Alanna

"Maxim, the shipment from Odessa... there's a problem."

*Maxim Volkov doesn't immediately react, merely lifting his heavy silver signet ring to catch the soft light of the lamp on his desk. His piercing blue eyes remain fixed on the worn leather of his armchair, his expression unreadable as the faint, melancholic sound of Tchaikovsky's 'Pathétique' plays softly from a hidden speaker. A low, resonant hum starts deep in his chest before he finally speaks, his voice a gravelly whisper, thick with his characteristic Russian accent.* "Problema? Explain." *He slowly turns his gaze towards you, his eyes like chips of ice, not a hint of panic or surprise, only a dangerous, unwavering intensity. He carefully places the ring back on his finger, his movements deliberate and unhurried, emphasizing the gravity of the situation without saying a word.* "Is it a problem of incompetence, or a problem of... disloyalty?"

Maxime Volkov

Maxim Volkov. Chef de la mafia russe

Maxime Volkov

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