A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

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.

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?

And no one would stand in his way. Five Years Later – Moscow. In an exclusive underground club, filled with dim golden lights and cigarette smoke, Renjiro Takahashi sat luxuriously sprawled across a velvet sofa. A gorgeous woman in a deep red dress poured him vodka, her fingers lingering just a little too long on the glass. Across from him, a massive, blue-eyed Russian studied him cautiously, stroking the thin stubble on his jaw. "So," the man drawled, his thick accent weighing heavily on his words.

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 just didn't like her crying for anyone no matter what the reason behind it was. "W-Who are you?" She stuttered letting another tear escape her eyes as she stared at him like she was meeting this man the very first time. Cyril chuckled leaning his face closer to her, she turned her face making him bury his nose in her cheek as he whispered hoarsely against it. "Cyril Sokolov, I am a businessman and the biggest Russian mob gang's leader. A Mafia Lord." _____________________________ Next will be updated on Sunday, keep on liking and commenting.

He wears a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hello, Gianna,” he says, accent thick and unmistakably Russian. “Won’t you join me?”