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

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'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

A man in a flashy Versace shirt glasses sat on a sofa, peeling an apple with a switchblade. Viktor. An internationally notorious arms dealer for the Russian Bratva, and the maddest dog in Moscow. He played the part of a playboy, but everyone knew his methods were crueler than anyone's. "You saved me?" My voice was raspy, like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

There used to be blood of the guardsmen where she’s mopping but she doesn’t have to know that. “Yebanat . . .” she murmurs. She’s also mental if she thinks I don’t understand that. It’s Russian for ‘Fucking idiot’ Thankfully, my things were discovered in the lost-and-founds. I thanked the server as she handed me my handbag. Taking out my phone, I cringe at the sight of the missed calls flashing on my screen. “Forty-five fucking calls?” My mind lapses back to the reason why I was in the Eden Club in the first place. I was supposed to seduce the new mayor for intel about the money laundering casino he was planning to build in Tverskaya Street, the heart of Moscow!

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.”

Why did looking at a stranger feel so much like remembering someone? “You have to be more careful around him,” Vera warned. “The Pakhan ordered the best wing in the mansion prepared for him.” “Why? Who is he?” I asked. Vera's expression changed. “They call him the Ghost of Moscow.”