The Russian Swirl: RUSSIAN SWIRL ROMANCE

By Alexandra Isobel

The hunt is intense when a gangster is frantic to find his queen and bring her home.

 

Yuri is an ex-Russian gangster.  Savannah is African American his queen.

Entwined in a passionate and volatile marriage, their world explodes when she opens an unknown sender email.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Isobel
• Release date: Aug 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201730390

Alexandra Isobel

Canadian romance writer who sees the romance in everyday life, and mixes it into her stories.  She thrives on visual inspiration so is a diehard movie junkie and photography hound - both of which keep her imagination humming.  She's definitely an introvert who secretly lusts after her alpha hero characters!

Book preview

PART ONE

Find Her Keep Her

MOSCOW

Gone? What the Hell you mean, gone? I stop at the top of the three stone steps that lead into my exclusive Moscow home. My six foot three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound house guard, Dmitri is hulking and wringing his hands like a five-year-old girl.

Boss, your wife go. She no explain. Dmitri glances at Stepan, my best friend since childhood, who arrived the same time as me.

My eyes stay on Dmitri. Go where? I just talked to her.

She no say. She...just go, Dmitri's voice trails off and he wrings his hands again. I sorry boss.

I look at Stepan, who shrugs. He does not know either. We have been in the office all day.

I push past him and head to my wife's home office, the glass box I call it because it has so many windows that overlook our private banks of the Moscow River. After we got married, I said no to any wife of mine working at job outside of home. She, stubborn American woman, refused to obey me. So, I build her office at side of house so she can do her work from here. Compromise.

Savannah! I walk inside, but the office is empty. The strange silence punches my gut. I pick up a hair tie from her desk. She was wearing it this morning. I had watched her tie up all her beautiful natural hair from my place in our bed.

We should have dinner tonight at Anatoli's, she had looked back at me and smiled. Her wide lips in a devilish grin never failed to make my dick hard for her, so, I wrestled her back to bed to make love. This is how we spend many mornings. At two years married, we are still like newlyweds.

I storm back toward to the door, but Dmitri and Stepan are already behind me in the room.

What the fuck?! I glare at Dmitri. She knew I was on my way.

Dmitri looks at the floor, then back at me. She no say. She just leave. She throw phone then leave. He glances at the pile of broken plastic and cracked glass at the base of the wall.

Fucking speak Russian. His broken English drives me crazy. My wife has everyone around here trying to please her by speaking English, instead of her practicing her limited Russian.

None of this makes sense. I just talked to her from the car. She said she had something important to discuss with me, so I made reservation at her favorite restaurant I know this will please her. I walk over and pick up a piece of the broken glass still in the plastic case, not missing the dark scuff mark on the wall where the phone hit. I stare at Dmitri.

I sorry, Boss, she throw phone then leave. Fast, out front door. He uses both hands to gesture, like he's shooing chickens in a pen.

And you did not stop her. I shake my head. Just stood there like idiot, blinking and collecting a paycheck for doing fuck all?

Dmitri inhales. Boss. She black American woman. I try stop her; she murder me.

I can only stare at the man we call the beast. I no longer know why. You are a fucking mammoth, and she is— I hold out my hand to my shoulder's height, ninety pounds soaking wet?

She good with knife.

I blink and grit my teeth. Stepan, make sense of this bullshit before I fucking kill somebody and end up back in jail.

My gut warned me an hour ago that something was wrong at home, so I left my office early. The drive from Moscow to our infamous Rublyovka suburb is forty minutes on a good day, but because Rublyovka residents share the 80-million-dollar property neighbourhood with the president and most of his ministers, we must endure the daily closure of the exclusive Rublevo-Uspensky highway whenever the cabinet members motorcade travels to and from the city.

But, while I sat in traffic jam, I called Savannah many times. She did not answer. My wife does not ignore me when I call her unless I anger her. I have done nothing. I have been a model husband, yet I felt her silent treatment all the way from my office. She and I text every day. Every fucking day for the past two years. She has me conditioned, like puppy dog. She talks to me about her day. I am evasive with her about mine. She does not like my work but accepts me for what I am, so I see no need to remind her.

I am Vory. A thief. And though I have left the Vory way of life, I will always be Vory in my heart. Just as she is teacher with teaching in her blood. Neither of us tries to change the other.

I storm back out of the house, Stepan and Dmitri behind me, the rest of my men still out front at the cars.

Not you, I bark at Dmitri when he starts down the steps behind us.

I very sorry, Boss. When she go, she usually back before you get—

I skid to a halt. Usually? She has done this before?

He puts his hands up and nods. Da. But never problem. She always home before you.

I draw back, ready to punch him square in the face then realize I do not have time for this shit.

Boss, Stepan stands between me and Dmitri. She is at Daniil's house.

Daniil's? My lawyer? What the Hell for?

Car is stop there. Stepan holds up his tablet. All our cars are low jacked with trackers, and the tracking dot for my wife's Maserati, the one I gave her for her first birthday as my wife, pulses on Daniil's street.

I dislike every possible reason why she is at another man's house all afternoon. I scowl down at my Rolex as I get into the backseat of the car; Stepan gets back into the front.

Ivan, my driver, looks at me through the rear-view mirror. Drive. Daniil's, I instruct.

It takes less than five minutes to get to my lawyer's gilded house. Sure enough, Savannah's car is still parked on the street in front of the iron gates. How long has her car been there now?

Stepan glances at me before his eyes return to the tablet he holds. Two hours. He closes the case and tosses it onto the dash. What now?

My gut is an inferno of rage. I get out of the car and tear open the trunk. My wife has been here, alone with another man for two hours. All the potential meanings of this erupt inside of my mind while I grab a shotgun as well as a pack of shells.

Boss— Stepan watches me slam the trunk closed.

I ignore him and storm up the walkway, jamming the shells, one at a time, into the chamber as I take the stairs. I snap the barrel into place and kick in Daniil's front door. No dogs or maid or security alarm. It is stark silent. Strange. Perhaps no one is here and is all mistake. I inhale a hopeful breath until I hear it. Upstairs. Moaning and groaning and a woman's excited squeals.

Fuck.

I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I am already aiming the shotgun as I march down the hall to the master bedroom. I am going to blow Daniil's head right off if I find him fucking my wife. I push the half-open door out of my way and narrow my eyes on the scene before me; the perfect hourglass back of a dark-skinned woman riding Daniil's naked hips.

Rage fills my brain and I pull the trigger, and the right side of the bed explodes in a deafening clap of thunder. Daniil bolts upwards, and the woman screams as he throws her off the bed. She lands on the ground with a thud, a tangle of shrieking arms and legs.