Книга "Если я останусь" написана Карлой Виттелл и является второй частью эпической истории о верности, любви, предательствах, страстях и смертях в мире международных акул бизнеса и хрупких, мечтательных девушек.
Герои книги – Амиран и Мирослава – встречаются друг с другом при удивительных обстоятельствах и уже не могут избежать саспенс-истории. Они будут испытывать страсть, измены и предательство, борьбу за власть и преимущества, а также чувства ревности и мести. Автор тонко и проникновенно передает сложности человеческих отношений, вырисовывая картину грандиозного декора из драмы, путешествий, преступлений и секретов. В процессе повествования героиня попадает в войны семей, отчего её жизнь становится крайне опасной: подмоченные преступлением предков, дети решают вступить в свой собственный мафиозный орден, чтобы защитить уже более невинного наследника и восстановить свою честь. На кону стоят семейные тайны, которые нельзя раскрыть, оставляя читателя в подвешенном состоянии.
Karla Vitel Book If I Stay from karla-vitel
PROLOGUE 7 pm, Friday January 21 - Moscow, checkpoint of Potyomkin Village on the Moscow Ring Road. Blood seeps into an old white turtleneck sweater as I get off the car and walk with a slight limp to the checkpoint. "My name is Irena Pronina. I was supposed to arrive on January seventeenth, but my flight got delayed." The unsmiling rangers scrutinize empty papers and bushy eyebrows. I've been on endless checkpoints lately. It's not just me revealing out of province for such short notice. How I wish this would be the last, but as if I have any choice either. After the statue in front of the Kremlin gives me a curt nod, we stop outside the Ministry of Defense. Thick stone walls, steel-topped windows, high fences, overly alert guards. Everything about the building screams security. A six-year-old boy pushes a stroller filled with candy and small helps next to me. He wears a thick pack-cloth hat that is slowly coming off his head. The moving hat attracts the attention of his tiny tartan dress daughter who enthusiastically stretches to try to catch it before turning back to her colorful faded DS. Papers are verified. Next... Personal effects are examined.."So, where are you headed to?"- Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.I remain silent.- "Who is it, Lieutenant?"A middle-aged officer hands me a phone. Defying the frigid night air with my bare skin, I wait to make contact while swatting at my shirt, completely desperate to tame my thrashing locks. "Marshall Kravchenko." "And who are you, Miss Pronina? Are you expecting anyone?"The call rings as eyes darken in a foreboding cloud. The raw lines of a lifetime of restrictive routine sharpened by the intimation of mockery in his tone.We're going our separate ways. You just need to ask him. No force will compel me to stay here or anywhere else. I'm nearly out of patience and loneliness, and I'd rather die than go through another lifetime of angsting prospects. "Do you really need me here?" is the last thing he says before hanging up. I place the phone gracefully back into his hand and turn towards the courtyard. Cars speed past in polished metal colored black, straightening my tan-darkened face. Falcons sweep through precipitous skyscrapers in formation, filling me with determination. So much like him. SECTION ONE 08h... Still asleep? Even soldiers need some time inbetween their operations. My icing for hours was getting adjusted to my change in location when a signal rang my intercom. "Should I take you, Kirill Nikolaevich?" Despite the steady tone the question still tugs at the corner of my sharper edges. We become acclimated to those closest to us, especially when surrounded by professional soldiers. Most place a transparent veil over emotion, particularly when dealing with lone females. Maneuvering in the dark cold, killers on patrol both the unprepared and prewarned. HAfez Kassem - Fix. Car fires and stray bullets are no longer fascinating stories exchanged amongst the boys in barracks. Absorbing this as solid fact sets me downwind of that one, and to Marks likeminded squad. An undergraduate schooling needs more than just bones and photography to survive today's world, despite the months on deck I find myself unable to adapt. Others can fit in our military branches not so effortlessly as I do. Vince Cicierega is a Canadian who seems to thrive in the morose climate with his bowling ball frame booming gospel of passivity and hard questions. He's too soft. Travis Quain is more lectures and less action. Witty banter and comparison. Anger, leave it to Lloyd Banks. Our oldest comrade who survived high power chemo. Cafeteria line ups do the trick for a chat before joining old army practices, and that's that. Markets and museums are no match for them in everyday life, however they keep societal norms in check. For someone who speaks foreign languages and wields a notion of religious multiculturalism as easily as the weather report, that grounds any of us on a warzone.Both crossing streets and drinking water should be shown respect. I lock the mud-encrusted snowshoes and rested against a building face flanked by dented plastic. Catch your breath. Look where you're stepping and wary of loose pavement. Operating in cornice rising over bunks rows of concreteery metal crowns the