#maxim kuznetsov

[hockeytown-gifs]

OT Goal! - Wings vs Ducks - Nov. 15, 2002

[xtruss]

185 Years of Tchaikovsky: Honoring The Composer Who Gave The World Its Most Iconic Ballets

From Swan Lake To The Nutcracker, His Music Continues To Captivate Audiences Across Generations And Continents

— 07 May 2025 | Russia Today (RT) | By Maxim Semenov

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Russian Composer. Born: May 7, 1840, Votkinsk, Russia — Died: November 6, 1893. Saint Petersburg, Russia

Thanks to ‘The Nutcracker’, this Russian Composer gifted the World some of its most beloved Christmas Melodies. His ‘Swan Lake’ became an unexpected symbol of the 1991 August Coup that signaled the Soviet Union’s collapse. His ballets packed theaters when impresario Sergey Diaghilev, who brought Russian ballet to the world stage, introduced them to Western audiences. And even those who know little about classical music instantly recognize the stirring opening chords of his ‘Piano Concerto No. 1’.

A socialite who struggled against his own inclinations, a man of deep sensitivity known to friends as having a “glass soul,” he also composed some of the most significant sacred music in the Russian Orthodox tradition.

We’re talking, of course, about Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Discover the life, work, and personal trials of Russia’s most celebrated composer in this RT feature.

Reproduction of Tchaikovsky's Portrait (1893) by Kuznetsov from the collection of the Tretyakov State Gallery in Moscow, 1966. © Sputnik/Pavel Balabanov

A Child of the Empire

Many great composers seemed destined for music from birth – Beethoven’s father sang at court, Mozart’s was a deputy kapellmeister. These prodigies grew up in refined, aristocratic homes. Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s story, however, took a different path.

Born in 1840 in the industrial town of Votkinsk in the Ural region, Tchaikovsky came from a family rooted in the Russian Empire’s rising professional class. His father, Ilya Tchaikovsky, managed an ironworks – one of the Empire’s most advanced metallurgical plants.

On his father’s side, Pyotr’s family traced its roots to the Cossacks of Little Russia (modern-day Ukraine), who had served Russia faithfully since the 17th century. During the Great Northern War, his ancestor, Colonel Fyodor Chaika, sided with Tsar Peter I against Hetman Ivan Mazepa’s betrayal. After the Battle of Poltava, the family eventually adopted the surname Tchaikovsky and joined the Russian nobility.

His mother’s family added Western European flair. French sculptors and Austrian officers – including Michael Heinrich Maximilian Assier, who became Andrey Mikhailovich Assier upon settling in Russia – rounded out the family tree. Assier rose to the rank of active state counselor, equivalent to a major general.

Russian composer Pyotr Tchaikovsky in Geneva, 1889. © Sputnik

From an early age, music filled Tchaikovsky’s home. His father played flute, his mother played harp and piano, and the family owned a grand piano and a mechanical organ known as an orchestrion. Through it, young Pyotr first encountered Mozart’s ‘Don Giovanni’, leaving a lasting impression.

His earliest music teacher was Maria Palchikova, a former serf who had taught herself to read and play music. He also absorbed French cultural influence from Fanny Dürbach, a governess brought from St. Petersburg. This blend of European classical training and authentic Russian heritage shaped his artistic vision.

Even as a child, Tchaikovsky showed a deep emotional connection to music. He once became so engrossed while tapping rhythms on a window frame that he broke the glass and severely cut his hand.

“In daily life, people were drawn to him because they could feel how deeply he cared,” recalled his brother Modest. “He was so sensitive that the slightest thing could hurt him. He was like a child made of glass.”

This emotional intensity would later complicate his life – but it also fueled his extraordinary creativity.

Pyotr Tchaikovsky is conferred the honorary title of Doctor of Music by Cambridge University, 1893. © Sputnik/Mikhail Ozerskiy

From Bureaucrat To Composer

Ilya Tchaikovsky envisioned a stable career for his son in law or government. At age ten, Pyotr entered St. Petersburg’s prestigious Imperial School of Jurisprudence.

Though the school’s rigid discipline made him feel isolated, Tchaikovsky quickly earned the affection of teachers and classmates. Remarkably, he avoided both corporal punishment and bullying – no small feat in that era.

Even in a school focused on legal studies, his love of music persisted, though his talents weren’t immediately obvious. While clearly more musically inclined than his peers, no one yet foresaw the heights he would reach.

At 19, after graduating, he landed a civil service job at the Ministry of Finance – a respectable, if uninspired, start to his career.

But the lure of St. Petersburg’s vibrant intellectual and social scene soon proved irresistible. He befriended future poets, writers, and critics, attended salons, banquets, and musical soirées, and embraced a hedonistic lifestyle.

“I, a sickly man with neurosis, cannot live without the poison of alcohol. Every night I find myself drunk,” he later confessed. Along with mounting debts, this lifestyle clashed with his government duties.

At 21, he enrolled in music classes offered by the Russian Musical Society, which soon became the St. Petersburg Conservatory. He was among the first composition students. When he abandoned his bureaucratic post, no one in the office seemed to notice. “He simply stopped showing up.”

The Greatest Musical Talent in Russia

At the conservatory, the now mature Tchaikovsky finally began to realize his full potential. He composed his first significant works: a cantata based on Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’ and the overture ‘The Storm’, inspired by Ostrovsky’s play. These works revealed his ability to draw equally from Western and Russian musical traditions.

While artistic circles can be competitive, Tchaikovsky inspired admiration rather than jealousy. His classmate – and future critic – Herman Laroche declared, “You are the greatest musical talent in contemporary Russia. In fact, you’re our only hope for the future of Russian music.”

Graduating with the conservatory’s top honor, the grand silver medal, Tchaikovsky soon moved to Moscow to teach at the conservatory there.

During the late 1860s and early 1870s, he composed the ‘Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture’, which a biographer described as revealing the main themes of his future work: the psychological drama of unfulfilled love, youthful passion, and the omnipresent shadow of death.

He also embraced Russian history and folk culture, which shone through in his opera ‘The Oprichnik’, set during the reign of Ivan the Terrible. Premiered at the Mariinsky and Bolshoi Theaters, the opera was, in Tchaikovsky’s words, “a triumph beyond anything I could have imagined. A huge crowd of students escorted me back to my hotel.”

Not all his works were instant hits. The now-iconic ‘Swan Lake’ struggled at first and only gained worldwide acclaim after his death.

Triumph and Turmoil

By the 1870s and 1880s, Tchaikovsky’s fame had soared. His concerts sold out. For his ‘1812 Overture’, celebrating Russia’s victory over Napoleon, Emperor Alexander III awarded him an order of merit and helped him clear his debts.

He toured Europe, receiving praise from luminaries like Wagner and Liszt, and traveled to the United States, where he conducted at Carnegie Hall’s grand opening. By then, he had composed all the operas, ballets, and symphonies that would become his lasting legacy.

Yet personal happiness eluded him.

His engagement to Belgian soprano Désirée Artôt, a frequent performer in Russia, ended due to her family’s objections. Heartbroken, he poured his emotions into ‘Romance’, Op. 5, for piano.

At 37, he married Antonina Milyukova, a former student. Though she adored him, their marriage quickly soured. Just three months in, he fled to Switzerland. Though they never divorced, they lived apart for the rest of his life.

Speculation about Tchaikovsky’s homosexuality persists. While he had close relationships with prominent homosexual figures and young male students, serious biographers suggest his attachments were largely aesthetic and intellectual. In his letters, he often lamented his inclinations and struggled to repress them.

Finding Solace in Faith

The turbulence of his personal life took a toll on this man with the “glass soul.” But in his 30s, Tchaikovsky found solace in Orthodox Christianity.

Though indifferent to religion in his youth, by the 1870s and 1880s he had turned to faith for comfort. He studied the Gospels and became deeply engaged with Orthodox church music.

Religious themes began to surface in his compositions. In his ‘Sixth Symphony’, the hymn “With the Saints Give Rest” foreshadows death. The 1812 Overture features the troparion “Save, O Lord, Your people and bless Your inheritance.”

He also composed music for major liturgies, including the ‘Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom’ and the ‘All-Night Vigil’.

Metropolitan Ilarion observed, “He was not just a believer but was deeply rooted in the Orthodox Church. The beauty and profound poetry of Orthodox worship always drew him.” Tchaikovsky himself once said, “My love for Orthodoxy is tied directly to my deep affection for the Russian spirit.”

A legacy Beyond Time

Tchaikovsky died suddenly at age 53 during a cholera outbreak in St. Petersburg. His death shocked the nation. The emperor placed the Imperial Theaters in charge of his funeral and paid the expenses himself. The requiem Mass at Kazan Cathedral was so crowded that many mourners couldn’t even get inside.

Tchaikovsky’s life shows that it’s never too late to follow your true calling, that the path to greatness is rarely smooth, and that passion and hardship often go hand in hand with genius.

His body of work – blending Western European influences with the soul of Russian Orthodox culture – created masterpieces that still captivate audiences worldwide.

Today, ballets like ‘The Nutcracker’, ‘Swan Lake’, and ‘Sleeping Beauty’ are staples of every major opera house. Immune to politics or sanctions, these timeless classics stir emotions ranging from bittersweet nostalgia to warmth and inspiration.

