Viktor Reznov Novels & Stories

Caitlin grabbed a chair and sat down adjacent to me, her bare thighs squashing down onto the seat as she folded her ankles and leaned back. She gestured with her hand to let me continue, almost impatiently and I cocked an eyebrow at her with a small smile. This woman… "If," I emphasised. "You're willing. Your target would be Lucas Trevino, software engineer and owner of Godfather nightclub." I paused for her reaction and she simply just nodded her head waiting for me to continue.

Everything. When the recording ended, the silence in the virtual room was deafening. My father spoke first, his voice cold with authority: “Viktor Kuznetsov betrayed the Bratva. He betrayed the Voss blood. He betrayed all of us. From this moment on, he is declared an enemy of the organization. Anyone who helps, shelters, or contacts him will be treated the same.” One by one, the councilors began to react. Some looked shocked. Others visibly relieved. Viktor had enemies inside the council itself — men he had humiliated or harmed over the years.

He’d also been very impressed with Ivan as of late. “Ivan? What the hell is going on,” Viktor bellowed. “I tapped Ivan during the trial, he was completely invaluable to me in that time. His contacts have been priceless and his dedication to the family has been paramount in the last few months. I have welcomed him with open arms. My father firmly believed the line of succession must always be clear, and I have no doubt that as a Reznikov, Ivan will not only hold our family first, but he will always be honorable and faithful,” I said, firmly.

He was tall around 6’2 and his brunette hair and hairstyle reminded me someone who unwontedly barged in my life. Maybe it’s him….. My curiosity got best out of me and I found myself walking to the man. I with hushed steps walked closer to him. The man was looking at the grave and was unaware of my approaching hushed footsteps. As I was 3 steps away from him he suddenly turned with speed of tornado and a cold metal touched my forehead. My eyes widened. It was him….James Russo….but my eyes didn’t widened on him seeing here but on what was in his hand that he was pointing on my forehead.

His mind raced, sorting through possibilities, trying to solve the puzzle pieces. “Who was it?” Connel asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. “A man named Viktor Novak. He's known for running arms deals through Eastern Europe. I've got footage of their conversation. From what we can hear, it sounds like she's trying to get in deeper with him by securing a deal that would benefit her and him.” Connel's mind snapped into focus. Viktor Novak was dangerous, the kind of man who didn't care about allegiance but profit. And Tori was making moves that put them all at risk.

I said, calling the man, watching as he froze, looking at me over his shoulder as he did. “I, Valerie Morozov, accept your rejection, Alpha Alessandro D’Almerita.”

Rachel "Remember my eighteenth birthday," I said. Daniel lifted his face with his eyes focused on me. "How can I forget? I nodded, I knew what he meant. It was the same day a big tantrum happened in the house with a big fight between Daniel's mom and his and my father too. The fight was so big that it even resulted in their divorce. I don't know, what was the reason behind their fight that was so big that it resulted in separation, even being a cheater can't separate Daniel's mother from his father but a fight did.

he swallowed, looking at the table. "I'm sorry—" "You should be," Bruno cut in coldly. "You failed me after all." He kept his cup on the table. "You had one job, Viktor. Yet, you failed so woefully at it." "My source has been unable to get anything from—" "You mean the whore that you take to bed every weekend?" Bruno interrupted and Viktor clamped his mouth shut. "What's his name again?" Viktor fidgeted in his seat. "Clint Estaban."

Serena: The music room smelled of polished wood and old varnish, a scent that tightened something in my chest the moment I stepped inside. Instruments lined the walls: violins in velvet-lined cases, a cello propped against the far panel, and an expensive black piano near the windows where the late afternoon light pooled across its lacquered surface. I found myself staring at it longer than I meant to, as if the sight of the keys could pull a memory from whatever part of me still remembered a life before collars and contracts.

In the center of the floor sat a heavy oak table, illuminated by a single overhead lamp that carved the room into sharp planes of light and shadow. Viktor Volkov sat at the head, surrounded by monitors displaying live satellite feeds of every major port in the Atlantic. He was a man of sixty, with silver hair cropped close to a skull that bore the jagged white line of an old knife wound from his days in the gulags. He didn't stand when they approached; he simply watched them with eyes that had seen the end of the world and found it boring. "Dominic Thorne," Viktor rumbled, his voice like stones grinding in a riverbed. "I heard you traded your bachelorhood for a Vane inheritance. I didn't thi