Historical Fiction Russian Novels & Stories

“Gavril thinks that bringing an American whore to me is going to make me forget everything that our forefathers have done before him? He might allow his cock to lead him this time, but he’s not going to ruin everything that we have done. He will not dishonor our family like this.” I opened my mouth, feeling downright pissed off that she thought Gavril was ruining what his forefathers had done. I mean, who even spoke like that these days? “I see you have questions,” she replied, surprising me. I watched as she placed her teacup back on the tray and folded her fingers in her lap. “And I will tell you what you need to know. Our family was once a great family of Russia. We dined with czars and m

Note: This is my first book on Goodnovel and I post every day. Thanks for checking out my book! Svetlana Yulia Kozlovsky My feet were sore from all the running but I couldn’t rest on this foreign soil. I needed distraction for these two days; the shipment cargo was leaving in about an hour from now and the Russians, my own blood, were fighting tooth and nail to get a chunk of my flesh. Their young Tsar candidate was dead.

I asked. “Another one of his historical smuts.” Henry replied, raising his voice to grab Ron’s attention. “This is fine historical literature not smut.” I snorted at that. “Fine historical literature my ass.” Henry said. Hen was right. I had once searched for a book in Ron’s vast library that did not involve a Duke being wickedly seduced by a temptress or a Highlander spilling his seeds into a moaning fair maiden and had not found any. Not that I was complaining, they were quite educative.

"She had green eyes." "She did." Galina set her cards face-down on the table. "Elena. She was from Novgorod originally. Came to Moscow at twenty-two for university and never left." A slight smile. "Vladmir saw her across a lecture hall and that was the end of him. He used to say she ruined him for every sensible decision he ever made afterward." She paused. "He meant it as a compliment." Roman had gone quiet in the way he went quiet when something in a room required it. He was looking at Nikolai.

He wiped the already clean surface of the kitchen counter again. The open rape case that he and his partner, Robert Jones, had handed over to the detectives still puzzled him. It had been nagging and nagging him until he had thought about it so much that he had started to remember certain things. He remembered the stories of his ancestors. It had started with his great-grandmother, Katina Petrov. She had been part of the Ivanovich pack in Russia and she was born in Stary Izborsk, which meant Old Izborsk, near the Estonian border.

Life is strange. As promised, she was acting as his tour guide for the day, she started to explain to him the brief history of the Kremlin and why it had become a notable attraction of the city. He knew that there were not many fluent English speaker in Russia, therefore he was amazed by her fluency as she explained everything she knew in details, he could pick up some of her accent but it was nothing major. Of course he would never let her know. At the end of her little tour around the area, she turned to him with a soft smile on her face. "Do you have any other question?" He was not exactly interested in history, art or any of the sort so for him, what she had been saying for the past f

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

“You are American, mooncalf, get over it. You may have Russian blood, but you were born in the land of the fat, obnoxious and complacent.” “I am glad you think so highly of my heritage,” Anya snapped. She stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms. The engaged in a death glare match. “Enough, the both of you. I have had a long day’s work of herding animals and tending the trees, and I came home seeking peace, not squabbling,” Dmitri said. He sat beside the stove and began perusing his worn illicit copy of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and the Margarita, bought from a black market in Moscow.

he tilted his head to the side, "You keep piling up your sins, spitfire." There was no use asking what he meant. I knew he would spill whatever the case was anyway. "As of yesterday, a fresh set of Bratva's army arrived in Russia with Ruslan," he eyed me when puzzlement etched on my face, "You don't know who Ruslan is, right?" I shook my head. "Trust me," he massaged the side of his head, "you don't want to know. You worsened your crimes by pitching your tent with Adler,'

That’s a dumb question, Julianna, My subconscious muttered. “Nikolai’s of course,” she replied, “Who is he? Who are you people,” I asked, my voice steady as I spoke to her, she doesn’t make me nervous like Nikolai. “Nikolai Vasiliev is a Russian mafia don, I’m here just to take care of you,” she said, “I guess he already told you this… You have to work with me in the kitchen every day from now,” “Yeah, he told me,” I said,