Fyodor Dostoevsky Bsd Novels & Stories

“You showed up. Good.” I shrugged. “Grandpa sent the invitation with the word mandatory. You know capital letters weaken me.” “Not just capital letters.” His eyebrow rose. “Also the numbers in your trust fund.” I held back a smile. He wasn’t wrong. Before I could respond, the room shifted again. Fyodor Belsky moved through the guests with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He leaned on an old wooden cane that looked more ceremonial than necessary. Three-piece black suit, gray vest, pocket watch chain glinting against the fabric. Wisps of white hair combed back. His lined face held blue eyes so sharp they still counted bullets from some long-ago war.

The ember flared against the darkness, momentarily painting his sculpted face in shades of crimson and gold. His father would want a full report later. Fyodor Dostoevsky, head of the largest and most feared Bratva in Russia and maybe the world, was a man who demanded excellence — who demanded everything. Tonight, Andrei would be expected to recount every detail: who attended, what was bought, who whispered secrets over fluted glasses of poisoned wine. It was politics disguised as pleasure. Power masked as art and culture. Andrei thought it laughable. He was only here to retrieve a painting — a damn painting at that.

“You’re flirting with death. I’m not the only person who could take you down.” The accusation sticks tighter than it would have before El, before the heartbeat in that little office, but I sip my coffee like his words don’t mean a thing to me. The waitresses don’t seem to give a fuck about our little scuffle, at least. “Do you have anything other than threats?” I ask. Henry sighs. “Fyodor’s not a totally uncommon name, but I did some digging, and I was able to connect it to a guy called Raskolnikov, who dropped off the map in Russia about a month before Fyodor started moving over 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.

It sank even deeper but I tried not to show it. "Why are you telling me? You usually don't." He was quiet, till he breathed. "I don't know," before his footsteps got entirely erased. * * * * My fingers trailed across the spine of the books and I stopped on a white covered book. I pull it out of the shelf and hold it in both hands. "Crime and Punishment," I read aloud before gazing down at the author's name. "Fyodor Dos-tos-to-eeev-evsky?" I squint my eyes. "Fyodor Dostoevsky!"

He flipped over the front of the book to see the title. It was Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. “Well, that’s fitting,” B laughed and closed the book. He fell deeper into the recesses of the chair. He brought the glasses up to his face and thought, If this is what an estate man does, then let me be an estate man for just a couple of minutes while the whiskey does its work. B let Dostoyevksy’s words run through his mind like a new mantra — it’s life that matters… the process of discovering… the everlasting and perpetual process… — and slid the glasses onto his face.