Novel & Cerita Victor Van Dort

Victor stepped up onto the low, velvet-draped dais. He didn't wear a suit jacket. He stood in a crisp, dark shirt, the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms, the heavy tungsten collar at his throat completely visible. He looked out over the sea of faces, his dark eyes recognizing the veterans who had survived the tabloid fire, and the new seekers who had come to us seeking refuge.

Then, he stumbled back outside and left everyone behind in confusion. Dustin grinned. Victor had made a smart move. Victor stumbled out of the West family villa gates and called for someone to help him. Richard and Nathan were taken aback when they saw this. Margaret and Amara were also surprised onscreen. Victor was the greatest fighter of Lannopolis, and he had only gone inside for a few minutes. How did he come out looking so terrible? “Mr. Cain, what happened?” Richard asked with a frown.

He plays the footage from the camera flash he got from the lab. We carefully watch everything in the video. Alpha Tate’s wolf wasn’t comfortable seeing it again, he’s growling and radiating anger energy from his body, but we had to watch it. It’s the only way to know who these scientists are. “There.” He points at the screen. Oliver pauses the video, taking it back a little and stops at the face of one of the doctors. “Isn’t that Justin’s father?” Oliver asks, staring at the screen intensely. He does look exactly like Justin though.

After the long hiatus, the skaters needed to regain their edge before facing the "Wall of San Diego." Viktor didn't like the isolation, but he understood the necessity. In a squad where every man was a giant, Viktor was the titan. Standing 6’6” and broad enough to block out the sun, his physical presence dominated the net. With his golden hair and thick beard, the fans called him "The Storm Lord," a title he preferred over the one Lyon Navarro had tried to pin on him years ago.

Calista led the man inside and Emily shrugged before going to sit beside Violet. “I don't mean to pry,”: Violet said, “But who is that man? He looks creepy, how can your mom let him inside her yard?” “I know right? He's around the same age as his boss, Chief Bassan but uglier.” Violet stiffled back a laughter and cleared her throat when she saw the workers staring at them, “Be nice.” She whispered to Emily. “I don't have to. He's really ugly. If they're not blind, they should know that, it's pretty obvious.”

"You found it already?" "My team had the look-through report forty-eight hours before you received that message from your friend," he said, watching her. "If an abnormal flow of capital in Obsidian City doesn't pass my desk, it’s because it’s too small to be worth my time." She said nothing. "And the van at Dorothea’s school?" "The one ending in V95? It’s registered to a shell shipping company owned by Victor." Dominic’s tone was laced with contempt. "He lost two ships; he’s getting desperate. He’s watching Dorothea to test my limits."

Standing there was Victor, spreading his undeniable charm; except he was shirtless, with a towel wrapped around his waist, dangerously low. Oh, what the....

Victor was near a window display, gesturing animatedly while talking to the saleswoman when he saw them approaching. "Victor," she called. He turned in the same instant… and froze. "My God…" He brought his hand to his chest, his eyes widening as he looked Zacky up and down. "You came back. I knew it. This boutique attracts dangerously beautiful men." Dolores cleared her throat, trying to hold back a laugh. "Victor, this is Zacky. Zacky, Victor. He is the brand's creative director." "Creative director, stylist, misunderstood visionary, and sensitive genius," Victor completed, extending his hand.

A framed print clattered to the floor. “I built this company with him!” Victor screamed, his face inches from Davidson’s, his breath hot with whiskey and hate. “I was there in the dirt and the oil when you were still a bible-thumping boy in Texas! I earned it! You just spread your legs for it!” Davidson shoved him back, hard. Victor stumbled, crashing into a low-slung sofa. The two men from Volkov watched, impassively, as if observing a mildly interesting sporting event. This was beneath their intervention.