Dmitri Prokofitch Novels & Stories

I wonder if it was intentional. Silence loomed heavily when Dimitri stopped playing. A swift end to an animated piece composed by Franz Liszt and Niccolò Paganini. La campanella, I wasn't surprised that he liked that composition. There was a rumour surrounding those two world renowned pianists, they were accused of selling their souls to the devil for such virtuosity.

Dmitri looked at the bodies. “Messy.” Then he smiled. “I approve.” I stared at him. “You’re insane.” “Probably.” He extended a hand toward me like we were meeting at a dinner party. “Dmitri Volkov.” Then he added casually. “Russian Bratva.” My stomach tightened slightly. Great. Another Russian. “Relax,” Dmitri said lightly, noticing my reaction. "I don't bite...unless you want me to." His eyes twinkled mischievously, making me wonder just how dangerous this man really was.

He was never fit to run a pack. I arrived at the tombs. At first they appeared uninhabited, but once you understood the layouts of the maze like crypts, you realize that you could weave through them easily. A fire lit torch burned brightly at the entrance, and I took it making my way through the tomb. "Nikolai Rydor," an attendant's voice bounced off the walls of the tomb. "We've been expecting you." I nodded, going after her. And soon we came up upon the elders gathering.

I wrapped my fingers around the handle and opened it. Nikolai Romanov stood on the other side. His expression told me Yelena had delivered every single word, and he looked as if he had been given a choice and had chosen to come anyway.

“Secretary of whom?” “Dimitri Kingston.” My eyes widened to the size of saucers. “What!” *** This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ***

Two men stood next to Victor, and their presence sent a spurt of frozen adrenaline through his system. To his right, there sat Dmitri Volkov, the notorious "Tsar of Siberian Gas." The granite-jawed mogul with a track record for crushing competitors with the tacit support of the Kremlin. He was oligarchy personified—Politically unstoppable, pitiless, and wallowing in mineral wealth.

“ If you don’t mind me saying this, I think we have waited long enough. It’s best if we talked about what brought us here so we could handle more important matters. “ Viktor said. He was the head of the security detail to make sure all the ranks and Nikolai remained protected. “ More important issues? “ I asked while cocking my eyebrow at him. “ Yes. The war with the Russians, for example. “ He replied. I laughed, eliciting dirty looks from the ranks. “ Is there something funny with what he said? “Vincenzo asked. Everywhere there was disrespect towards me, Vincenzo had to be involved. “ As a matter of fact, there is. How do you expect to fight the Russians if you have battles in the family?

When Dmitri called, you jumped. And when he had asked Worthington to step in and find out more about Delano, Worthington had leapt at the chance to oblige. No one ever said ‘No’ to Dmitri Rudenko. He was a sick bugger all right. His vats of acid where it was rumoured he dunked his rivals and opponents, leaving them to die a painful death, were whispered about fearfully.

Or is he just older than he looks? “Dad, Leonardo and Natalia Moretti,” Dmitri says, finishing the introductions. It doesn’t escape my notice that he deliberately does not mention Leo’s title, a silent fuck you to him. My brother doesn’t seem to care, too preoccupied with staring at the man in front of him. I catch the faint glint of respect in his eyes as he stands and extends his hand for a handshake. “It’s an honor to meet you, Volkov. Your reputation preceds you.”

My guess was that she was somewhere in her fifties. “That’s his mistress?” Piero asked. “Apparently, he doesn’t like them young.” “No,” Rei replied. “Volkov chose her for another reason.” He showed another picture of the woman with an older man. While I couldn’t place him, I knew it wasn’t Volkov. “Two months ago, she married Dmitri Makarova.” That name rang a bell. “He was with Myshkin’s bratva in Kansas City.” Rei nodded. “He’s now with Volkov. Worked his way up the ladder fast. I don’t trust him or the woman.”