Our Woman In Moscow Novels & Stories

Russian, sharp and angry. Gunshots ring out. People scream. Moscow didn’t stop for me. It recoiled. Men in long dark coats turn, eyes widening. A woman yanks her daughter close, burying the girl's face in the crook of her neck as I stagger past them, leaving smeared fingerprints of blood on black cashmere. Someone curses. Another crosses himself. Then calls for ‘Police.’ A hand brushes my shoulder. Don’t know whose. I wriggle, trying to break free. “Polegché, muzhík!”

I saw two pairs of shoes near the desk and two bags on the empty chair next to where the elder woman was sitting. I know for a fact that this woman is not alone. But she looks at me like she's about to kick me out. "Wait here." The woman spoke in a thick Russian accent. The woman always stood up and walked across the room to a tiny door I haven't even noticed until this very moment. I hear her whispering. Her whisper yells were heard as clear as day and the empty studio wasn't helping her case at all. After a few second later, the woman walks back in to the studio. Her bare feet made a loud noise as they angrily slapped against the floor.

It was the same woman who was with Mo Yuhan in the museum that day, she was the same person who was shouting 'Commander Mo' near the caf. As she observed the woman up so close, the woman was not a delicate beauty. She was wearing a white shirt paired with denim jeans and she had a sexy figure, perfect curves, her features were sharp but they somehow suited her. Her bob-haircut combined with her proudful phoenix eyes gave her the impression of a seductive yet strong woman.

A woman soon sits next to me nervously and I turn my attention to her. "Hi!" She chirps. Her hair is light with bits of pink, and she is energetic and inviting. I find myself driving back at the beauty before me. "Hello." I greet. "Is that the maple bacon?" I nod. "It smells incredible! I've always wanted to try it but I'm not brave." She laughs. "Here, I haven't eaten from the other." I had her the other dessert in it's paper and she halves it, returning a larger piece to me.

He snapped his fingers. "Show him." Behind me, the grinding sound of a heavy metal door opening echoed through the warehouse. I stood up, turning around slowly, my hand gripping the butt of my gun. Two of Mikhail’s largest enforcers walked out of the darkness. They were dragging something between them. A figure. A woman. She was bound, her wrists tied to a wooden pole behind her back. A burlap sack was over her head. She was limping, her feet dragging on the concrete.

Then smoke. Flames crawled over the wreckage. I dragged her out, coughing, her blood slick on my hands. Her pulse was there — faint but fighting. Through the haze, movement: a figure at the far end of the bridge. Female. Red coat. Umbrella tipped against her shoulder. Not Selene — she was long dead. But the woman wore Selene’s perfume. Her voice drifted through the rain, amplified by a small device clipped to her collar. “Consider this a message,” she called. “The Montova house doesn’t kneel.”

Moza remained seated in the waiting area, her mind spinning in absolute chaos. Suddenly, the heavy door swung open from the inside. A woman clad in a bold red blazer and a black pencil skirt that hit mid-thigh stepped out. From her polished appearance, Moza deduced that this woman must be Chelsea. Her long hair was secured in a low, flawless chignon, accentuating the elegant curve of her neckline. Trailing a step behind Chelsea was a young man maneuvering an iPad—highly likely her private assistant.

People who understood money and looked away from blood. She was already there. Elena Russo sat by the window, one leg crossed over the other, espresso untouched. She wore cream silk and sharp tailoring, the kind that whispered wealth without ever announcing it. Dark hair swept into a low knot. Minimal makeup. Watch worth more than the building. She looked up as we approached. Her gaze went straight to me. Then, deliberately, she smiled. “So,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet. “The dead woman walks.” Matteo’s gun was halfway up before I touched his arm.

A split second of silence, then chaos, screams, glass shattering, people stumbling in the dark, panic spread fast, then a single spotlight snapped on. It lit the stage. A large screen flickered to life behind it, static crawling across the surface. The entire room stilled, then the image cleared and a face appeared. A face Mildred hadn’t seen in five years. A collective gasp swept through the ballroom. Her blood ran cold. It was Anthony Frank. Alive, smiling, looking straight into the camera. “Good evening, Mildred.” Silence dropped like a weight over the room, his smile widened, calm and deliberate.