Novel & Cerita Who Was Fyodor Dostoevsky

“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.”

image he worked so hard to maintain. I closed the closet, still grinning, and wandered into his bedroom. On his nightstand I found more books, all by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Crime and Punishment, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, White Nights. I picked one up and flipped through it. The pages were worn, corners folded and some lines underlined. He wasn't just pretending to like this stuff, he really was a superfan of Russian literature. I didn't believe it when he first told me, but now I believed it without a doubt.

“ How can I fight the Russians if I don’t even have respect from the very people I took in and gave a home? There is a mole on the inside and that was how they knew when the shipments would arrive and how. They also knew my wife’s flight and where she would go for the meeting and when. “ Everyone paused to see how that related to them thinking I was weak, including me. “ My sister and wife almost died and I lost millions of dollars last night. Blood will be spilled here today. I’ll start with the very people who wanted my wife gone because I sense it was a plot by the Russians to create a divide within us. “ What he was saying made a lot more sense. I looked at the people at the table wonder

It sank even deeper but I tried not to show it. "Why are you telling me? You usually don't." He was quiet, till he breathed. "I don't know," before his footsteps got entirely erased. * * * * My fingers trailed across the spine of the books and I stopped on a white covered book. I pull it out of the shelf and hold it in both hands. "Crime and Punishment," I read aloud before gazing down at the author's name. "Fyodor Dos-tos-to-eeev-evsky?" I squint my eyes. "Fyodor Dostoevsky!"

The ember flared against the darkness, momentarily painting his sculpted face in shades of crimson and gold. His father would want a full report later. Fyodor Dostoevsky, head of the largest and most feared Bratva in Russia and maybe the world, was a man who demanded excellence — who demanded everything. Tonight, Andrei would be expected to recount every detail: who attended, what was bought, who whispered secrets over fluted glasses of poisoned wine. It was politics disguised as pleasure. Power masked as art and culture. Andrei thought it laughable. He was only here to retrieve a painting — a damn painting at that.

He was basically ruining the purpose of spending Fifth million in charity. Aleksandr Fedorov was breaking his image He had established as a Billionaire, at this moment He was nothing else than The Bratva Pakhan. The merciless monster. The man whose name was whispered with fear in the whole Russian And Chicago. And New York was soon going to learn to follow their lead.