Novel & Cerita A Gentleman In Moscow

That was the way of galas like this: beautiful lies wrapped in gold. My father’s hand rested lightly at the small of my back, a possessive, protective touch he never quite realized he still gave me. Ivan Volkov—Russian mafia boss, king of shadows, the man whose name made grown men swallow hard—smiled like a proud parent as cameras flashed and heads turned. “Smile, solnyshko,” he murmured in Russian. “Tonight, we enjoy ourselves.” I did smile. For him. For my mother. For the illusion.

The Tsar and I stepped out of the car walking straight inside with two large attach cases filled with money. When we were already inside, it smelled like damp cement. The lights buzzed overhead. In the center of the room, a table sat between two chairs. One for the Tsar and one for Alessandeo who was already sitting there. Alessandro was a fat man. He has these weird gold coated teeth that are probably worth millions. He wore a leather jacket, gold rings, and that smug look he wore like his cologne that made my nose itch. His men stood behind him, twitchy and armed.

whatever this place is very similar to the last one, except everyone here looks more- fuck how to say - they look less like savages let's say. we are greeted by an old man smoking a big cigar in an empty room. shady place? you think right. "Killian, moy malʹchik," the old man says. so he is Russian, Killian looked at me and I pretended I didn't know what is happening here. Killian nods putting the bag on the ground, "Ков, я купил то, что ты просил."

(Translation: We got the information--) "Тсс, присутствующий здесь джентльмен может понять, о чем мы говорим, и я не хочу, чтобы мои личные дела были раскрыты." the man again said in Russian to his bodyguard making him gaze at Ace and clipped his mouth shut. (Translation: Shh, the gentleman present here can understand what we are saying and I don't want my personal matters to be revealed.)

Renard asked the old man to accommodate their guest to the visitors' lounge. The mysterious gentleman stiffly sat on the couch with all his composure while he roamed his eyes around the elegant room. Numbers of very expensive and rare items were displayed openly around him. A huge portrait is hanging above the fifteenth century fireplace. The huge door to his right burst open spitting Mr. Mercer with his threatening aura. "Lord Renard and Lady Allison Samira." He announced. Two gorgeous people entered the room with full of elegance and sophistication. A friendly gestures were shown to the lawyer, which he did not expect to receive from such household. They motioned him to take a seat.

At 8:30 Pm in the night, a rows of cars drove into the estate runway and finally stopped in front of the luxurious mansion, just like a king, as soon as the door was opened, dozens of guards went to the cars forming a rows of meat shield. “Haha!..ladies~ Ladies..relax..this is my mansion!!..and this..this all muscle idiots!!…they were all my servant!!..HAHAHA…”. (Mikhail Rosetta) Coming out of the car, was a blonde man, he had a slightly tan skins and when he speaks, there’s a light accents of Italians in it. Mikhail is a little bit attractive compared to any other male in the streets, he were always a flamboyant man, dressed always in an expensive satin shirts and suits, donning a lot of go

"Then you are already halfway to being one of us. You didn't just break Caleb Knight, Evelyn. You stripped away the American paint. You revealed the Wolf." Just as I was about to respond, the bell above the door jangled. A cold gust of wind swept in, and a man entered. He was tall, wearing a long black coat that looked far too expensive for this neighborhood. He had a scarred face and eyes that scanned the room with predatory efficiency. He didn't look at the jewelry. He looked straight at me. "Is this the one?" he asked in Russian, his voice a gravelly rumble. Lenochka stood up slowly, her hand sliding under the counter toward something I couldn't see.

We rode the private elevator, Aleksei’s laughter breaking free as we stepped into the living room—windows framing the city, art worth more than most people’s lives. ‎“She nailed you, boss,” he cackled, slumping onto the sectional. “Mikhail Romanov, taken down by a waitress with a drink. Epic.” ‎I tossed my ruined jacket aside, playing up the drama. “Laugh it up, clown. That hellcat didn’t know who she was hitting. Throwing wine at me? Me!” I paced, shirt clinging uncomfortably, but a grin betrayed me. “Most women beg for my attention; she douses me. I need her name.”

I had to check, so I went straight into the room and knocked on the door a few times until a tall man, a little older, about in his forties, opened it. "You're more delicious than I imagined in person," a man said in Russian, and I didn't understand why I smiled. "Good evening, is that one of Mr. Magomedov?" "Yes, beautiful," he replied in a thick Russian accent. “Come, come in, my companion is eager to meet you.”

I decide that the mob boss probably wouldn't locate his bedroom close to the servants living space and head down the empty hallway. While I carefully take small, nervous steps down the hallway, I notice many pictures of many different (what seems to be) mafia leaders who are all Russian. The first one is from the 1800's and I follow more and more until I finally stop at the last one: the man who's attention I had caught this morning. His name is Andrei Volkov. As I start to admire his handsomeness on the picture even more, I notice there's a door right beside me. The closer I come to the door, I begin to hear someone yelling very angrily in what must be Russian.