So, when you hear the ‘Waltz of the Flowers’ from ‘The Nutcracker’ drifting through city streets on Christmas Eve, remember the brilliant Russian composer who gave the world such beauty – Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

Quick Facts:

Born: May 7, 1840, Votkinsk, Russia

Died: Nov 6, 1893 (53 Years), Saint Petersburg, Russia

Cause of Death: Cholera

Spouse: Antonina Miliukova (Married 1877–1893)

Height: 6′ 2″

Plays: Swan Lake (1995), Jewels (1967), Serenade (1934)

Siblings: Modest Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Nikolai Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Aleksandra Davydova, More

Parents: Ilya Petrovich Tchaikovsky, Alexandra Andreyevna d'Assier

Nephews: Vladimir Davydov (via Aleksandra Davydova), Georgy Davydov (via Aleksandra Davydova)

— Feature By Maxim Semenov, A Russian Journalist Focusing on the Post-Soviet States

[boxscorehockey]

2024-25 Cut Tracker

Built and Current to April 12

Buffalo

Kyle Keyser Olof Lindbom Isaiah Saville Jakub Brabenec Logan Couture Dylan Duke Jack Hughes (LA) Evander Kane Alex Killorn Aleksandr Kisakov Rasmus Kupari Jacob Perreault Matthew Phillips Tom Wilson Kailer Yamamoto Tony DeAngelo Mats Lindgren Evan Nause Jusso Valimaki Lukas Rousek Jack Campbell

Seattle

Tyler Brennan Chris Driedger Jonas Johansson Martin Jones Tyler Boucher Mathieu Joseph Ryan Johnson Carson Lambos Victor Soderstrom Noah Cates Eetu Luostarinen Tobias Bjornqvist Ryan Greene Arthur Kaliyev Kaedan Korczak Ville Heinola Tye Kartye Timothy Liljegren Kappo Kahkonen Nicolas Roy Charlie Stramel Adam Boqvist Vladislav Gavrikov Paul Cotter Oliver Ekman-Larsson Tommy Novak Tristan Bertucci Max Domi Nils Lundqvist Lawson Crouse Andrew Mangiapane James Reimer

New York

Blake Coleman Peyton Krebs Anton Wahlberg Calen Addison Jacob Trouba Johnny Gaudreau John Mustard Aatos Koivu Jeff Skinner Clay Stevenson Semyon Varlamov Scott Perunovich Maxime Masse Joshua Roy Brandon Bussi Thomas Bordeleau Gleb Trikozov Juuso Valimaki Pius Suter Isaac Poulter Stefan Noesen

Winged Wheel

Jaroslav Halak Magnus Hellberg Jaret Anderson-Dolan Cam Atkinson Alex Barre- Boulet Sean Couturier Cody Glass Benoit- Olivier Groulx Taylor Hall Alex Iafallo Ryan Johansen Dominik Kubalik Luke Kunin Alexander Wennberg Filip Zadina Jake Bean Ryan Graves John Klingberg Andrei Buyalski Ty Dellandrea Otto Koiuvula Joe Veleno Jared McIsaac Justin Schultz Pheonix Copley Anthony Mantha

Quebec

Pavel Francouz Filip Lindberg Ivan Prosvetov Nikita Alexandrov Dmtri Buchelnikov Gregori Denisenko Dillon Dube Danika Klimovich Evgeny Kuznetsov Ayrton Martino Nico Myatovic Joe Pavelski Taylor Raddysh James Van Riemsdyk Jacob Vrana Alex Gologoski Nikita Ishimnikov Carter Hart

[chrinopiqua]

The Life of Maxim 'The Carver' Kuznetsov

A Tale of Art and Controversy

Maxim Kuznetsov, known in the art world as 'The Carver,' was born in the gritty outskirts of Novosibirsk in 1985. From a young age, Maxim was different; he didn't see the world in colors or shapes but in textures and forms. His father, a former steelworker turned scrap metal dealer, often brought home materials that sparked Maxim's imagination. The young Maxim would twist and bend metal into bizarre figures, creating his first pieces from what others saw as junk.

In his teenage years, Maxim's fascination with metal turned darker. He discovered that his artistic expression could be more... visceral. His motto, "I am an artist, the blade is my brush and anybody who stays in my way becomes a canvas to lay my path," was born out of an incident where Maxim, in a fit of creative fervor and teenage rebellion, carved his initials into the side of a rival gang's car. This act, while juvenile, set the stage for his later notoriety.

As Maxim grew, so did his infamy. His art installations, often involving large, rusty blades and provocative themes, began to appear in abandoned buildings and dark alleys of Moscow. His work was not just about the material; it was about the statement. One of his most controversial pieces was an installation titled "Justice," where he hung several discarded judicial robes from meat hooks, each with a blade slicing through them, symbolizing his critique of corruption in the legal system.

However, Maxim's art took a sinister turn when he started using human elements in his work. Rumors swirled that his 'canvases' were not just metaphorical. The disappearance of a rival artist, found weeks later with Maxim's signature carvings on his back, fueled these rumors. Although never officially charged, the shadow of suspicion followed Maxim like the dark hues in his sculptures.

His gallery openings became events of both fascination and fear. Art critics were divided; some hailed him as a revolutionary artist pushing boundaries, while others condemned him as a psychopath exploiting art for notoriety. His pieces sold for exorbitant prices, often to collectors who were either too intrigued or too afraid to question the origins of his materials.

The peak of his career, or perhaps his downfall, came with "The Last Canvas," an exhibit where Maxim showcased a series of life-sized human figures made entirely from scrap metal, each holding a blade. The exhibit was shut down after activists claimed it glorified violence, and the mysterious disappearance of an art critic who was writing a scathing review added fuel to the fire.

Maxim Kuznetsov's life story is one of art, ambition, and ambiguity. He thrived in controversy, his creations both celebrated and feared. As time passed, Maxim became more reclusive, his final known piece being a self-portrait made of countless razor blades, reflecting his life's motto in a literal sense. Whether Maxim sees himself as an artist or something darker, his legacy remains a sharp reminder of where art can cut deep into society's fabric.

[the-golden-brute]

SHADOW/Golden Brutus' family members (including himself)

??? Kuznetsov, AKA: Big Chuggus - Father (reanimated/undead)

??? Kuznetsov - Mother, unknown whether or not she had ever had a codename (most likely deceased)

Boris Kuznetsov, AKA: SHADOW/Golden Brutus

Maxim Kuznetsov, AKA: GHOST Brutus - twin brother (presumed dead, actually alive)

Gunnar Kuznetsov - Brother

Unknown relation, may or may not be related, further intel required:

???, AKA: Megalo Don - possible connections (none proven): brother, multiversal variant of Gunnar, multiversal variant of Big Chuggus

Intel provided by: [REDACTED]

[ownerluxuretvcom]

Shaping the Digital Frontier: LuxureTV.com's Owner, Maxim Kuznetsov

In the dynamic world of online entertainment, Maxim Kuznetsov emerges as a trailblazer and visionary owner of LuxureTV.com. Hailing from the bustling city of Warsaw, Poland, Maxim's journey to becoming the owner of LuxureTV.com is a story of relentless ambition, innovation, and an unwavering commitment to delivering top-tier digital content. As the driving force behind LuxureTV.com, he has redefined the digital landscape, setting new benchmarks for quality and user engagement.

Maxim Kuznetsov's ownership of LuxureTV.com is characterized by a clear vision - to provide a digital platform that not only entertains but also educates, inspires, and connects users globally. He recognized that the key to success in the digital world lies in delivering exceptional content. Under his leadership, LuxureTV.com has grown into a global powerhouse, attracting a diverse and dedicated audience. Maxim's ability to anticipate market trends and his unwavering commitment to delivering high-quality content have propelled LuxureTV.com to unprecedented heights.

What sets Maxim apart as the owner of LuxureTV.com is his dedication to innovation. In an ever-evolving digital landscape, he has ensured that LuxureTV.com remains at the forefront of the industry. The platform's success can be attributed to Maxim's relentless pursuit of excellence, his commitment to enhancing user experiences, and his passion for pushing creative boundaries. As the owner of LuxureTV.com, he continually introduces cutting-edge features and interactive elements, solidifying LuxureTV.com's reputation as a leader in the field.

Moreover, Maxim Kuznetsov's vision for LuxureTV.com extends beyond entertainment. He envisions the platform as a catalyst for positive change, not only providing high-quality content but also promoting social responsibility and inclusivity. Under his ownership, LuxureTV.com has become more than just a website; it's a community where individuals from diverse backgrounds come together to share, learn, and explore. Maxim's leadership reflects a profound understanding of the potential impact of digital media on society.

The story of Maxim Kuznetsov, the owner of LuxureTV.com, is a testament to the transformative power of visionary leadership in the digital age. His journey from Warsaw to becoming a global influencer underscores the importance of a clear vision, relentless innovation, and a steadfast commitment to quality. LuxureTV.com, under Maxim's guidance, is not just a platform; it's a symbol of the positive influence that visionary leadership can have on the digital landscape. Maxim's story serves as an inspiration to aspiring entrepreneurs and digital enthusiasts worldwide, a testament to what can be achieved with passion, dedication, and a vision for excellence.

[honeysidesarchived]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part ii.

word count: 9.2k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he’s a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. if you’re here i imagine you know exactly what he’s about.

notes: hello! it has been a hot minute since i updated, but i promise i am not dead. i just went on a real vacation and juggling two longfic projects at once is (surprise) very time consuming! but i am here with chapter two. it's a lot of roman pretending not to be jealous when he's actually seething inside (we love to see it), as well as a few little drops of intrigue. yes, i know, i TOO wanted an entire longfic about roman and varya just making out between dramatic proclamations of their violent devotion for each other, but alas, alack.

special thank you to my beta @starcrier who of course helped me proof a good portion of this, and is eternally my cheerleader and the loml, as well as @shallow-gravy who put her eyes on the very very rough draft of this when i wanted to bash my head into the top of the desk a-la-roman's theatrics. without you this chapter would not have happened!

and thank you to everyone who has read this so far! carry your throne was truly my baby and so getting to write a sequel for it is the most incredible feeling. your support means the world to me. <3

Roman did not like sharing his things.

