Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

Charlotte POV When I pictured myself killing him I never imagined him to be my father. I never imagined being the one to take a life from someone who is supposed to love me. What if he is my father but doesn’t know it? Maybe that would make it easier. How can a father distort someone they created so easily? Did his father just not show him enough attention? What am I saying, he can’t be my father. How did my mother get away with lying about who we really belong to? Maybe that’s why he killed her, for lying. My brother suffered because I was too much of a bitch to stay here and fight for what was mine. But now I get to go out and kill what I’ve always wished I had. Why does living have to be

“Vlad,” Boris Sokolov called his son in anticipation who was reading a file in his hands. Vladimir Sokolov, the Bratva Pakhan was sitting behind the huge expensive desk with a black wooden slab adorned with many carvings of Snakes. His dominating aura filled the air with coldness and lack of empathy. Broadly, the whole office was a cold, calculating space that embodied Bratva Pakhan's complicated and philosophical personality. It was a place where lives were destroyed and deals were made.

What's done is done. A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. Dmitri enters, a glint of something I can’t quite place in his eyes. He is my best friend, my closest confidant. I should be able to tell him everything. But how do I tell him that I, Don Vasily Petrov, the formidable leader of the Russian Mafie, woke up in bed with another man? How do I tell him that the man I slept with is Adrian Volkov, my future brother-in-law, a man I despised, and that I can't stop thinking about him?

I was already aware of Dasha’s father’s gambling debts, but now I know his creditor. Boris Volkov. A Russian mob giant with a lot of influence, not to mention murderous tendencies. A man who’s been suspected of setting more than one fire. What my cop friend told me chilled me to the bone. When a gambling debt goes unpaid, Volkov goes after the entire family. Dasha was meant to die in the fire…and Volkov likely won’t stop trying to stub out her light. Over my dead body.

“Because you’re stepping into something that will swallow you whole. This whole thing that you think you’re doing good for yourself, you are not. You are going to end up harming yourself more than you know.” Her brows drew together. “What are you talking about?” “There’s a man,” I said. “A wolf who goes by Lorenzo. At least, that was the last name I was given. He came to ‘help’ me once. Said he wanted to guide wolves like me, those pushed from their packs, those wrongfully named traitors.” I scoffed. “Turned out he was the real traitor.” Her breath hitched. “Lorenzo… D’Amaris?”

ZOEY I am Alexei Pushkin. Those four words hung in the air like a revelation, shattering my already fragile grasp on reality. The chaos of the gunfight raged around us, the club's once-sultry atmosphere now transformed into a battlefield. But amidst the violence and danger, my mind struggled to process the unbelievable truth. "What the fuck? Did he just say he was Alexei Pushkin?" I muttered to myself, my voice trembling with disbelief. The enigmatic stranger who had captured my attention, the man I had been conversing with just moments ago, was none other than the infamous mob boss himself. It was a revelation that defied logic, a twist of fate that I could never have imagined.

PLEASE! Dakor is a gerontophilic sociopath of the Romanov family. This scene ties to the main plot and world. You'll know him more as you explore deeper into the book. Don't drop nasty comments. Also, I'm not perfect in third-person POV. You might see head-hopping or imperfections. I'm a human with flaws and a learner too. If you're okay, then proceed. Thank you. DESECRATION. (THIRD PERSON’S POV)

He wanted to make sure when Ana came there he could lead her straight to the pieces instead of them just wondering around seeking for it together like a fool. When he eventually found it, he marked it in his mind and pulled out a piece from the shelf, one of Dostoevsky. Holding it in his hand, he took a seat in the sofa in the middle of the room, right in the center row, crossing his legs and trailed his fingers through the first page.

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?

image he worked so hard to maintain. I closed the closet, still grinning, and wandered into his bedroom. On his nightstand I found more books, all by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Crime and Punishment, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, White Nights. I picked one up and flipped through it. The pages were worn, corners folded and some lines underlined. He wasn't just pretending to like this stuff, he really was a superfan of Russian literature. I didn't believe it when he first told me, but now I believed it without a doubt.