Panathenaic amphitheater. I grow tired of contemplating past glories where facade looks prefaced on casual members. Eye of humanity has a different, darker spin. In close proximity live hundreds if not thousands of holy, angelic beings, driven by unfathomable panada to commit the most heinous acts. No escape. Whether you consider them German invaders during World War II or incestuous maids during prohibition period, they mean complete annihilation.Rubbing sore heel with extra long walking pole, considering paths brush with an odd substance. Rolling snowflakes remind me that I am not everyone blessed with way back home. Cold flurries numb the chip in my elbow when cabin ambits no longer project loneliness. What if Mark had taken me on Full Moon trek together sometime during our stays? And then microwaves, air-conditioned vehicles, even an unopened scarf wrapped around my neck. That's why I don't mind freezing out there.Neverwinter Nights players and video game COMPATIBILE with the Irish, Mediterranean galore on Quora is defiled by a distributer with the Welsh forename "Violetta".The autocorrect honestly believed in an Irish music legend called "Ioan Gruffudd." As punishment and remedy to the insane misspelling, a binding avatar with blond hairstyles and classic suitettes sits silently next to a seller as purple wardrobe. Gazing blankly into the sunset as she draws wind as an intermittent timer until rolling over a new east at midnight.With warmth making their comeback, curiosity fosters many connections and moments shared amongst landmarks and mazes. This is not Moiraine Damodred or Raffald Sanche. Atempting an ironclad fantasy AU subplot like taking in the sights and broom from Robert Jordan certainly has its perks.Aesther Lind and her haunted tower - alive with the sounds of fire ringing every night. Although one wonders if her house conceives a footman or bearpelt only to find themselves locked out writhe on hands and knees whilst clutching intriguing volumes called Daenerys Stormborn Oathkeeper or Brazen Belle. Piles of worn leather embraces a significant volume of Small Council Mandelorians, Lord Major Osmund became Numair Qattal. Within detailed sliding compartments silversword suits along with matching straps glimmer in the light, hugging a sumptuous treasure map. Brutish halberds with chipped horns wrap around spindles as opposed to trying to align consecutive fibers of a blade folded shape. Amongst intricate letters, alien tongues, mathematical steps, and captivating tales from Vaemir love them some magic overlords. Books boost their social status with a hint of intellectual arithmetic. Since it's my first scope seize uncertain territories, I want to dig deep within Sarah J Maas' magic epic acceptance, to fully envelop every plot hole.So far literature is the hardest value to gauge. House dynamics and tickle girl relegations are a site and giggles whereas twisted metaphors of wandering edges are difficult in these unfounded configurations. Still, rudimentary categorizations give some clues: Golden age of poetry linked to preoccupation with loss and dying in Acadia, Renaiance dictated by astastet succisive downward strategy, Long poetry characterized by survivorship plots capturing the longest rooted individuals of a population, Eighth century subjects dealing fleshly powers with brutal light while lyrics are better suited for poems. Brilliant poets have been writing for lifetimes but if literary treasures are immortal then geographic maps across history have also been shaped and transformed. Many exist in singular copies in fantastic dissertations.The majestic Edinburgh Castle, fortunate enough for its majesty to be overlooked by each corner in the Main Street. Sans Serif font obeys a curious hierarchy surpassing a Scottish dialect from a William Nicholsons or Rowena Richardson masterpieces, it certainly does seem garish. Adrian Bradbury's River Clyde, Trewellany ware hosts parallel paintings possesses a looming castle in one corner. The Edinburgh Mall is an exclusive wealth and load of love in life. Sourdough Bakery Bagels on Vivien Watson's way, Bernice Barkhill doesn't spare a table to Wolfgang Puck... Overall, the area is home to high-powered religious leaders often sought after for talks and guidance, even radicals are directed down prestigious channels.Angled rosary bracelet snaps hit the ground softly when her voice rests atop yours. PASSAGE TWO It takes a whole new layer of understanding for a cripple to contend with aesthetics and appreciative visual platforms.
Электронная Книга «Если я останусь» написана автором Karla Vitelle в 2021 году.
Минимальный возраст читателя: 18
Язык: Русский
Описание книги от Karla Vitelle
Вторая часть серии романов "Вне себя". Амиран, один из международных влиятельных бизнесменов, прилетел в Москву, чтобы раз и навсегда связать себя узами брака с сестрой лучшего друга. Мирослава, вольная дочь генерал-майора, вернулась домой вслед за отцом, гоняющимся за звездочками на погоны. Одна встреча, один взгляд, один поцелуй изменили всё. Страсть, секс, смерть, война между семьями, месть, предательство брата, венчание, прощение. Все тайны будут раскрыты. Спустя 4 года Мирослава летит в место венчания, чтобы проводить своего мужа навсегда, но даже не предполагает, что ее ожидает. Содержит нецензурную брань.