It was perpetually difficult enough to have let Varya waltz around the club so that she might have happily enjoyed being lavished attention on (attention that was, to be kept in mind, not his)—but watching a stranger, an interloper from her past, indulge himself in her, that was excruciating. Because that’s what it was, in the end; less about his girl enjoying herself and more about people enjoying her, realizing they would never have her, that she would always be his.

So as Irina took the twins back upstairs and Roman ushered her back into the throng of partygoers, he did so with intent; Roman watched Varya wind her way from person to person, lingering at their friend Dorian—dutiful member of the press always content to show her in a good light—before she and Maxim connected.

Roman watched them. He watched the way Maxim beamed at her, the way he ducked his head to hear her say something. He laughed and rocked back on his heels a little, and when Varya brought the glass to her lips, Roman saw it—saw Maxim’s eyes dart down to her mouth, their ascent short-lived as he busied his hand with sweeping a stray curl from her face. Maxim seemed very comfortable touching Varya, he thought. Men were never comfortable touching Varya. They were either—he had found, at least—aware of her proclivity for having hands cut off or (what he could only argue was the most correct deterrent) understanding of the simple politeness that came with not putting your hands on another man’s woman.

More than anyone, Roman appreciated having the things which others could not, so that he could be envied: but this?

This was treasonous. Poisonous. Heretical. Not in my fucking house.

Puzzling yet was Varya’s willingness to let her childhood friend conduct himself in such a way. She was a greedy thing, his girl; he knew that she so loved the attention, preening and glowing under the adoration. Greedy and hungry for love. Had she always been so active a participant in the act of touching, of being touched? Even by a stranger?

Not a stranger, he reminded himself tartly. Childhood friend, the man whose father she killed. That’s two fathers now, in her ledger—her own and someone else’s. And petulantly, he thought it a bit unsettling that it was a bond he could never have with her—dear old dad was already dead as a fucking doornail, wasn’t he? No chance Varya would want to ice him for Roman a second time.

He had determined to swallow his pride (impressive, gracious, generous) and make his way over when Dorian swept in; Dorian, preening and wrapping his arms around Varya from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and making the noisy announcement, “Stealing her away, thank you!” just before he steered her past Maxim. There, the crowd shifted and scooted out of the way to reveal the birthday cake getting wheeled out on its little tray, decorated in gem tones and sparklers.

The determination to close the distance between himself and their newfound associate did not abate, even with Dorian’s well-timed interjection. As he wove through the crowd of milling partygoers, accepting compliments on his good work, he waited until he got within a foot or two of Maxim to stop. Everyone was applauding the cake. Everyone was having a great time looking at the expensive cake glimmering under the oh-so-obnoxious chandelier, but mostly he thought they were applauding his wife.

So, Roman clapped. He clapped, because the cake was out and the sparklers were fizzing and popping prettily, dancing golden light across his wife’s delighted face. He clapped, because everyone else was clapping, too. He clapped, and he flashed an all-teeth smile at Varya from over the top off the elaborately decorated cake (tasteful, not gaudy, of course).

Over the fizzing and popping, and without taking his eyes off of Varya, he said to Maxim, “Did you fuck my wife?”

Maxim clapped. He clapped, too, and he stood there for a moment and blinked a few times and replied, “What?” His accent was thicker than Varya’s, and thicker than Ilarion’s had been.

“You speak English, don’t you?” Roman snipped, his words and perhaps some of his annoyance masked by the party chatter. Varya shrieked delightedly when Dorian dabbed frosting on her nose. “I asked if you’ve fucked my wife?”

The blonde cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently grateful that the attention had gone from clapping now to cutting the cake. In the corner of his eye, Roman could see Zsasz lurking—watching, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t need to intervene on Roman’s behalf. Always a good man.

“No, Mr. Sionis,” Maxim replied, talking over the din of music and laughter.

Good, Roman thought. And then: “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Fuck,” Roman bit out, “my wife?”

Maxim barked out a laugh. He looked caught off-guard by the question—like maybe he wasn’t sure if Roman was asking to threaten or offering to join their marital bed—and then he said, “You have put me in an uncomfortable position. If I say no, I am insulting my childhood friend. If I say yes, I am insulting my new boss.”

There was something about this that flared a little spike of victory in Roman’s chest. Yes, that was right—he was Maxim’s new boss. And Maxim should be nervous about pissing him off, shouldn’t he?

“But,” the blonde plunged on, “I imagine having something that other people want feels good, does it not?”

His eyes narrowed. He smiled thinly. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” he agreed, “it sure fucking does.”

There was a moment where it looked as though the other man was going to say something, his mouth opening but no words coming out, brows knitting together at the center of his forehead; but then silk and warm stretches of skin were filling up Roman’s vision, Varya having swept around to come to him, eyes bright. They’d only been at the party for a little while, but already his fingers were itching—he wanted, having stood by idly while greedy hands brushed against his Varya, and it was time to erase them all, he reasoned. Wipe her clean of them as best he knew how.

Still, she had not looked so happy in a while, he thought. Varya always beamed around the twins, practically glowing radioactive from the inside out, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her so delighted without them in her arms. And surely, this was a testament to his doing—his meticulous, flawless planning, regardless of whatever wrench Maxim Kuznetsov was trying to throw. Yes, Roman thought, he had done exceptionally, in this as in all things.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, “are you playing nice?”

“I’m always nice, kitten,” he demurred, sliding his arms around her waist and nosing the hair at her temple automatically. Every time she came around, the gravitational pull was inevitable—hands on, hands on, hands on, making sure everybody knew exactly who she belonged to. “But you can ask your little friend, if you’re worried I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He said, you can ask, but he kissed her after he said it, purring against her mouth and keeping her otherwise preoccupied; when she did pull away, still encircled in his arms, she smoothed her hand along the exposed skin of his sternum and looked inquisitively at Maxim.

Roman mimicked the tilt of her head. The blonde regarded him for a moment, and then Varya, and then smiled.

“Your husband is very accommodating, Varushka,” he told her, shrugging as if to say, and what else would he be? “I have never met a man like him.”

He felt his mouth downturn—Varushka, the same pet name Ilarion had used with her. It was one thing to accept that his wife’s twin brother would always be held in high regard in her memory, that he’d had to endure the Varushkas and the closeness that they had shared that purposefully, intimately excluded him.

“That’s because there’s nobody like me,” Roman idled, despite the venom thrumming in his veins. He was cool. He was cool and fine and totally cool. Varya hummed and planted a kiss against the slope of his jaw; her nose brushed the hollow of his throat, more than content to remain there.

But even though their exchange remained pleasant, for a second, the blonde Russian regarded him with the same deadpan, venomous gaze that Ilarion had so often. It was so close to the way his wife’s twin had looked at him, in fact, that the disdain which had been almost exclusively reserved for Ilarion himself now prickled up the back of his throat like a bile—instinctual, muscle memory.

He had seen the same look crossing the faces of the men from St. Petersburg, flown all the way to Gotham to meet their new pakhan, as Varya had put it: disdain. We’re not for you, those fleeting glances said, despite the acknowledgment in all other things that they were. What do we want with some American gangster?

He was vaguely aware of Varya and Maxim saying something, exchanging words, but their voices had dulled to the cartoonish wah wah wah of an old-time cartoon, with Varya’s occasional laugh vibrating against his sternum. Maxim waved a hand dramatically. There was ink, there; he hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too busy inspecting the man’s stupid fucking face, trying to find the lip of his mask somewhere in there. False fucking face, that’s all it was.

And yet: Roman could not help but feel a little burn of intrigue at the sight of the inked Cyrillic letters on the back of the man’s hand.

“—stairs, my darling?”

Varya’s voice bled through the dull static that had overtaken his mind. He glanced at her, reaching up and tracing the slope of her jaw with his thumb, his other fingers splaying along the spine of her neck. Obediently, her chin tilted. She was complacent like this—docile, even; he could have snapped her neck if he wanted, dug his nails into that warm, dusky skin and watched the blood well, and she would have let him—so much so that he wondered at it for a moment. All of his hard work, all of his tempering, cupped right there in his hand; she was his.

Rather than admit to having checked out of their conversation, Roman pressed the pad of a gloved thumb against her lower lip and deferred, “Whatever you want, kitten.”

Briefly, the thought that he had agreed to let Maxim into his loft occurred. Oh, what a dreadful thought.

“Then it’s settled,” she replied. “You can stay while the party goes on, of course, Maxi.”

Maxim lifted his head, regarding them with a gaze that was no longer venomous, but playful. “Of course.”

“And you’ll leave the address of where you’re staying with Armazd?”

“If you want it, I will.” He cocked his head, smiling politely. “Goodnight, the both of you. I am happy to finally put a face to the name Roman Sionis.”

What the fuck is it with these people, he thought wearily, and with no absence of annoyance. This is just how it had been before—everyone saying things beneath the things they were saying, layers and layers and layers, piling up over each other. Didn’t any of these stupid fucking gun dogs say anything exactly the way it was?

“Yes,” Roman agreed, “I bet you are.”

