Novel & Cerita Quotes Vladimir Nabokov

At least that’s what I hope, thinking about the doctor just disrupted the plans. The movement changes the moment the dark-haired and cold-eyed man enters the space his soldiers around while I continue sitting, I push the chair in front of me with the tip of my foot. Nabokov at the height of his fifties looks nothing like an encounter with Russia’s most feared man. Quickly Dobrev appears standing next to me on the right while Nureyev sits on the left side, the bottle of vodka arrives and is served in three glasses. "I hear you’re in trouble in Bratsk," I say I have some information gathered about Orekhov.

“Um…is there…uh…is there any other name you have in mind? I can’t think of anything else.” “Vladimir.” “And that means?” “Ruler of the world.” “Interesting. I like that, Vlad. Vladimir. Vladimir Yezhov, my bundle of sunshine.” “Yes.” He shifted on the bed, scooting closer while peering into my eyes. “But not as interesting as the content of your journal.” It took me a minute to adjust before being able to interpret the meaning behind his words, and when I did, that lump in my throat returned. If I thought I couldn’t speak before but still managed some words, now he’d successfully rendered me speechless.

This was more confusing than any puzzle Vlad had ever set before me. Vlad, ever the watchful protector, materialized at my side. His hand, heavy and possessive, settled on the small of my back, subtly pulling me closer to him, away from the woman’s embrace. His expression was a mask of polite frostiness as he addressed her. “Anastasia Sokolov,” Vlad’s voice was smooth, almost silken, but with an underlying steel that was impossible to miss. “A pleasure to see you again, though I confess, your public display of affection is rather… ill-timed.”

"You could have simply ordered her to sit on your fūcking lap." Yigor continues to blink at him with puzzlement. Vladimir dejectedly exhales and retracts his grip on his cousin's collar. He settles back down on his own barstool. "Damn!" Yigor relaxes, shaking his head confoundedly. "Didn't know a word like that can trigger you... what in the actual fūck!?" Vladimir evades Yigors rambling. Instead, he casually sips his brandy. The liquid burned his throat in its pleasant poisonous way. Intensifying the natural venom within his veins.

"Sitnikov." Vlad looked up from his place at the table where he had been sitting for the past twenty minutes. He didn't like waiting. It was an insult. Insults made Boris twitchy. Vlad was sincerely hoping he wouldn't have to kill the younger man, sent to check out the Bratva's American interests. It could cause problems back in Russia.

Even if they don't know the Mastermind very well, this crossbreed jackass has the only connection they can use. "If you stop killing me with that sharp look, I might tell you what I had in mind," Vladimir said and laugh to his heart's content, leaving Narco and Lyric audibly sighed. They couldn't understand how this bonehead's entrails works but they'd memorized everything that came out of his mouth.

He wondered if the change was permanent or if they were going to go back to how things were… before Alice. He sighed and walked into the mansion. Even though he did not have any feelings, he would not feel good if he had to kill Vorenus. They came a long way together. “Bring me a drink of Cognac,” Vladimir said to his butler as he walked into the library. He browsed through the books, slowly, traveling down memory lane. He knew most of these men personally – Shakespeare, Thomas Middleton, Robert Greene… it was such a pity that these men did not gain as much fame as Williams. Some of them were as good as – if not even better than the world-famous playwright.

Alice is a noble in Russia, er, a former noble to be exact after she ran away from her family, Her father is Vladimir, one of the princes and war generals of Russia who lived hundreds of years ago. Outside Russia Vladimir is better known as "VladThe Impaler', because one of his favorite activities is torturing his prisoners of war by sticking a spear from the anus of his victim to penetrate the shoulder or head and then showing it to everyone. Sometimes it took days before the victim finally died. Of course, he did it hundreds of years ago when sadistic things like that were normal as punishment. Now He does it more carefully so as not to attract human attention.

I bite back a loud cry. “When we give orders, you obey.” He leans in and murmurs. Spitting, his saliva drops on a nipple, hangs on for a bit, and eventually drops on my thigh. I close my eyes, fight back the need that comes from their humiliation. “Sit.” He repeats. “Time to test how much your cunt can take,” Vladimir smirks and rolls the liquor in his glass as if blending the mix, then gulps it, the entire thing. A soft relief washes over me.