Yuri Volkov Novels & Stories

Yuri hated those that turned their back on who they should be loyal to. Fuck. “Their reasoning?” I asked lightly. Yuri cleared his throat. “Your wife, I believe. They were following the future of Stanislav Orlov in Sveta, and now that she doesn’t exist, they have nothing to fight for, so they choose to fight against you.” “A man can respect that,” I answered, turning my back on Yuri so he couldn’t see the fury in my eyes. I couldn’t fault them again. I had lied to them, betrayed them so that they would join my Bratva.

"Observer status begins now." Rowan inclined his head once controlled, minimal. I didn't lower my gaze. I cataloged the room with the same precision a hunter uses to map a kill zone. To the left sat a man in his late forties, broad shouldered, military still, the kind of posture you only get from decades of enforced discipline. Adrian Volkov. I recognized him from private intelligence files: infrastructure dominance across Eastern Europe, energy grids, transit corridors, the kind of quiet control that makes governments nervous.

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."

I continued, voice lowering, “but to rebuild and restructure.” “Rebuild what?” Kazuo asked. “The world thinks the YBA is crumbling.” I smirked gently then replied, “Let them, Because while the media watches the smoke, we’ll be moving underground.” I turned to the large iron door behind me. With a nod, it opened slowly—revealing a man in a dark navy suit, his presence cold, clean, and quiet. “This,” I said, pointing at him with my index finger.“is Nikolai Volkov. From Russia.”

Two men stood next to Victor, and their presence sent a spurt of frozen adrenaline through his system. To his right, there sat Dmitri Volkov, the notorious "Tsar of Siberian Gas." The granite-jawed mogul with a track record for crushing competitors with the tacit support of the Kremlin. He was oligarchy personified—Politically unstoppable, pitiless, and wallowing in mineral wealth.

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—”

What did I expect? Mikhail Volkov. That man.