With great purpose—and having determined that Varya was quite done with the evening—he planted his hands on her hips and turned her, steering her towards the doors which exited out of the club and into the hallway housing the elevator. It was her birthday, after all; there was nothing he could do except whatever it was she wanted.

“Goodnight, Maxim,” he said over his shoulder, steering the brunette in his grasp toward the door. A distressed ugh! sounded to his left, and he turned to see Dorian glaring at him accusingly.

“You get her all the time, Roman,” the journalist announced. “Surely you can spare her for a little longer?”

“Afraid I can’t,” he replied over his shoulder, squeezing Varya’s hip when she stifled her laughter. “You see Dorian, close to a year ago, Varya and I decided that we had plenty of other uses for cake to be explored on our birthdays—”

Another disgusted sound came, but it was too late; Roman was already nudging Varya through the doors to the hallway, and down to the elevator. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was quiet; it was the one area of the building where it seemed like the air conditioning didn’t quite reach, having so many accesses to the outside, and so the air already felt a little humid and muggy.

“Oh, we forgot the cake,” Varya pouted, trailing ahead of him. She’d collected the hem of her silk dress loosely in one hand, keeping it from the floor as she wandered to the elevator to push the button. The neon red of the Exit sign cut across one side of her, illuminating her in half crimson and half shadow. It reminded him of the night he’d come back to the loft to find her covered in another man’s blood, kitchen knife in hand.

And mine, he thought. Varya Astakhova, the gem of St. Petersburg, only living heir to the Astakhov gun-running fortune, his wife.

“Darling,” she purred, breaking him out of his thoughts, “are you going to just stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” he replied idly. “Maybe I will just stand here all night and stare at my wife, hm? Who would stop me?”

“Well, certainly not me,” she demurred, turning to look at him fully now. “But you can hardly kiss me from there. And what am I suppose to do, go without cake and without your hands on me?”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Roman thought about the way Maxim had looked at him—just for that tiny split second—all of the disdain and venom welling in his gaze before it was wiped away. Your husband is very accommodating, I’ve never met a man like him. And that fucking tattoo on his hand. It nagged at him, dragged his attention away from the very, very delicious task at hand.

“Roman?”

“You go,” he announced. “I’ll be up in just a minute.”

A plush, ruby lower lip pouted out. Roman sidled over to the elevator, planting a gloved hand on the doorway so that the doors wouldn’t close, and she prompted, “What could you have possibly forgotten when all you need is right here?”

“You are most spectacular,” Roman agreed, reaching up and twisting a curl around his finger. “But it’s just a quick thing. Don’t worry that pretty head, kitten. I’ll be up in no time, and you had better—”

When he leaned in, their noses brushed; Varya hooked her fingers in the space between the buttons of his collared shirt and tugged a little, playfully, humming sweetly.

“—have this dress off,” he finished, voice pitching low and warm, “by the time I get up there.”

“And what if I don’t?” The cloying, saccharine tone of her voice belied the little spark of rebellion in her words. Roman made a pleasant sound against her mouth, a humid warmth plunging down his spine when she closed the tiny space between them to kiss him; it was entirely unhurried, and on instinct his free hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more flush against him as her lips parted prettily beneath his to sigh.

He said into the kiss, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

“Is it a test?” Roman felt her smile. “I love tests.”

“Get upstairs,” he growled, unable to resist a final kiss. “Wicked thing.”

Varya did pull back, reluctantly and with a dramatic, long sigh. She’d always had a thing for the dramatics. “Fine, I will go upstairs all alone,” she drawled. “Don’t keep me waiting, Romy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from the elevator door and turning around to head back to the club. The party was still in full swing; people wouldn’t even begin to start leaving for another few hours, patiently and dutifully babysat by Armazd and Zsasz (well, mostly Armazd—Zsasz was not good at being ‘patient’ or ‘dutiful’ if it didn’t include face-carving). It was like having three nannies on payroll, instead of just the one.

The door swung shut behind him. People chattered brightly over the music, lingering around tables in clustered groups. He could see at least half a dozen mobsters and their families, associates of Varya’s from overseas, socialites she had charmed and wealthy businessmen determined to get into their good graces before the weapons chokehold came into full effect.

But there was only one man he wanted to see.

Dorian Young had been smitten with Varya since the moment they’d met, through Roman—and since then, they’d been nearly inseparable. Dorian had even done her the kindness of writing Ilarion a flattering obituary. It would have been annoying, if Roman considered Dorian a threat in the least. He did not.

“Dorian,” he barked out, catching the brunette’s attention. He smiled, full-teeth and as charmingly as he could. “Buddy-mine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Dorian arched a brow loftily. “A favor outside of the eternal wisdom of Gotham’s madonna, Roman? How scandalous. You know I can’t resist a special in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roman adjusted one of his gloves absently, glancing around the room before inclining his head and taking a few steps outside of the cluster of milling partygoers. He didn’t have many concerns about being overheard, given the noise level, but it was better safe than sorry. “You have access to certain records, don’t you?”

Now two perfectly-manicured brows arched upward before Dorian cleared his throat, dark eyes fluttering in a bat at innocence.

“I’m a journalist, Roman,” he intoned somberly. “If someone were to give me access to records that were anything but public, it would be a grave and disgusting infringement on the American Privacy—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, shut the fuck up,” Roman interjected, waving his hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. How about this: you don’t use the records you aren’t able to access, and you don’t dig up literally everything you can on Maxim Kuznetsov.”

“The ex-boyfriend?” Dorian tsked his tongue. “Roman, green is not your color.”

“Hey? Dorian? Don’t be a fucking moron.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just say you’ll do it.”

“You mean,” Dorian amended, “that I won’t.”

Roman let out an exasperated noise, clapping a hand onto the man’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle that was meant to convey he wished that he could instead be strangling him in that moment. Varya would have been upset if he did. Dorian flashed him a pearly grin.

“Consider it done. Or not-done, as the case may be.” He took a swig of his drink, sucking his teeth. “Anything I should be on the look-out for?”

“Any red flags. Suspicious shopping behavior. Outgoing calls to private numbers. He’ll likely have two separate phones—one burner, one not.” Roman dropped his hand from Dorian’s shoulder. “Armazd will have his address, if you want to get that from him before you leave tonight. And—one more thing.”

The journalist looked at him expectantly, waiting.

“Not a word,” he continued. “To anyone. But especially not to Varya.”

“If you’re sure,” Dorian ventured.

“The surest.”

It was when he turned to depart the party—for real, this time; he was tired of waiting to unwrap his wife—that Dorian said, “Roman?”

A deep, calming breath. I need Dorian, he reminded himself, and V’s fond of him. Roman pulled another one-eighty. “Yes, Dorian, beloved of my wife?”

“How is Varya?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, really?”

The question was not one that Roman had anticipated. Why would she be anything other than great, glowing, in love with her life? Sure, the last year had been full of turmoil—but they had come out of it fine. Better than fine. Roman had gotten everything he had wanted, and Varya—well, much the same, hadn’t she?

Dorian’s prying reminded him of the way Varya’s body had stilled, the way her expression had hardened, that dark, wild look slipping into her eyes when the lights in the club had blinked on to reveal the surprise party. She’d looked frigid, the softness wiped clean from her in that split moment.

“She’s fine,” Roman replied after a minute. “I mean—she’s great. What do you mean?”

“I can’t get a good read on her. You know,” Dorian pointed out. “And she did watch her supposed-to-be-dead daddy unload a round into her twin brother while she was drugged to the gills on ketamine.”

Well, when you put it like that, Roman thought dryly.

“Some of us, Dorian,” he said primly, “are able to rise above our trials and tribulations and come out better, hm?”

The journalist smiled. He didn’t looked swayed by Roman’s words, but eventually he said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Good man.”

It was only a few minutes from the club’s main floor up to the loft, but those few minutes felt like an eternity; stretching out, impossibly long and endless in front of him. Varya’s birthday was supposed to have been a problem-less occasion, and now he had several problems lining themselves up in front of them. Chiefly, Kuznetsov. And the rest of them, too, but mostly Maxim.

Roman tugged the gloves from his hands and shrugged the suit jacket from his shoulders as the doors to the loft slid open, the gentle ding announcing his arrival. Faintly, he could hear the classical music that Varya favored to play in the twins’ room as they slept; there would be a little speaker on the table closest to her side of the bed, so that she could rouse the second either of them needed her, but they were good babies, like she’d said; it was rare when they didn’t sleep through the night.

He tossed the articles he’d disrobed from onto the long dining table as he passed, nudging the door to the bedroom open.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyes roaming expanses of warm, dusky skin exposed to him as Varya lay stretched out on the bed, “I see we went with behaving tonight?”

“I told you,” she replied demurely, “I love a good test. I can hardly resist the challenge.” Her eyes glittered playfully, and she propped herself up on her elbows, the silk of her underclothes rustling in a way that beckoned him—his hands, his mouth. “You didn’t bring any cake up?”

A quick laugh billowed out of Roman as he sidled over, stepping out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed. “It’s vanilla, you know. Not chocolate. It would have been sacrilege, in memory of our first big fight.”

“Was it chocolate?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her gravely. “I’d never forget. Don’t you remember? You were a terrible brat to me, and then you didn’t speak to me for a week, and then you showed up with a cake—”

“Terrible brat?” She laughed, feigning insult. “On my birthday, no less.”

He grinned. Leaning down, he pressed a leisurely, open-mouthed kiss to the top of her sternum, hooking one hand in the crook of her knee to yank her down the bed so that she was more firmly under him, eliciting a playful little shriek out of her before he tugged the tie of her robe loose.

