A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

What they did to me is a perfect example. “Yes, that’s true,” another elderly man adds, raising his glass of red wine. “This will be over faster than any of them can say ‘pasta’.” There are laughs around the table but I don’t find the joke funny at all. Ivan glances at me but says nothing. “No jokes, gentlemen,” Igor says. “My future wife is Italian.” A heavy silence falls on the table, but I could care less. I’m glad that he stood up for me. From the end of the table, Boris chuckles. He then raises his glass in the same beat.

"You have a very expensive habit, Mr. Vane. Or should I say, Mr. Moretti?" The voice was like shattered glass. I turned to see Mikhail Volkov. He was shorter than Dante, but wider, with a beard that looked like it was made of wire and eyes that held the coldness of a Siberian winter. He was flanked by two giants who looked like they enjoyed breaking bones for sport. "It’s just Vane," I said, my voice sharp. "The other name is a temporary arrangement."

He says. “Martin.” I acknowledge. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a brown envelope, sliding it across the table to me. I signal for a waiter to get the dishes and one hurriedly appears and clears the table. When he’s done, I open the envelope and pull out the single picture in it, it’s a middle-aged man with a bald head that’s heavily tattooed. His has a piercing on left eyebrow above brown eyes that shine with wicked intent. He is smiling, and I catch a hint of gold teeth between his lips. He is in a long-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way to the top, but I can see tattoos on his neck where his collar doesn’t reach and I’m sure they extend below. The picture captures onl

That was all Tom needed. “Ah, a fan of modern art, are we?” Tom kept the conversation going, knowing full well the device was diligently siphoning data from Grossman’s phone—their earlier handshake exchanging more than false pleasantries. “Your taste surprises me, Mikhail. But then again, so does your choice of friends.” He gestured with the gun, encompassing the remaining henchman who seemed hesitant to advance. “These gentlemen don’t strike me as the appreciative crowd for the avant-garde.”

Her hand dropped to her side as she closed her eyes, letting the tears fall. The office door clicked open, drawing both Vera and Alessio’s attention. Roman stepped out first, followed by the tall, long-haired guest. Their conversation had paused. The guest’s gaze landed on her, calm and unreadable, yet oddly focused. He carried a composed confidence—like every step he took belonged to him. “Hello, Miss Vera Benedetti,” he greeted with a slight nod, “I’m Viktor Malenkov.” Her eyes widened slightly. She had heard the name before. The Malenkovs were one of the most feared yet respected families in the Russian underworld. His presence here now made sense.

"I don't want to be liked, I want to be respected." -Jack Ma- *** Anton Chernikov was sitting in the porch of his mansion on the side of Moscow with a piece of Cigar in his hand. Placing it in between his lips, he inhaled it for a bit before breathing out the smoke, which had mixed into the cold air to create even more vapor in the air. He was wearing a long layered coat with a bit of fur on the back to warm his head. The weather that day was rather forgiving for a Russian winter.

He was older than all the men seated but younger than Marian and Garreth of course. "Good day." He gave a smile to everyone who seemed pressed and angry. Kay smiled back making everyone look at him questionably. His father was beyond embarrassed with his sons attitude. He had told him that if he didn't marry the English mafias daughter, he would go back to being homeless. Oscar was always cheerful but everyone knew behind that Facade he was deadly. He had brown hair and a charming smile and a sexy mustache. Tall with an athletic build and graceful movements. "No don't let him live, no one steals from Shatov." Nikita yelled getting in extravagantly late, he handed over his coat and cellphone

"I've been waiting for you." An older gentleman, probably in his 70's, spoke without looking up. Vasiliy. Though Jozef had seen pictures of the man, he hadn't met Vasiliy in person. He was a robust man, with wide shoulders and a round belly. He sported a snowy white head of hair and a beard that reached halfway down his neck. In his hand was a fine-tipped paintbrush. He was carefully applying red paint to what looked like a doll's face.

We walk past a hallway, past offices with large windows, and soon we arrive at a set of mahogany double doors which Gypsy pushes open, revealing two desks at each end and another door in the middle. The lady, knocks once on the door and pushes it in, revealing a large office, a large desk, and Marciano leaning on it while he goes through something on his iPad. He's not wearing a jacket, and his sleeves are rolled all the way to his elbows. If it wasn’t for the scar running along his side, he could pass for any powerful CEO in the city. The kind people trusted. The kind people underestimated. He doesn’t lift his gaze when I enter and take a seat. But when he finally does, it’s to tell the lad