A Gentleman In Moscow Novels & Stories

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.

His gaze remained fixed on the folder. For the next two days, he moved through Moscow. He walked into bars thick with smoke and the stench of desperation, where men with hollow eyes hunched over their drinks, and women with painted smiles watched him with curiosity. The bartenders eyed his expensive coat and his American accent, quick to deny knowing anyone by Isabella’s supposed name, quicker to accept the cash he slid across the counter for their silence.

I said pointing at him. "I'm sorry for making you worried lyubov." he said looking into my eyes deeply. "Please pinch me." I said and he looked confused. "Huh?" he asked me confusingly. "Pinch me so I can come back to reality. I think I'm dreaming. Mikhail Igor Gorbachev, the Russian mafia boss apologized to me first time." I said to his shockingly and them realisation hit him.

No sharp object that could pierce the skin. After the men searched him from head to toe, he was led to the elevator that would take him to the first floor of the restaurant where chilling 19th century music played softly. He sat at the table with his Russian counterpart, a man with a pronounced jaw and a disgusting beard. He was dressed in something resembling a tunic and his long, greasy hair partially covered his decrepit face. He was younger than he looked, ten or even twenty years younger, however, it was his style to look like a street-wise addict. No one who didn't know him would believe that this vagabond was the owner of a fortune that was counted in billions. -Tonali, it's a pleasur

Money the Bratva gets from subjecting it's citizens to hardship. The smooth, shiny surfaces and custom made sofas do not appeal to me. "Where is Ramsey?" I direct my question at the guard. "Right here." Ricardo and I turn swiftly, coming face to face with Ramsey Mikhailov, the Russian golden boy. He is golden, alright. All bronze skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. Hate churns in my heart. Contempt threatens to choke me. Ricardo places a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him and he nods. I take a deep breath, facing my target.

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 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.

It was coming from a low window and with each step he took towards the window, the more the sound captivated him and now he understood that it was a piano. He stood up and stood on his fingertips and saw the source of the delicious sound. A gentleman was standing beside the large white piano, and a delicate girl was playing it masterfully. On the wall facing the girl was a mirror. She was playing and the gentleman, her master and teacher, had his eyes closed and his head hung back, for what he imagined, the gentleman felt the same as he did, and felt the music, Tulio understood him, for the melody filled him and gave him goose bumps. The professor didn't see him, his eyes being closed, but t

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.