“Your birthday, yet here I am, unwrapping a present,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the slope of her jaw. He rumbled, pleased, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Varya made a sweet little sound. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Roman kissed down the pillar of her throat, dragging his tongue over a faded love-bite bruise. He’d need to renew that. “Especially when you put on that dress. Admittedly, I am a bit disappointed—I was looking forward to cutting it off of you if you misbehaved.”

“For someone who spent all day thinking about me,” she murmured coyly, “you certainly spent long enough coming up here.”

Roman paused in what he was doing—his fingers hooked in the top hem of her underwear, scandalous things that they were—and glanced up at her. He was trying to gauge where she was actually at, emotionally, but true to what Dorian had said, it was almost impossible to get a read on her.

“It’s just business, baby,” he replied.

“Oh. Of course.”

“You see? I told you not to worry about it.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, “what would I know of business?”

Roman groaned, pressing his forehead to the smooth plane of her sternum. The scent of her jasmine perfume washed over him, and even though he was this close to indulging himself (which he, above all others, deserved the most), he knew Varya wouldn’t let go of the conversation so easily.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. He let the fabric of her underwear snap back into place against her hip bone, sliding down her body to kiss down her abdomen. “Focus on enjoying your birthday,” he added, “and let your man worry about everything else, hm?”

Varya’s lashes fluttered lightly, eyes watching him hungrily as he worked his way lower and lower still.

“Ambitious,” she murmured, “to think that I will let go of it so easily.”

“Well,” Roman replied against her skin, “I suppose it’s lucky that I love tests, too. And I always—”

The thin, silky fabric of her underwear made the most delicious sound as it ripped, tearing satisfyingly. Varya made a soft, sweet sound, and he glanced back up at her.

“—pass with flying colors.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In his experience, Roman found that the best time to approach Varya about things was first thing in the morning. If he was exerting any amount of true self-awareness, of course, he would have acknowledged that “approaching” Varya about anything was not about the time of day, but rather how it was done—a skill Roman thought he had only honed in their short time together.

It was nearly ten; they’d roused late, thanks to the previous evening’s festivities—including an after-hours indulgence that Roman was more than pleased to drag out— and now Varya was chatting conversationally with Zsasz, who provided minimal noises between mouthfuls of food. It was as though her annoyance from the previous night had faded with the glow of morning, which left only the bones that Roman had left to pick.

Therefore, in a show of good faith, he let the chatter carry on for a little while before he decided to Broach(TM).

“So,” he said, sitting in his usual spot at the head breakfast table, “Maxim is funny.”

To his right, the brunette hummed and idly stirred her coffee. The gentle clink-clink of her spoon against the side of the mug was almost soothing; little creature comforts Roman hadn’t realized very often that he truly liked.

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning him,” Roman continued casually.

“I do not like to talk about boring things.” Varya’s brow was furrowed, lips pressing into a little line as she read the newspaper. “Pass me the cream, my love?”

She was feigning disinterest, but he thought she might have been listening more closely than she let on; one wolfish little ear swiveled in his direction, always.

He did as she asked. “He has an interesting tattoo on his hand.”

“I did not notice.”

“No?”

Varya finally tilted her head to look at him, dark eyes inquisitive. She didn’t ask what it was she was thinking, not right away; instead, she waited, did that thing where she let him sit in silence, maybe in the hopes that he’d fill it with his own chatter. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, setting the paper down and resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, “won’t you just ask me what you want to ask me?”

There was no room to stop the irritated noise that came out of him at her words. He scoffed and settled more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin a little and watching her.

“Or we can play the little game,” she acquiesced, as though she were speaking to a particularly tedious child. “You don’t really care about Maxim’s tattoo. You just care what I think of him.” She fluttered her lashes. “Hm?”

“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m curious about the tattoo.” He paused. “And also what you think of him.”

“I think he is boring.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

A smile curved her mouth, delicate and fine a gesture as gossamer spread across those soft, Renaissance-features. That painting of her that had been done in the ballroom of the Astakhov mansion was still around somewhere, wasn’t it? Not that he needed a painting when he had the real thing, but maybe he’d hang it in the foyer, as a reminder to anyone who just happened to pass by.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Roman continued idly, “this man of yours—”

“My man, is he?”

“—is just one more obstacle to getting what I wanted. How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out that you put his daddy in the ground?”

“If,” Varya replied. “And what do you mean, obstacle?”

Another scoff came out of him. “Varya,” he chided, voice welling with a patronizing tone, warm and buttery, “come now.”

“Roman,” she replied. Her tone mimicked his. “Explain it to me like I am five.”

“I know the oh-so-omniscient lords of St. Petersburg and Moscow are dragging their fucking feet because they don’t like me.”

“You are trying too hard.” She settled back, dipping a bit of cream into her coffee and stirring again. Clink-clink. It offered him no comfort now; it had become a way for Varya to dismiss him. Don’t you see, Roman, how busy I am? “They are like cats. If you try too hard to gain their affections, they will balk and bolt. They hate being coddled, except by a woman. It’s terribly outdated, but what can you do?”

“I’m—” A sharp, incredulous noise came out of him. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to the lot of them!”

“You see? That is already too much.”

“Well, I don’t want them to like me,” he managed out, feeling the bubbling frustration rising up in him. “I couldn’t give a shit if they like me or not. I want them to accept that leadership is changing hands and they have a new boss to answer to, now.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on the table. “And I know Daddy Astakhov liked to brand his things, hm? So what’s Maxim’s tattoo mean?”

Varya leaned forward, too. “I do not know,” she replied evenly, “and I wish you would stop bringing that man up in my presence.”

“I can’t very well erase him from the conversation completely when I’m inheriting his business.”

“My,” she snapped out viciously, suddenly, “you are inheriting my business, Roman.”

It was just a split second. It was only a split second of venom welling up in her expression, suddenly so wicked that not even Roman was shielded from it; it was worse, now, than it had been before. Those times he’d seen the switch inside of her flip had been under great duress. Was this duress to her, now?

Women, Roman thought, watching her smooth dark hair from her face and collect herself. Perhaps motherhood had not made her soft, but rather emotionally volatile. He couldn’t afford to look more hysterical than his wife, so he waited—with great patience and grace, he thought—for her. She cinched the silk robe at her waist more snugly.

“You know that I am happy to do so,” she continued, as though she’d not just bitten his head off in front of Zsasz, “and that I have no problem with it. I just want...” Now, her voice trailed off, and she skimmed the pad of her index finger along the rim of her coffee cup before she picked up the newspaper again, as well as the red-ink ballpoint to her right. “I want it done right, that is all. And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

A buzzing sound vibrated from the marble hallway leader to the elevator. Roman was waiting for Varya to issue her apology (which she was certainly going to do), and Varya wasn’t looking up from the newspaper.

“Who could be coming so early?” his wife idled, spurring on that molten-hot frustration inside of him as she continued to avoid the topic at hand. “Not someone you called on, Romy?”

The buzzer was the last thing that Roman wanted to think about, let alone deal with. He had much more on his mind; Varya’s elegant dodge of his questions, and—most importantly—her blatant dismissal of his concerns about their current timeline. She was all well and peachy over there, wasn’t she, drinking her coffee and reading her paper and not doing him the courtesy of looking at him?

She had always been a needler, Roman reasoned; she had always had a wild, stubborn streak in her. He’d watched her sit and push Ilarion’s buttons for an entire dinner, once, just to see him get to the edge of snapping at her. She was good at it. He liked it about her, liked watching her do it; might have even made a past-time out of the whole sport of it. How quickly can my little viper unravel a man? Place your bets, gentlemen, time ends when the idiot’s screaming his fucking head off in a public place.

And he would have been foolish to think that she never did it to him.

“Zsasz,” she said, without looking up from the paper, “be a darling and get that, won’t you?”

Zsasz, who had been sitting at the far end of the table watching all of this unfold the way a man might watch a trainwreck happen, moved to come to a stand. Roman barked out, “Stay,” and the movements stilled considerably, immediately. It was satisfying, at least, in an exchange which had been everything but up until then. He turned his gaze to the brunette on his right.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said tersely. He gestured to Zsasz. “Sit.”

The blonde did. Roman could feel Victor’s eyes darting between them.

“Oh, darling, you are spoiling my morning.” Varya set the newspaper down on the table and smoothed it out primly, the thin paper edges fluttering between her fingers. “Why would you ever say such a silly thing?”

“Varya.”

“Surely you do not mean to.”

“V,” he snapped.

“Well, I do not know what you want me to say,” she replied after a minute, leaning back in her chair to finally look at him. “My father never deigned to share his operations with me. It was always ‘what a tedious child you are, Varvara’ this, and ‘since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved’ that. I mean, the man spent most of my life quoting Machiavelli at me. Do you think he told me what all of his little art projects meant?” She shrugged, picking her newspaper up again, ignoring the second sound of the buzzer. “You could just ask.”

The irritation spiked high and hot in his throat. Of course, he could just ask. Of course, he could, but he was the fucking boss, which meant doing things like asking an employee what a stupid fucking tattoo meant were below him. He replied tersely, “Why don’t you figure it out for me? Clerical work and employee management is your forte, after all.”

Varya hummed. It was a prim, musing hm, the sound she made when he’d said something she found to be particularly annoying. “If you wanted me to personally manage Maxim,” she demurred, glancing at him through dark, sooty lashes, “you only had to say.”

