Yelena Belova Novels & Stories

She pulled Leah to her feet, dragging her away. My throat clogged with mucus, as Estella made her way to the door, hesitating at the handle. "You are an omega, and henceforth Nikolai's going to have to treat you as one."

Frank's report was thorough, as always: ELENA VOLKOV - BACKGROUND INVESTIGATION Age: 43 Citizenship: Naturalized US Citizen (originally Russian Federation) Current Residence: Seattle, WA Net Worth: Estimated $400-500 million Background: Elena Volkov (née Petrova) emigrated from Russia ten years ago under circumstances that remain partially unclear. Official records show she applied for and received political asylum, citing "credible threats to personal safety." Prior to emigration, Elena was a software engineer in Moscow, working for various tech companies. She founded her own cybersecurity firm, SecureNet Solutions, which she sold to a US tech company for $380 million in 2018.

"You'd just die if you didn't see the looks of envy on everyone's face when they see me with you. You may have money, but it's me that makes you credible as a man." "Tolstoy wrote about you in War and Peace," Yuri said, his face reddening as he watched Zach's cock plunge in and out of Olga's pussy. "Her name was Princess Yelena Vasilyevna Kuragina. She, too, would fuck anyone with enough money."

Lena never lost her composure, but right now, her hands were visibly shaking. "Bella," Lena said, her voice tight and strained. "You need to see this. Right now." I frowned, shifting Victor slightly in my arms. "What is it, Lena? Is it the Marchetti Group?" "No," Lena said, stepping forward. She tapped the screen of her tablet and set it down on the marble island. "It’s Nadina Volkova. She just went live on a major news outlet. It’s broadcasting everywhere." I leaned over the counter, my eyes scanning the screen.

“I will fly there tonight; he will talk one way or another.” “Doubt it, you know what the Russian bastards can be like, he’d rather have his throat slit. Then we have no information.” She is right, a man like Andrewkov will protect whoever has hired him. Like I thought he was protecting me only that turned out not to be the case. “And Yelena, what is her latest movement?” “She has stayed put, no movement. She is still at the Four Seasons.” “You reckon she knows we are here in Atlanta?”

“Before she died. My mother.” Tatiana inhaled slowly. “You never told me.” “I didn’t trust you.” “And now?” “I still don’t. But I trust what we both want.” Tatiana smiled. “Revenge?” “No,” Nova said. “Reclamation.” Over the next few days, Tatiana and Nova worked like sisters, if those sisters forged secrets in fire and filed fingernails with diamonds. They traced Yelena’s last known location: an exclusive art school in Montenegro. But she’d vanished two weeks ago.

“Varce Bosta you-” While she was still talking, different guards stormed in with their leader. Katerina Ivok. Before Yelena’s guard would react, they had all been sent to the ground with bullets. Katerina looked nothing like the fighter from earlier that was hit as she stood tall. Yelena’s eyes grew wide with shock. Her men were down and she was all alone with Boris and Malcolm, who of course would get shot down if they dare move. It was incredible. “You!” She growled. She felt, what? Betrayed? The fuck? She really thought Katerina was still on her side? She wasn't informed?

"Just live." "That sounds simple." "It's not." She walked to him. "But it's worth it." He turned to face her. "I love you." "I know." "Do you love me?" She looked at the baby. At Nadia. At the life they had built from ashes. "More than anything." --- The phone rang at midnight. Elena answered. "Ms. Hart." Reyes's voice. Tired. Old. "Yuri Volkov died an hour ago. Complications from surgery."

She doesn’t find me, her shoulders loosen just a fraction before she turns away. Enzo notices. Of course he does. He leans in, “She searched.” “I know,” I say, swirling my glass of vodka. Iron Fist rolls her neck across the ring. She’s thick, well built, and confident. She’s won more fights than she’s lost. She likes breaking smaller opponents. Vitale squints. “That’s Belva?” “Yes,” Baranov says. “The masked one.” “I’ve heard of her,” Fournier adds. “Never actually seen her fight.”

"Under what name?" I understood what he was asking. Was I still Lina Vale, the woman with no past, or Elena Valenti, the daughter who had walked away? I tightened my fingers around the mug. "Elena Valenti."