. Beside me, Madam C claps her hand, the look of utter disbelief on her face as she turns to me, eyes wide. “What’s wrong? What happened?” I stumble over my words, my heart pounding against my chest, worried.

Aaron then turned to Alessandro and said, “Hi, old man. I like your look although you look like a bad guy from the movies.” Aaron’s words had almost everyone in the house gasp audibly. Adrian spoke, “I am really sorry about it. He has been pampered a lot.” Alessandro gave a reassuring smile to Adrian, “That is all okay.” He then turned to Aaron, “Hi, young man. By the way, I am a bad guy. I am the Don.” “Oh really. Would you like to play a game with me?” Aaron bet while showing off the gun in his hand.

He had been present, the whole time, standing at the bar, exchanging platitudes with a group of men and women, or looking down into his glass in the way of habitual drinkers, as if find solace at the bottom of a glass. "Why did you?" Amber asks. "Keep us waiting?" The only response was a grunt and an expressionless look from a pair of hard grey eyes as he pushed the tumblers our way as if that would be enough to appease us. He was solid and in his thirties and wore his jacket open. He had black hair going a little thin on top and a neck like a strong tree trunk. "You two want to be careful in Moscow," he said. "Is that right?" I say. "Do you have a name?"