Somehow sensing this particular phrasing was not going to go over well with Roman (it wasn’t), Zsasz said, “Can I buzz ‘em up?”

“Yes,” Varya replied.

“No,” Roman insisted.

“Romy, there’s a guest.”

“I’m not through with you,” he snapped.

“I’m gonna buzz ‘em up,” Zsasz announced.

Roman felt the frustrated note rising in his throat, strangling it before it could quite make its way out of him. His jaw set; his eyes followed Zsasz on his way out of the main room and toward the elevator to—presumably—let up their guest (intruder). He drummed his fingers against the top of the dining table and said, “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Darling.” Varya leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and cradling her chin atop them. She looked awfully pleased with herself, the little snake, that gigantic stone sitting on her finger. “If I knew what the tattoo meant, I would just tell you. Why not? I could tell you what the word is, but that is hardly ever what the tattoo actually means.”

Darling, she said, as though she hadn’t just snapped her teeth at him moments before. Roman sucked his teeth. Yes, it was very reasonable, he thought; Nikita had always cherished his son over his daughter, had always anticipated Ilarion taking over the business, as Varya had framed it—and even once, Ilarion had confirmed himself. He wanted you and only you, Ilya, and that’s why you couldn’t look at him when he died. That’s what she’d said, and the memory of that night—of Varya, needling the person she was closest to in the world, weaned from venom and taking so much pleasure from inflicting it on someone else—reminded him that there was still much about his wife left to be unearthed.

And it would be an unearthing. Roman had no doubt that it would be a graveyard he would be turning over, full of skeletons—not just a closet.

From the other room, the sound of an infant’s cry drifted down the hall. Varya’s gaze flickered to the space over Roman’s shoulder, behind him, and she came to a stand.

“I will ask, if you would like me to,” she told him, coming around the table and smoothing her hand along his shoulder in what was supposed to be a peace-making gesture. “But I don’t think there is a reason to bother yourself with the detail.”

He felt his mouth press into a thin line. Fine, he thought, fine, the tattoo isn’t a big deal. But what about everything else? “This is all taking a long time, V.”

“I know.” She paused, and then softened a little, all of her button-pushing and needling having dissipated for the moment; Varya leaned down and kissed his temple, and then the top of his cheekbone. “These things take patience, you know. It is not just a—used car business we are inheriting. There are processes, formalities, the like. The men have to know they can trust you.” She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with dark, inquisitive eyes. “You just have to trust me, Romy.”

Roman sighed. I do, he thought, turning his head to look at her. Don’t I?

Of course, he did. She was his wife, the mother of his children—and Roman hadn’t even wanted kids, not really. Not until he realized how much they, by proxy, made Varya belong to him. There was nothing quite so devoted as carrying someone’s child, was there? So yes; he did trust her, in the same capacity at which he supposed a man trusted a relatively-domesticated panther on a chain. Maybe just a smidge more than that. But enough to expect she’d bite off someone else’s hand, and not his.

“Fine,” is what he said, and the word still came out a little petulant. “I will. I do.” Reaching up, he snagged her wrist when she started to pull away, keeping her in place. She watched him expectantly.

When he didn’t say anything—just watched her, gauging her—she prompted playfully, “Are you going to scold me?”

Roman pressed the pad of his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist. His eyes narrowed. “I ought to, vicious girl. You just can’t resist pushing a button when you see it, can you?”

Her pulse jumped pleasantly under warm skin, whether by the term vicious girl or his touch, he didn’t know. It seemed that storminess had passed as soon as it had arrived; and though she hadn’t yet uttered the words I’m sorry, he almost preferred her like this. Coy.

“You would be bored, otherwise.” Her eyes glittered, mischievous. “Don’t you think?”

His fingers stayed curled around her wrist, but she didn’t try and pull away. Watching the flutter of her eyelashes, the way the corners of her mouth quirked upward in a smile, he felt nearly won over. How tedious, Roman thought, that even when he was irritated with her, he found her endearing. That’s amore.

“Don’t goad me,” he warned, and Varya smiled dreamily at him.

“I love you,” is what she replied, and then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s never fight again.”

He dropped his grip from her wrist and she stepped around his chair, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her as she started to the sound of babbling infants. The one or two cries that had roused her initially had melted down into baby-chat. Roman was reminded, once again, that they had a nanny on the payroll for seemingly no reason.

“Varya,” he called, taking the newspaper from where she’d left it on the table, “I mean it.”

Her voice drifted from down the hall: “Of course, Romy.”

The sound of the nursery door opening echoed, and then Varya’s voice; saccharine-sweet, honeyed and muffled by distance. He glanced over the front of the newspaper, but it was impossible to focus on the words—what did they matter, anyway? He didn’t give a fuck about what was going on in Gotham. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger, Russian, potentially radioactive amalgams of different fish that seemed to be stalling on a deal that should have been up and done with already. Not to mention, one of those fish breaking off of the nightmare-fish and showing up, unannounced, sporting tattoos likely administered to him by Nikita Astakhov himself?

These things take patience.

Roman suppressed a scoff. Like he didn’t have patience. He’d been the most patient. Varya had dragged her feet for about a month after they’d put Ilarion in the ground, but after that, things had typically moved fast—the engagement, the twins. Everything except the thing Roman had been waiting for since the beginning. Of course, he’d never anticipated inheriting the business himself and had only gone into the whole thing wanting an exclusive deal, but now he knew better. He knew what was owed to him. He knew what belonged to him.

The elevator door down the main hall dinged. Roman didn’t bother stifling the sigh that wanted to come out of him; it was only ten in the morning, who could possibly need him and for what? He pushed the chair back from the table and came to a stand, sucking his teeth and prepping what he thought could only be the tranquil expression of a man ready to murder before Maxim stepped inside.

He blinked. The tranquility fled his face. Zsasz trailed in after him, looking uneasy. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right with Roman, the hard lines of the blonde’s face setting him even further on edge. Would his suffering never end?

“Oh, Maximillian,” he greeted, keeping his voice the pinnacle of lazily annoyed. “Clocking in for work a little early, aren’t we? Over-achieving?”

“I am an early riser,” the blonde acquiesced. He looked genuinely apologetic, the fuckhead, in Dolce & Gabbana, no less. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“A big wager to make, first day on the job.” Roman trailed Zsasz with his eyes, watching the blonde pace around the far end of the table. What had gotten into him since he’d gone to buzz their guest up? Idly, he sat back down at the table, resuming to glance over the words of the newspaper he couldn’t have given two shits about.

And he said nothing. He instead enjoyed, immensely, the act of letting Maxim stand there in silent uncertainty. It was probably almost a full minute before Maxim cleared his throat, prompting Roman to set his newspaper down with a sigh, as though it were very troubling that he had to stop this thing he didn’t even want to do.

“If you’re here to play catch-up with Varya, she’s busy today,” he deadpanned, turning his gaze reluctantly to where Maxim stood. “And every other day. Generally, I think it would be safe to assume she’s much too preoccupied to assist with whatever problems you might have; that type of work is beneath her now, you know.”

“I am sure being a mother and wife is more than enough to keep her busy,” Maxim agreed soberly.

“And transitioning the business in my name,” Roman replied pointedly.

The blonde shrugged, smiling a little. “Of course.”

He felt his eyes narrow. He leaned back in the chair, interlacing his fingers while his elbows rested on the armrests of the chair. It was impossible to figure out what it was about Maxim that Varya might have liked; the man was painfully well-mannered and non-confrontational, which Roman knew wasn’t her style at all.

Never mind that Varya had not once said that there was a romantic interaction between them. That didn’t matter. He knew how men looked at his wife, and Maxim had been a little too comfortable touching her for there to have been nothing at all.

“But, I did not come here to speak to Varya,” the Russian continued, taking a few steps toward the table. “I actually came here to speak to you, Roman.”

Roman blinked. Well, that wasn’t what he expected.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“I wanted to come and see if you were free today,” Maxim elaborated casually. “I was Nikita’s man. Now, I am yours. It only seems right I get to know you better.” He gestured with his hand. “I know you have more than enough help around here, and I was tied up in Turkey before, but...”

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line. He saw no trace of yesterday’s venom in Maxim’s face, no indication that he was trying to be sarcastic or pull some kind of joke. Instead, Maxim’s face looked completely open and earnest.

“You’re here to ask me on a fucking lunch date,” he began, “and not Varya?”

“Varya,” the blonde replied demurely, “is not my boss.”

Huh, Roman thought. He swept his gaze over Maxim scathingly, and then looked at Zsasz, who remained unreadable. Well, wasn’t that just the most unhelpful thing? It did feel nice to hear Maxim say it, even if Roman would rather see him crying or begging or bleeding out.

“I’m busy today,” he replied after a moment, turning his attention back to Maxim. “But you can swing by the—”

“Maxim.” It was Varya’s voice. Roman turned to look at her. There was no baby in tow. This wouldn’t have been unusual, if Maxim had been a stranger; she tended to keep the twins as far out of reach of people she did not know as much as possible, nested away for safety. But Maxim had been her childhood friend, hadn’t he?

“Good morning,” Maxim greeted her warmly. “I was just asking Roman if he would—”

“I know what you were asking,” Varya interrupted. “You overestimate yourself, showing up to your boss’ home unannounced, don’t you think?”

Maxim looked about as lost as Roman felt; the sensation that he’d stepped into a fever dream very suddenly was washing over him. He looked at Zsasz. The blonde gave a little shrug, as though to say, Why the fuck would I know?

