Private Moscow Novels & Stories

Snow fell slowly and silently over Moscow, blanketing the streets with a white, treacherous veil. The air was thick with the scent of dampness, tobacco, and gasoline, and the fog hung heavy. Alexei Ivanov clenched his fists inside the pockets of his black coat as he walked toward the abandoned dock where he had been summoned. The ice creaked beneath his shoes as he stopped in front of the figure waiting in the shadows. The wind whistled through the cargo containers, carrying a distant echo of sirens and the murmurs of the city that never slept.

Alexandra I stood looking at the Moskva River through the window. Saint Basil's Cathedral and the Red Square were in my view to the east. I could see Alexander Garden sprawled out from the west side. But everything felt so empty. Moscow was empty and cold and sad. Russia, Window to the West, was now a depressing sight.

Moscow When Memorable arrived in Moscow, he thought, - How all the same you are beautiful! No wonder our ancestors shed their blood to defend our city for the sake of future descendants! I love you, Moscow! How many sacred places do you hide?! You were built for great deeds! How many great writers have you given to the world! It is impossible not to see your heart-red square! How many were able to survive your walls! The enemy could not conquer you! You are open to the world, and you are open to Christ! Now I will be able to see the relics of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker! You took our Orthodox Shrine into your arms!

But what she already learned from Stefan, it is better to think about it later. The rest of the day went just fine. They looked at all the options in Zelenograd, went to two more towns not far from the capital. She liked both Zelenograd and the third one, Solnechnogorsk. It was located on the hills, south of Moscow. And the name of the city spoke for itself. The city was really sunny. House prices were about the same, so the choice was hers. And Alina and Stefan agreed that upon arrival in the capital for permanent residence, Alina would definitely contact him and, perhaps, he could help her with living space. Or they could just meet and walk around the city. He will gladly show her the most

The snow fell in thick, heavy flakes, blanketing the streets of Moscow in a layer of white. Siena Bonks stood by the window of her small office, her arms crossed as she watched the city below. It was her third month in Moscow, a “work vacation” her law firm had insisted she take. They had framed it as an opportunity to oversee the firm’s operations in Russia, but Siena knew better. It was a test—a way to see if she could handle the pressure of international cases, of clients who operated in the shadows.

Tunde asked finally. Makan stopped by a window that stretched floor to ceiling, showing the Citadel in all its manicured glory, glass towers spearing the clouds, levitating trams gliding on invisible rails, lush green parks where children played under the watchful gaze of drones. “Because you want more than the Ruins could ever give you,” Makan said, not looking at him. “And because I can give it to you.” Tunde stared at him, wary. “What do you want in return?”

“And you don’t want to get your hands dirty.” Moreau chuckled. “Exactly.” Ayesha studied him carefully. Moreau was too calm. Too in control. He was leading them to Volkov. But why? Moscow – The Shadow of the Past Two nights later, the team stood in the freezing streets of Moscow, the neon glow of the city reflecting off the snow. Ayesha pulled her coat tighter around her. This place held too many memories. Adrian adjusted his earpiece. “We sure this isn’t a setup?”

LUCA Moscow greeted him with the kind of cold that gnawed at the bone. The tarmac was slick with black ice, and the city lights shimmered through a curtain of snow as he stepped off the jet. Two black SUVs waited at the edge of the runway, engines idling like growling beasts. The Bratva didn’t send chauffeurs. They sent wolves. “Signor Moretti,” one of them said, voice clipped, Russian accent thick. “Welcome to Moscow. Mr. Vashenkov awaits.”

His hand rested possessively on the small of my back as we stepped into the Moscow air. A sleek black car was waiting at the curb. The driver opened the rear door with a slight bow. We slid into the rear seat. The car pulled away from the curb smoothly, and I found myself wondering, not for the first time, where this man was taking me. The drive was of unfamiliar sights and sounds as we navigated the bustling streets of Moscow. I pressed my face against the tinted window, drinking in the vibrant view of the city. Across the sky rose majestic churches with golden domes, their elaborate construction bearing witness to centuries ago.

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