Our Woman In Moscow Novels & Stories

“Let us hope you like speeding.” Morozko and Anya rode past new Soviet apartments and Moscow attractions, on a joyride. They passed factories, restaurants, and the Kremlin, then rode through Red Square, taking the sights in. The crisp fall air burned trees crimson and orange. Traffic was sparse in the late morning. Anya leaned close to Morozko, basking in the heat he radiated. They rounded a corner and entered a parking lot bordering Gorky Park, the green heart of Moscow. “What are we doing here?” Anya asked, excited.

Things won't end well for you or your husband. When she saw the video, Lisa's face went pale. "You're pushing me to my death!" she cried. Her sister, Camilla, appeared on screen as well. "How can you corner a pregnant woman like this? Where's your conscience? Do you really need to drive us to the brink?" The viewers immediately flooded the chat with angry comments. [Seriously? Where's your conscience?] [You were the ones defaming her! Why are you acting innocent now?] [You're both alike! You're just taking advantage of others and refusing to admit your crimes!]

Gentle approaching footsteps that stopped just outside the little door and then a knock. ‘It’s freaking occupied. Use the next one.’ I screamed out. Was my loud sobs not enough evidence? ‘Are you okay in there?’ the deep voice I heard was unexpected. What was a man doing in a lady's washroom? I choked in my sobs and replied ‘I'm fine. You are in the wrong place.’ I said weakly. ‘, I believe you are the one in the wrong place.’ He responded and I could sense the amusement all over his voice.

Stefano said flatly, finishing his whiskey and handing the empty glass cup to Dino. "Poor girls, their demise," Renata said. "You see the woman over there?" She gestured with her glass of champagne towards a woman donned in diamonds and a snug beige gown, her greying hair pulled in a tight bun. “Her name is Nadezdha, she is Russian. She buys under-aged girls, and has them indulge in public brutal intercourse where they are publicly raped by several of her henchmen to entertain her visitors. Heard it's like a nuthouse. Medieval Roman Style anyway."

That left the second woman. Marcus leaned over the table, his finger tapping the picture of the remaining woman, the one who was still free. She had sharp features, intense eyes, and short, practical hair. She looked smart, dangerous even. "This woman right here…" Marcus said, his voice low, "She seems to have completely vanished." I looked at her name tag in the file: Dr. Anya Petrova.

Chapter 200 Ten Years Later The Moscow winter did not bargain; it commanded. Outside the frosted, triple-paned glass of the penthouse suite overlooking the Moskva River, the city was a sprawling matrix of glittering ice and predatory neon. But inside, the air was warm, smelling faintly of amber, imported Turkish rose water, and untouchable authority. Ayana stood before a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror, her posture as unshakeable as the stone foundation of the empire she had spent a decade cementing.

"Buy up the trending topics for the entire year. I want everyone in the country to recognize those two. Yes, even a stray dog!" No sooner had I finished speaking than Marie appeared, blocking me in the parking lot with several others. She waved her hand. Someone quickly brought over a large case, and with a click, the lid popped open. The dim parking lot was suddenly flooded with blinding, golden light. She smiled at me and tried to apologize.

I heard soft breathing from the other rooms. Nikolai resting after his wounds. Enzo snoring lightly. Nina somewhere, hopefully asleep after everything. The thought of her made my chest tight. That girl. Always trouble, but she got under my skin in ways I did not like to admit. I pushed it down. No time for that. The Russian woman waited in the guest living room, just like I had told her. She was beautiful. Tall and curved in all the right places, with long blonde hair that fell in waves down her back.

THIRD PERSON POINT OF VIEW A bitter chuckle escaped Natasha’s lips as her gaze lifted toward the first floor. And there she was. Kiyara. The woman carrying the child that should have been hers. She looked… happy. Glowing in a way that made Natasha’s chest tighten painfully. Kiyara stood near the balcony, near the mansion's main stairs. Her hand resting protectively over her small belly, a glass of juice in the other as she laughed softly at something someone said on the phone. Her smilez gentle, bright, untouched by sorrow, felt like a cruel reminder of everything Natasha had lost.

The neighborhood lay in ruins, with rubble and dust drifting in the air. I furrowed my brows, my OCD pushing me to walk away. Just then, a hunched, filthy woman came in my way. She was wrapped in a filthy down jacket, its original color long buried beneath layers of grime. She clutched a handful of empty plastic bottles, her eyes vacant and glassy. “M-Ms. Bray?” She spoke, her voice raspy and scratchy. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her from a distance. It took a while for me to scan her bloated and wrinkly face before I recognized her to be the once arrogant Little Miss Sunshine.