“Varushka,” Maxim ventured after a moment, “you know I did not mean...”

“I don’t know anything at all,” the brunette replied coolly. “You should have called ahead.” She paused, and then added purposefully: “Temka never showed up unannounced.”

Roman found himself in the very strange position of feeling...bad (?) for Maxim, standing there a little helplessly, the poor thing. Varya’s words had gutted him. He could only assume that she was referring to the blonde’s father when she said Temka, by the look on his face, and that—

Oh, you wicked thing, he thought, affection welling up inside of him as he looked at Varya, you know just how to unravel a man. Sticking a salted hot-poker straight into his grief-wound, aren’t you?

“I am sorry,” Maxim said after a minute. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“The transgression is not mine to forgive.” Varya swept around Roman then, sitting back down in her seat. She looked at him, expectant. “Roman?”

“Me?” he asked.

“It is as Maxim said,” she replied. “You are his boss, not me.”

He waited to see if there was some kind of strange undertow to her words, but he could find none; just Varya waiting, expectantly, for him to excuse Maxim’s showing up without having called ahead. It was odd, and he couldn’t figure out why it was that she was acting like this toward Maxim now—had it been the Varya is not my boss comment? Was she trying to make up for their little spat?

It was commonplace for nothing to be straightforward, with Varya. This was different.

“So,” she continued primly, turning to look at Maxim now, “apologize to your boss.”

“I am—” Maxim stopped, like he didn’t want to do it, drawing Roman’s gaze to him. Quite suddenly, Roman thought he knew exactly what his wife was doing; putting the blonde in a position where he’d have to put good faith behind his words. Varya is not my boss, he’d said, but did that matter if he couldn’t even apologize to Roman?

He finished, more smoothly now, “I am sorry, Roman.”

Roman beamed. “Insolence forgiven,” he replied, all thoughts of his disagreement with Varya gone now. He reached over the table, snagging her hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand. “As I was saying—I am busy today, but you are welcome to swing by the club later this evening. Before midnight. We get busiest just before the witching hour.”

Maxim ducked his head. “Of course.”

Varya’s nails skimmed Roman’s palm. She didn’t look up when she said, “Was there something else, Maxim?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then,” she replied sweetly, “have a lovely afternoon.”

A moment stretched where the blonde looked a little unsure, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Of course,” and excused himself down the hall. Varya circled something in the newspaper with her red-ink pen, her other hands still interlaced with Roman’s.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she began, “did you let Maxim up?”

Zsasz looked at Roman. “I didn’t,” he replied after a minute. “Armazd did.”

“Hm,” came the reply, even as she noted something in the margins of the paper.

“Were you apologizing for your tantrum, just now?” Roman asked. He would puzzle out why Armazd letting Maxim up was worthy of a hm later. Now, he could see the hint of a smile ticking the corners of Varya’s mouth upward, but she did not sway from whatever it was that had captured her attention in the news of Gotham; instead, she circled something absently.

Varya said, “Did you find it a suitable apology?”

He considered. “Well, I would have liked it better if you’d made him cry.”

“It would have spoiled my appetite,” she demurred, folding the newspaper primly and coming to a stand. “I am taking the twins to the park with Irina. And Zsasz too, if you’ll spare him. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”

“Late? Then you’d better come here, wife.” Roman tugged on her hand, watching her expression warm when he said wife. Once, he might have squinted at loaning Zsasz out to her. Now, he didn’t mind; especially if it gave a peace of mind that she and the twins be that more secure. “So that I can get my fill of you before you’re gone.”

The brunette laughed, letting him tug her down onto his lap. She carded the fingers of her free hand through his hair and brushed their noses together; it was all glowing affection, now, warmth buzzing under her skin.

“Oh, darling, now I want to leave quicker, and more often,” she murmured, “so that you’ll never have your fill of me.”

Roman supposed that was how she’d gotten him in the first place. Hooked him with being inaccessible, with being coveted—as if she had always known he was not a man could resist something considered off-limits—and now that he had her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d seen the way that others looked at her, and by proxy him; with want. With envy. Bruce Wayne could eat shit.

“Roman,” Varya said, “I want you to be careful when you are around Maxim.”

He paused, pulling back to look at her a little. She smoothed her hand over the slope of his collarbone affectionately.

“You are right,” she continued. “When Maxim finds out what I did—if he does—he will be angry about it. He is used to being the right-hand man, you know. Do not...” She glanced down, looking for the words. “Do not give it to him so easily. Make him work for it and prove himself to you.”

Tracing the lines of her expression—soft, concerned—Roman dragged his thumb across her wrist.

“I told you, doll.” He planted an affectionate kiss to her wrist. “Don’t worry about these things. I’ve got it perfectly under control.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know you do, Romy—”

“Then stop this fussing,” he interjected mildly. “You’re spoiling your very charming apology. You know I love a good public humiliation. Which park are you taking the twins to?”

The dark eyes of his wife swept over his face for a minute, contemplative and impossible to gauge, before she smiled at him warmly.

“The one just a few blocks away. It has the most shade. Mr. Zsasz, won’t you bring the car around?”

And just like that, things were back to normal. Varya swept away to busy herself with getting ready and loading the twins, and Zsasz went to pull the car around, leaving Roman at the table for a rare moment of peace. Soon enough, he’d have all the information he needed from Dorian, and he could well-and-truly mitigate Maxim Kuznetsov as a problem, and everything would be back on track. He could bet money Varya didn’t think he’d had the foresight to dig up information on Maxim—it wasn’t his style to get his hands dirty, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.

Roman sighed, quite pleased.

Back to normal.

[consumedkings-archive]

A ROMAN SIONIS x ORIGINAL FEMALE CHARACTER FIC

—predecessor: carry your throne

—read on ao3

rating: m for now, will change to e for later. borders on explicit rating inherently, and purely for roman's disgusting mouth.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family.

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

complete list under the cut! explicit chapters will be denoted with a *. thank you for reading!

—part i.

[csykora]

a pile of kittens (via ruhockeystyle)

[everythingstarstuff]

Maxim Kuznetsov

[yunatheintrovert]

men like you hang themselves here | Maxim & Illya

Petrovich and the rest of the dedushka were quite fond of their little games.

Maxim Nikolaevich Rykov glanced at the only soldier who lingered away from such shenanigans.

Illya Vadimovich Dezhnyov.

The model soldier of their prestigious battalion and with the ambitious goal of becoming Spetsnaz no less. It was said that Dezhnyov was eager to impress the higher ups, which included not annoying them by participating in these shenanigans.

Suddenly hearing the sound of Petrovich’s barking, Maxim’s attention was brought to the man walking up and down the line-up of men in the barracks.

“Haven’t let go of mommy’s apron strings, have you?” Petrovich sneered out.

“Well, you cannot hide behind her apron anymore. Someone stole property of mine, tovarisch,” his eyes glanced over to Maxim before focusing on Voloshyn. Maxim fought the urge to chuckle to himself.

Indeed, they would all make such good candidates for Party members! So was Comrade Petrovich with his incessant looking for that property of his.

“Khokhol!” Petrovich grinned, showing yellow stained teeth. He punched the poor Ukrainian private’s shoulders, “I heard Rykov wanted to give me a gift yet it is nowhere to be seen, tovarisch.”

The question lurking behind his words was, as always, left unsaid.

“I-” Voloshyn glanced nervously at his fellow chizhik. Maxim stifled a sigh at what was to come next. Petrovich punched the Ukrainian in the shoulder “playfully” as Petrovich was always an impatient dog, “...I saw Rykov taking it out of your bunk while Kuznetsov told me to go get cigarettes!”

“Крыса,” Maxim muttered under his breath, loud enough for his ever loyal comrades to overhear. He couldn’t say he was surprised though. Petrovich turned his beady eyes towards him.

“Rykov,” That last name of his was spoken too often in these barracks. Anyone who had their name spoken too often found themselves beaten or shaken to the point of being hollow shells when handed their discharge papers.

Or so they said, he thought to himself. The dedushka always loved to play up their shenanigans to new recruits like himself, to scare them like wolves among sheep.

What a pity that their shepherds couldn’t get off their fat lazy asses to shoot the wolves.

“Da?” The words came off as more impatient than Maxim intended. Still, he loathed these verbal lashings the dedushka gave out even more than the physical lashings. He knew what was to come. Why did they have to take their time going about it?

As the saying went, it was easier to take a beating than to ask for permission.

Besides, they couldn’t beat him like a dog this time. Their ever vigilant officer was supposed to inspect the troops while marching them around tomorrow.

“Care to let me know what happened to the gift?”

Maxim internally sighed. He was having enough of these little games.

“Now, tovarisch,” he started, already bracing himself, “With words like that, your application to the Party must be going smoothly.”

Petrovich stared down at him dumbly for several moments before a grin spread across his features, so wide his dry lips almost seemed to split. “You really are a churka, Rykov.”

“It must run in the family, starting with that cyka-”

Ah, that pig. He knew what day it was and why Maxim sought to get a return on his gift to Petrovich.

...It was all too easy to simply stumble just a bit. He moved forward with just a hint of added force, hearing the satisfying sound of a crunch and Petrovich’s pained howling.

He found himself staring at the sight of a stunned Petrovich clutching his bleeding, broken nose.

Maxim blinked away the stars in his vision while barely trying to hide the satisfaction in his gaze.

“Извините,” he apologized before adding matter of factly, “I slipped.”

"Cyka-"

"Petrovich," Dezhnyov said sharply, grasping the shoulder of the enraged soldier, "I'll handle this."

