By Vladimir Nabokov Mga Nobela at Kwento

He saw the faint, desperate print of her small shoe where she had stood her ground. He walked over to the open door of the master bathroom, his footsteps heavy and uneven, and found the evidence that confirmed his terror: the forgotten, small tin of prenatal vitamins on the counter. Vladimir Volkov, the Don of the Russian Mafia, the man who had faced down armies and engineered global conflicts, stood alone in the empty, bloodied heart of his fortress. He was surrounded by the bodies of the men his wife had fought, but the two precious lives he lived for, Isabella and their twins, were gone.

But how could I tell Vladimir that trying to eat the food he must have had specially prepared for my birthday made me want to retch for no just reason? “It’s fine.” Then he clapped his hands and the yummy waiters were back. Their skin was as flawless as that of a porcelain doll and their bodies were sculpted to perfection. But they weren’t as yummy as Vladimir though. They were the appetizers and Vladimir was the main course. I could spend days tasting every inch of him. Ugh. My brain was broken. “Why don’t you drink some water? It will help you calm down,” Vladimir suggested when the yummy waiters were done clearing the table.

It gave him hope that Vladimir was genuine. Vladimir strolled beside him, speaking softly, “I’m here in peace. I promise that. I have never fought against wolves. In fact, I was once mated to a wolf—she was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever known. I loved her and tried to protect her when her family cast her out.” Nikolai’s curiosity sparked. “You said ‘was’—what happened?” “Yes, I was. She was killed,” Vladimir replied, his voice heavy with sorrow. Nikolai struggled to find the right words.

"Sitnikov." Vlad looked up from his place at the table where he had been sitting for the past twenty minutes. He didn't like waiting. It was an insult. Insults made Boris twitchy. Vlad was sincerely hoping he wouldn't have to kill the younger man, sent to check out the Bratva's American interests. It could cause problems back in Russia.

“Give me your top five.” “You’re torturing her, Alexei,” Xander chuckles. “I know,” Alexei admits. “It’s fun.” I shake my head at the retired Bratva boss. “What’s your favorite book?” “The Art of War,” he answers without hesitating. “Why am I not surprised,” I mutter. “Would you like something to drink?” Viktor asks me. “Ahh…what do you have?” “Everything.” “A glass of wine would be nice. Semi-sweet?”

Let alone examining it. "To a successful generation. H.D Vladimir," He read. "Oh, wonderful," he let out a Santa-Claus rich laughter as his eyes sparkled like he'd just hit a jackpot. "Hugo Dimitry Vladimir. I love this. Well, Gianna my dear, you have here probably one of the only Vladimir's heirlooms left in this town. You don't want me to open it you say?"

It's been a long time since she started to hate her mom and never say a pleasant word to her. Even though she is so adamant and rebellious daughter, fulfills whatever she loved always disobeying her mom's laws and telling her sometimes bad words. But she still loves her mom. She smiled and went into the dresser to prepare for the excursion. Now since she was already here and was about to enjoy her life. She Decided to forget everything about the quarrel between her mom and was ready to be a good daughter after this leisure. It is a bit weird but that's what she wanted to do. Resting his back in the swivel chair. Vladimir Weldon was well known as a ruthless affluent bratva in Russia. was so v

Alice is a noble in Russia, er, a former noble to be exact after she ran away from her family, Her father is Vladimir, one of the princes and war generals of Russia who lived hundreds of years ago. Outside Russia Vladimir is better known as "VladThe Impaler', because one of his favorite activities is torturing his prisoners of war by sticking a spear from the anus of his victim to penetrate the shoulder or head and then showing it to everyone. Sometimes it took days before the victim finally died. Of course, he did it hundreds of years ago when sadistic things like that were normal as punishment. Now He does it more carefully so as not to attract human attention.

Nikolai’s POV I slammed my bedroom door so hard that the frame shook in response. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I pressed them flat against the wood, trying to steady myself, trying to understand what the hell had just happened. That omega. That insignificant omega—arrgh! I pushed away from the door and started pacing. Everything felt wrong and off and out of place. This was far from what I expected. That’s if I even expected anything.

I sighed and grabbed my phone and typed his name in the search bar. My hands trembled against the screen of my phone. Ivan Volkov. Head of the Russian Mafia boss. I had heard news about him; how could I forget his name? He had come to New Orleans months ago to settle a score with an enemy in New York City. It was a bloodbath as the war went on. He didn't go back after; no one knows why; no one knows what he's planning. All people knew was that he was dangerous, and I just had him in the coffee shop? What if he came back here?