Yuri Volkov Novels & Stories

His thumb pressed into the hollow of my throat. He could feel my pulse race. I was so sure of it. We were silent for a while but he didn't let go of me. He just stood, naked, and studying me to see if a lie would cross my face. After a long moment, he tilted his head. “You're telling the truth”. He said it was like a verdict but he didn't drop the knife. “This apartment belongs to Viktor Volkov. The contract killer. The man they call the Ghost of the Eastern Bloc”.

His body shimmered and began to shift. The transformation was both terrifying and beautiful. Bones cracked, muscles stretched, and thick fur—deep obsidian with streaks of silver—rippled across his growing frame. In seconds, the man was gone, replaced by the majestic beast that was his wolf, Ravik. Massive and regal, Ravik stood taller than any other werewolf on the field. His glowing golden eyes shone with a fierce determination, and his presence radiated raw, unyielding power. He didn’t wait. With a snarl that echoed across the shore, he sprinted through the rift. The crack sealed behind him the moment his hind legs crossed the line.

"You have a very expensive habit, Mr. Vane. Or should I say, Mr. Moretti?" The voice was like shattered glass. I turned to see Mikhail Volkov. He was shorter than Dante, but wider, with a beard that looked like it was made of wire and eyes that held the coldness of a Siberian winter. He was flanked by two giants who looked like they enjoyed breaking bones for sport. "It’s just Vane," I said, my voice sharp. "The other name is a temporary arrangement."

Who did they choose? "Nikolai Volkov." Summer opened a photo on her phone. I turned it to show us. “Ex-Russian FSB, ex-deep cover. Freelance specialist now. His specialty is in locating people who have both the means and the skills to avoid detection. As far as professional success rate, he is one hundred percent. He has never not found a target. Never." The photograph featured a man in his early forties. Completely bland forgettable face. Average build. The type of person who could disappear into any crowd and not be seen or remembered.

Not disappointment either. Mostly it was something close to laughter. The specific, slightly hysterical kind that comes after weeks of bracing for impact and discovering the impact had already happened somewhere else entirely, to someone else, in a different decade, for reasons that had nothing to do with you. Aleksei Volkov had spent two years watching a nineteen-year-old girl. Had built a case, a marriage record, a hidden stake in his company, a letter that said whatever you have taken from her, give it back. Had stepped in front of a truck for both his son and a girl he had decided was extraordinary.

I know him or rather his name sounds familiar. Mikhail Volkov. He’s a member of the Bratva and a member of the four reapers. I’ve not heard good stories about him and Mikhail is known to be the most unhinged one from all four of them. They are all known to be ruthless, but Mikhail is just out of this world. “I…” “You’re stalling, get down. Now.” His voice is cold and intimidating and I don’t know when my hands move and I open the car door, stepping out from the car.

“But I tortured your man. How can you…” “We have bigger fish to fry. Gabriel wouldn't mind the deal.” It made sense to Vladimir. Hugo was more clever and calculated than he had imagined. But Volkov was not someone to toy with. He could find people hidden in the darkest of places and Vladimir had witnessed firsthand what he did to traitors. Vladimir had been a part of the executions and punishments. Those weren't a joke. Ivan Volkov had been a general in the Soviet Army. He knew various ways to make a person beg for death. He could make KGB prisons sound like a playground.

I spit out fiery. Arlette gulped, shifting on each leg. “Who were the guys?” I asked, staring at her naked body, her small curvy frame designed against the wall. Arlette shrugged, then answered my question. “Some Russians. I don’t know their names, but one guy, the main guy, his name was Dimitri Volkov,” she said. As if the guys being Russians didn’t give them off already, but fucking, Dimitri Volkov? That was the Bratva’s Pakhan and he was ruthless and as sneaky as a snake.

After issuing his final warning, Jackson left the interview room. Yuri found himself drenched in cold sweat the moment he heard that. He knew that if Jackson felt like torturing him, he had countless methods at his disposal. Even if he sought shelter abroad, he’d be hunted down relentlessly. The best thing he could do now was to comply with his instructions. At that point, a gut feeling told Yuri that Jackson wasn’t going to just stop at him. He would also be going after the rest who were involved in the plot. Yuri Volkov was merely step number one.

ALEKSANDR “You’re one of the most logical people I’ve ever met, Volkov,” Yuri, my trusted advisor says as we leave the bar later that night, walking toward our vehicle with my men behind us. “And I have never had a reason to question your decisions. But I have to ask, do you know what you’re doing?” It’s 1am and the night air is mercifully chill, the mist cooling the heated skin on my neck. The street is quiet, so Yuri has to drop his voice as low as possible to prevent anyone from hearing him.