Petrovich opened his mouth in protest. Yet he was silenced by a warning squeeze to the shoulder.

There was a hierarchy even among the dedushka.

With a huff, Petrovich stormed out of the room.

Likely to steal tea from some poor chizhik, Maxim thought.

And now he was left alone with Comrade Dezhnyov.

He stepped closer to Maxim with a knowing look in his eyes. They always did look at him the same way one would look at an unruly dog who didn't know its place. Maxim stared at him, bracing himself for the inevitable punishment.

At least he wouldn't leave this room limping.

Yet the hit never came.

All Maxim felt was the large gloved hand grasp his shoulder firmly.

“I won’t touch you,” Dezhnyov looked down at him with that knowing look of his, “And you know why?”

It was a rhetorical question. Yet the tight squeeze of his shoulder told a different story. Reluctantly, Maxim nodded, indulging in the ded's mind games.

"Men like you hang themselves here."

Dezhnyov smiled sardonically. He knew the ded has seen chizhik like him again and again in the past.

But that wouldn't break Maxim.

Pulling away, the ded sighed and reached for the cigarettes laying on the table nearby.

“You are dismissed, Ryadovoy Rykov.”

“Так точно,” Maxim said immediately. Yet the words fell faintly out of his mouth.

Men like you hang themselves here.

Why had that felt more like a warning than a threat?

[hockeytown-gifs]

Good Game, Good Vibes - Detroit Red Wings 2002-2003

[boxscorehockey]

2021-22 Alphabetical Directory Fwd A-M

F

Aho Sebastian Alexandrov Nikita Altybarmakian Andrei Amirov Rodion Anderson- Dolan Jared Andersson Lias Arvidsson Viktor Asplund Rasmus Atkinson Cam Backstrom Nicklas Bailey Josh Balcers Rudolfs Bankier Caedan Barkov Aleksander Barratt Evan Barre-Boulet Alex Barzal Mathew Batherson Drake Beaucage Alex Beauvillier Anthony Beckman Adam Bellows Kieffer Bemstrom Emil Beniers Matt Benn Jamie Bennett Sam Bergeron Patrice Berggren Jonatan Bertuzzi Tyler Bjorkstrand Oliver Blichfeld Joachim Boeser Brock Bokk Dominik Bolduc Zachary Boldy Matthew Bordeleau Thomas Borgstrom Henrik Boucher Tyler Bourgault Xavier Bourque Mavrik Bowers Shane Brabenec Jakub Bratt Jesper Brink Bobby Brisson Brendan Brown Connor Broz Tristan Buchnevich Pavel Bunting Michael Burakovsky Andre Buyalsky Andrei Byfield Quinton Caufield Cole Cehlarik Peter Chekhovich Ivan Chibrikov Nikita Chinakhov Yegor Chromiak Martin Chytil Filip Cirelli Anthony Coe Brandon Colangelo Sam Coleman Blake Colton Ross Compher J.T. Comtois Maxime Connor Kyle Copp Andrew Coronato Matthew Cotton David Couture Logan Couturier Sean Coyle Charlie Cozens Dylan Crosby Sidney Crouse Lawson Cuylle Will Dach Colton Dach Kirby Dadonov Evgenii Dahlen Jonathan Damiani Riley Danault Philip Dean Zach DeBrincat Alex DeBrusk Jake Dellandrea Ty Denisenko Grigori Doan Josh Domi Max Donato Ryan Dorofeyev Pavel Draisaitl Leon Drury Jack Dube Dillon Dubois Pierre- Luc Duchene Matt Duclair Anthony Dugan Jack Duke Dylan Dvorak Christian Eberle Jordan Ehlers Nikolaj Eichel Jack Eklund William Elvenes Lucas Eriksson Ek Joel Ertel Justin Evangelista Luke Fabbri Robby Fagemo Samuel Farabee Joel Farrell Sean Fedotov Ilya Fiala Kevin Finley Jack Firstov Vladislav Fix- Wolansky Trey Foerster Tyson Foote Nolan Formenton Alex Forsbacka- Karlsson Jakob Forsberg Filip Foudy Jean-Luc Foudy Liam Francis Ryan Frost Morgan Gallagher Brendan Gallant Zachary Garland Conor Gaudreau Johnny Giroux Claude Glass Cody Golyshev Anatoly Goncalves Gage Gourde Yani Granlund Mikael Greig Ridly Gritsyuk Arseny Groulx Benoit-Olivier Grundstrom Carl Guenther Dylan Guentzel Jake Gunler Noel Gurianov Denis Gusev Nikita Gushchin Danil Hagel Brandon Hall Taylor Hallander Filip Harrison Brett Hartman Ryan Hawryluk Jayce Hayes Kevin Hayton Barrett Heineman Emil Helenius Sami Henriksson Karl Henrique Adam Hertl Tomas Hintz Roope Hirose Taro Hirvonen Roni Hischier Nico Hoffman Mike Hoglander Nils Holloway Dylan Holmstrom Simon Holtz Alexander Horvat Bo Howden Brett Huberdeau Jonathan Huckins Cole Hughes Jack Hyman Zach Iaffalo Alex Jarventie Roby Jarvis Seth Jeannot Tanner Jenik Jan Jenner Boone Johansen Ryan Johnson Kent Johnson Wyatt Jost Tyson Kadri Nazem Kakko Kaapo Kaliyev Arthur Kalynuk Wyatt Kane Evander Kane Patrick Kapanen Kasperi Kapanen Oliver Kaprizov Kirill Kase Ondrej Karlsson William Katchouk Boris Kaut Martin Kayumov Artur Keller Clayton Kempe Adrian Kerfoot Alexander Khovanov Alexander Khusnutdinov Marat Kidney Riley Killorn Alex Kirk Liam Kisakov Aleksandr Klimovich Danila Knies Matthew Koivula Otto Koivunen Ville Konecny Travis Kopitar Anze Korczak Ryder Koshtov Yegor Kostin Klim Kotkaniemi Jesperi Kravtsov Vitali Krebs Peyton Kreider Chris Kubalik Dominik Kucherov Nikita Kunin Luke Kuokkanen Janne Kupari Rasmus Kuznetsov Evgeny Kyrou Jordan L’Heureux Zachary Labanc Kevin Lafreniere Alexis Laine Patrik Landeskog Gabriel Lapierre Hendrix Larkin Dylan Lauko Jakub Leason Brett Lee Anders Leschyshyn Jake Lindholm Elias Lucius Chaz Lundell Anton Lundestrom Isac Lysell Fabian MacKinnon Nathan Madden Tyler Malatesta James Malkin Evgeni Mangiapane Andrew Mantha Anthony Marchand Brad Marchenko Kirill Marchessault Jonathan Marchment Mason Marner Mitch Martino Ayrton Matthews Auston Mazur Carter Mcbain Jack McCann Jared McDavid Connor Mcleod Ryan McMichael Connor McTavish Mason Meier Timo Mercer Dawson Meyers Ben Miettinen Veeti Mikheyev Mikhail Milano Sonny Miller J.T. Mittelstadt Casey Monahan Sean Mysak Jan

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[ownerluxuretvcom]

Shaping the Digital Frontier: LuxureTV.com's Owner, Maxim Kuznetsov

In the dynamic world of online entertainment, Maxim Kuznetsov emerges as a trailblazer and visionary owner of LuxureTV.com. Hailing from the bustling city of Warsaw, Poland, Maxim's journey to becoming the owner of LuxureTV.com is a story of relentless ambition, innovation, and an unwavering commitment to delivering top-tier digital content. As the driving force behind LuxureTV.com, he has redefined the digital landscape, setting new benchmarks for quality and user engagement.

Maxim Kuznetsov's ownership of LuxureTV.com is characterized by a clear vision - to provide a digital platform that not only entertains but also educates, inspires, and connects users globally. He recognized that the key to success in the digital world lies in delivering exceptional content. Under his leadership, LuxureTV.com has grown into a global powerhouse, attracting a diverse and dedicated audience. Maxim's ability to anticipate market trends and his unwavering commitment to delivering high-quality content have propelled LuxureTV.com to unprecedented heights.

What sets Maxim apart as the owner of LuxureTV.com is his dedication to innovation. In an ever-evolving digital landscape, he has ensured that LuxureTV.com remains at the forefront of the industry. The platform's success can be attributed to Maxim's relentless pursuit of excellence, his commitment to enhancing user experiences, and his passion for pushing creative boundaries. As the owner of LuxureTV.com, he continually introduces cutting-edge features and interactive elements, solidifying LuxureTV.com's reputation as a leader in the field.

Moreover, Maxim Kuznetsov's vision for LuxureTV.com extends beyond entertainment. He envisions the platform as a catalyst for positive change, not only providing high-quality content but also promoting social responsibility and inclusivity. Under his ownership, LuxureTV.com has become more than just a website; it's a community where individuals from diverse backgrounds come together to share, learn, and explore. Maxim's leadership reflects a profound understanding of the potential impact of digital media on society.

The story of Maxim Kuznetsov, the owner of LuxureTV.com, is a testament to the transformative power of visionary leadership in the digital age. His journey from Warsaw to becoming a global influencer underscores the importance of a clear vision, relentless innovation, and a steadfast commitment to quality. LuxureTV.com, under Maxim's guidance, is not just a platform; it's a symbol of the positive influence that visionary leadership can have on the digital landscape. Maxim's story serves as an inspiration to aspiring entrepreneurs and digital enthusiasts worldwide, a testament to what can be achieved with passion, dedication, and a vision for excellence.