A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

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.

They followed the trail of blood until their eyes rested on us, and they slightly lowered their guns. An older gentleman pushed past everyone and considered me with interest. He had the golden owl pin on his black two-piece suit, but it was slightly different—it had a crown of antlers on the owl’s head, and the pin was bigger. I almost wanted to laugh because he accurately looked like a mafia boss—minus the mafia. He had white hair slicked back, a perfectly trimmed moustache and eyebrows, and shoes so polished they looked like mirrors. For a moment, I thought he would say, in his best Don Corleone voice, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

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!

There had to be an explanation. He was too comfortable in his own skin, doing what he was doing, to be an inside man for Papa. He was handsome and appeared normal and level-headed. The only indicator that this man was Russian was his thick accent and striking hard features. The air around him was unexpectedly light and not as enigmatic as his leader’s. He seemed like a fair fighter and honest man, the type who would deal you only what you deserved. But it didn’t end there.

They would never have thought that a seventy-year-old gentleman would be involved in this. "Your dog is beautiful, huh?" The old man said when they were next to the bandstand waiting for Russo to mark his territory for the tenth time. Tulio and Cloe smiled at the old man who lit a cigarette - "Is he aggressive?" "For God's sake, yes! Please don't get too close because my husband is in trouble again because this little devil bit another mailman!" Cloe said, smiling at the obese old man who couldn't take his eyes off Russo. "We are Marcia and Gustavo."

Yum, yum my type. “Believe it or not Harper, not all men cheat on their girlfriends and punch them in the face. Maybe it’s my impeccable Russian upbringing. I know how to treat a woman.” I breathed out, he certainly knew how to treat a woman. “You think me demanding your number was the height of gentlemen.” I giggled at his sentence, his accent getting stronger. “Chivalry you mean.” He looked baffled. “Being a gentleman?” “Yeah chivalry. I suppose your actions when we first met weren’t particularly gentlemanly no. But I couldn’t say no to you.”

Forgetting the anger and all the resentments she had, Jacques started conversing with the dog and ended up in a fit of laughter with the way the dog acted. "I rushed here to see you thinking that you missed me, Jerry. You are making my heart hurt by being late," Mikhail Volkonsky removed his suit jacket and placed it on the cushioned sofa. He fixed his solid gold cufflinks with emeralds and passed a glass of vodka for Jeremy. His signet ring made a clink as he passed the glass. As if he had no care in the world, he carelessly leaned back placing his arm at the back of the sofa, crossing his legs. His entire demeanor exudes class, revealing his aristocratic upbringing.

I look at the edge and the dark side of the club for these Russian mobsters and I see only six, including the man at the door, seven. ” Be alerted.” I take in a deep breath and walk to the man at the door. ” What do you want?” He asks. His voice is lace with a heavy accent. ” I need to see Moskov. He’s expecting me.” I say. ” And who the fuck are you?” He asks. ” His slut.” ” He’s not expecting anyone. You should leave.” The man says. Alright, he’s stubborn. I quietly pull out my switchblade and smile at him.

"Sorokin is a cold fish who doesn't know the meaning of a smile. But Anatoli Popov is a charmer who loves to socialize. Gossip is worth more to him than gold, and he hoards both. And Dmitri ... Well, you've met his wife, Natasha." I nod, feeling reassured, but I know better than to be cocky. "Don't worry." Smiling, I bat my lashes. "I know how to charm dangerous men." Mikhail raps the iron knocker against the gigantic oak door, and slowly, it creaks open. I camouflage my surprise behind a mask of indifference when I see an elderly man with silver hair and a straight back standing in the doorway. His advanced age conceals impressive strength. He examines us both before stepping aside to let u

Filthy gazes of old men who saw my teen self just as a grown-up woman. I gulped nervously trying to calm myself. “Mr Volkov!” Alexei was approached by a Middle-aged man with—a round belly and a greasy smile. “It’s good to see you here. Who’s this lovely lady with you?” Alexei’s hand intertwined with mine instinctively. I quickly jostled startled. His cheesy smile widened and I could see spinach leaves sticking in his teeth.