Russian Writer Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

“You’re flirting with death. I’m not the only person who could take you down.” The accusation sticks tighter than it would have before El, before the heartbeat in that little office, but I sip my coffee like his words don’t mean a thing to me. The waitresses don’t seem to give a fuck about our little scuffle, at least. “Do you have anything other than threats?” I ask. Henry sighs. “Fyodor’s not a totally uncommon name, but I did some digging, and I was able to connect it to a guy called Raskolnikov, who dropped off the map in Russia about a month before Fyodor started moving over here.”

"Konstantin." As if electrocuted, Dostov released his bite with a slight surge and then looked up at Alice. Nick's blood flowed slowly from his fangs into his jaw. I don't know why Alice called him Konstantin, or how she knew Dostov. The only thing I know is that both of them are from Russia. Dostov stood up from his spot and took a step toward Alice, the expression on his face contrasting with his age. Dostov is one of the oldest Volders alive, and when you get as old as Dostov controlling emotions becomes as easy as breathing. Expression is weakness, if your enemy can read the expression on your face he can beat you easily.

“We got out alive. I can’t fucking believe it.” Dimitri grinned down at me, finally looking like himself as he did. He’d put on such a good show. Un-fucking-believably good. He’d slicked his hair back and worn one of the suits I’d picked out for him, a dark blue that brought out the little flecks of green in his gray eyes. Jerry, unbeknownst to me, had studied Russian literature as an undergrad, something he mentioned after I’d introduced my mate. Dimitri had pulled some weird details about the town Dostoevsky had used for the setting of The Brothers Karamazov out of his ass, going on for a couple of minutes about the history of Russian river barges, to Jerry’s obvious and enthusiastic delig

My mouth opened countless times, closing and opening, no, I couldn't accept that, so I was going to leave it explicitly. Oh yes, of course Christmas, I sold myself to Santa Claus, which was more than a doll I got, when I sold myself, Even though right now, all I wanted was a taste other than the bruises on my body that Nikolai was real. In addition to a good snow day on a cosy morning, with the strategy of having a good Christmas, sleeping all day. And what more than that necklace to prove it? A man who seemed to have a lot of money, like a king, but who was Nikolai Dostoyevsky, or Nikolai D. ?