Dmitri Prokofitch の小説・ストーリー

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.”

“That’s his newest acquisition. Apparently, she was quite difficult at first, but he’s worked wonders. She’s completely devoted now.” Dmitri Volkov. The name made something in my chest tighten, though I didn’t know why. “How long has he had her?” I asked. “A few months, I think. Not long. But Dmitri has a gift for breaking them quickly.” The woman sipped her champagne. “Most collectors aren’t that skilled. They either break them too much or not enough. Dmitri finds the perfect balance.” She said it like it was admirable. Like destroying a person’s will was an art form to be praised.

Everyone turned to him. "YoーYoung Master, do you know Mr. Dimitri?" asked Maria dubiously. Next to Maria, stood a man named Grigori Zaragochev, who owned The Bolshoi Theatre. Lexus returned Maria's question with a smile. "Young Master, it seems that Mr. Grigori has something to talk to you," Seth whispered. Lexus puffed smoke into the air. He looked at Grigori. "Is there anything you wanna say, Mr. Grigori?" he asked, putting out the cigarette.

She gave a curt nod. "Roman Benedetti," Diitry whispered and stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Dimitry Malenkov,” he said, stepping forward. Roman didn’t offer his hand. The air between them crackled, tense as a gathering storm. Roman’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” Dimitry’s gaze flicked to Vera. “I came to meet you—and to thank your wife for saving my life back in Italy.” Roman stared at Vera, confusion flickering across his face before he turned back to Dimitry. The name hung in the space between them. At his side, Gianni leaned in and murmured, “Dimitry Malenkov is Viktor Malenkov’s younger brother.”

Led by Dmitri Volkov, a bear of a man with a shaved head, ice-blue eyes, and a penchant for carving his initials into traitors’ flesh, the Volkovs had been gnawing at Russo’s territories for years. Their feud was a slow-burning war, fueled by old betrayals and new greed, and the gunfire that grazed Vincent’s shoulder was no random hit, it bore the Volkovs’ signature. Dmitri Volkov was born in Moscow in 1978, during the Soviet Union’s twilight. His father, Ivan, was a KGB enforcer turned Bratva kingpin, smuggling everything from vodka to AK-47s through the chaos of perestroika. Dmitri grew up in a world of barbed wire and backroom deals, learning to wield a knife before he could read.

Professional. Dmitri Volkov sits behind a massive desk, fifty-five years old with steel-gray hair and eyes like a shark. Cold. Calculating. Always looking for weakness to exploit. "Ethan Moretti." Dmitri's accent is thick, Russian vowels bleeding through English words. "Sit." It's not an invitation. It's a command. Ethan sits, trying to project confidence even though his hands are shaking with rage. With humiliation. "You said you had something for me," Dmitri continues. "Something worth my time."

But Sophia’s expression remained as calm as still water, unmoved. While Alexander knelt in the snow, pleading, a tall blond man walked out of the flower shop. He wore an elegant black trench coat. He was handsome, mature, and radiated a natural aristocracy. It was Dmitri Volkov, the head of the Volkov Bratva. A man who commanded absolute authority across the globe. Dmitri saw Alexander kneeling before Sophia. A flicker of imperceptible contempt passed through his eyes. But he didn't say anything provocative. He simply walked over to Leo.

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 he was taking me to see his mistress or some secret love child, I swore I would push him off the nearest pier. But we didn't go to the docks. We moved inland, toward a part of the landscape where the industrial rot of Murmansk gave way to the raw, jagged beauty of the Tundra. We stopped by a waterfall Lenochka had mentioned once, a place where the water didn't so much fall as it shattered against the black rocks, frozen mist hanging in the air like diamonds. Yamelyan stood by the edge of the spray, staring into the rushing white water. "There was once a powerful man in Russia," he began, his voice competing with the roar of the falls. "A man who sat among the Twelve Lords of the Russian M