Yuri Volkov Novels & Stories

I offered her the flowers in my hands. She said nothing for a long time, and I realized I would have to speak first. It made since I was the reason that there was this distance between us. “Hello,” I began. “I’m Albert Volkov. I was born the illegitimate son of the pahkan of the Volka bratva, Dimitri Volkov. Nearly five years ago I started cooperating with the FBI to bring down the Volka organization, its affiliates, and as much of the criminal underground in the Twin Cities as I could manage. I'm an American citizen, and the CEO of Vulture Financial. It's... very nice to meet you, Mia.”

The man who had given him the flash drive. Eli’s hands clenched. “I can’t just wait here.” He looked at the small pistol on the seat beside him one of Cove’s backup weapons. His fingers closed around it. The metal was cold. Heavy. Real. In the yacht’s bridge, Cove burst through the door. Nikolai Volkov stood at the controls, surrounded by four armed men. The Russian boss turned slowly, a cruel smile on his face. “Cove Voss,” Nikolai said. “You came alone. Bold. Stupid.”

That bond was vibrating like a live wire under his skin. “There he is, ladies and gentlemen—Yaroslav Viktorovich Demidov! Captain of team Russia, Moscow's rising player the only non-magical athlete in the tournament, and easily the most disciplined player on the ice. With him, is his team Volkov Ice Dynasty” Disciplined, wow! It's like a kind word for repressed as hell. Demidov walked in with his team while adjusting his gloves with clenched jaw, slicked-back hair, eyes in permanent murder mode. Even seeing this, Kensington's mouth went dry. And god, he was in trouble.

He took one look at me—unshaven, rumpled shirt, whiskey glass—and said nothing. He set a tablet on the coffee table, pulled up security footage. "This is from a private camera three blocks from where Ethan was supposedly killed. Timestamp puts it two hours before his death." The footage showed a van. Two men getting out. One of them I recognized immediately—Dmitri Volkov, the Russian enforcer we'd already identified. The other was younger with dark hair and he moved with military precision. "Who's the second one?" I asked. "That's the interesting part." Marcus zoomed in, enhancing the image. "His name is ALEKSEI MARKOV. Former Spetsnaz who works exclusively for one client."

Lila, halfway down the stairs in her pajamas, froze at the sight of the men on the threshold. Four of them. Black coats, black gloves, faces carved from stone. The one in front was the tallest—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with eyes the pale gray of winter skies over the Neva River. A scar cut through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent look of disdain. Nikolai Volkov. Even she knew the name. Head of the Volkov Bratva in New York. Ruthless. Untouchable. Vincent’s voice cracked. “Nikolai. I asked for more time—”

"No ID. Fingerprints came up blank in the civilian database. But I ran his face through my old FBI contacts." Vance handed me a tablet. NAME: YURI VOLKOV. STATUS: EX-RUSSIAN SPECIAL FORCES. DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE. CURRENTLY EMPLOYED BY KANE GLOBAL SECURITY. "Bingo," I whispered. I walked over to the chair. Volkov watched me, spitting a glob of blood onto the concrete floor. "Mr. Volkov," I said calmly. "You’re a long way from Moscow." "I want a lawyer," Volkov grunted, his accent thick.

I decide that the mob boss probably wouldn't locate his bedroom close to the servants living space and head down the empty hallway. While I carefully take small, nervous steps down the hallway, I notice many pictures of many different (what seems to be) mafia leaders who are all Russian. The first one is from the 1800's and I follow more and more until I finally stop at the last one: the man who's attention I had caught this morning. His name is Andrei Volkov. As I start to admire his handsomeness on the picture even more, I notice there's a door right beside me. The closer I come to the door, I begin to hear someone yelling very angrily in what must be Russian.

What angered him more was that she was emotionally and mentally weak. Even if she looks fierce on the outside, he can’t fulfill her task if she’s fragile on the inside. “Fuck!” he growled soon as he entered the mini bar inside the royal house. He badly needed to drink a strong one to stop himself from destroying anything. He poured his glass of Spirytus Vodka and sipped on it. He sat on the couch as he savored the strong taste the Vodka drink could bring. He closed his eyes and tried to avert his thoughts from that girl.

Of course, Krystoff had been connected, and so now was Jozef, but the Bratva rarely traveled into unsettled situations. Standing next to Alexei was Yuri Antonovich, gatekeeper to the Bratva. The man acted as both a Vory and a secretary. He was cold-blooded and brutal. He would kill his own mother if it meant getting ahead. If he made Jozef's accession within the Bratva difficult, Jozef could have a rocky few years ahead of him.

He carried two coffees, handed one to Nikolai without asking. “Morning, sunshine,” he said to me. “You look like shit.” “Fuck off.” I wiped blood from my lip, must’ve split it on his elbow. “You got something?”Frederico leaned against the weapons rack, sipping his coffee. “Yeah. Ran the description of the lead shooter through some contacts. Bald, tattoos up the neck star on the left side, prison ink. Recognized him. Dmitri Volkov. Runs muscle for the Volkov Bratva out of Brighton Beach. Second-generation. Nasty fucker. Likes knives more than guns.”Nikolai froze.