A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

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.

Gerald scoffed. He couldn’t get Aurora’s face out of his head—the blue eyes, thick lips, finely shaped nose, and that smile. It was exactly like the college student he had met in Moscow during his business trip. Jane Petrov. He wouldn’t call it love, but it was one of his best nights in Russia. That cold evening, Gerald and his assistant had booked a cabin at one of the finest restaurants in Moscow. The air was freezing. After settling in, a young waitress walked in to take their order.

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?"

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.)

I quickly glanced behind me before going inside. It was dimly lit—only a few lamps hung in the corners, accompanied by some stray candlesticks. I sat in the empty chair on the other side of the table. As I got comfortable, the man locked the door then joined me. A sinister smile tugged at his sharp features. "It's lovely seeing you again, Natasha," Czar Aleksandr eagerly greeted in a heavy Russian accent.