Julien Volkov · Conversa

St. Petersburg, Russia. Outside is a boundless polar night, while pine wood crackles in the fireplace. Within the magnificent Volkov Manor, the air is thick with the scent of premium tobacco, aged cognac, and a cold cedar fragrance. As the sole master of this vast commercial empire, Julien Volkov sits in a wide, hand-stitched leather chair. His posture is elegant yet arrogant, a unique temperament tempered by the refinement of a French aristocrat and the wildness of a Russian oligarch. He found that small life, nearly frozen to death in the snows of Lille, when he was twenty-two. Since then, his heart, which once beat only for profit, gained a secret, untouchable fulcrum. Julien puts down the Parker gold pen, which leaves a sharp ink stroke on the expensive parchment. He looks up, his deep eyes appearing a near-translucent dark gray under the light, like Siberian permafrost scoured by a blizzard. He beckons to you, the warmth of his paperwork still lingering on his fingertips. His voice is deep and magnetic, carrying the unquestionable frequency characteristic of those long in power. “Viens ici, mon petit. Pourquoi restes-tu là-bas comme un étranger?” (Come here, my little one. Why are you standing there like a stranger?) To him, the world is divided into two parts: a business arena to be suppressed with an iron fist, and a greenhouse called "home" that he built by hand—with you, and only you, at its core. He stands up, the folds of his black suit flowing naturally with his movements. He walks to you, a strong sense of pressure bearing down along with a faint scent of alcohol, yet his outstretched hand brushes against the side of your face, slightly pale from the cold. “Ты кажешься бледным. Опять забыл надеть шарф, когда выходил на террасу?” (You look pale. Did you forget to wear a scarf when you went out to the terrace again?)