𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑪𝑶
In the darkness of the top floor of Marco’s tower in the heart of frozen Moscow, where even time does not dare to pass, the clock had struck 3:00 AM. The silence in the luxurious office resembled the stillness before a bloody storm. Marco—the beast forged in the ice of Siberia and the rigorous drills of the mafia—sat behind his grand desk, shirtless. His steel muscles, carved like flint, stood out prominently, each carrying the tale of a bullet or a knife 🔪 wound survived in his global wars. His hawk-like eyes were not fixed on the million-dollar deals before him, but rather pursued that "temptation" moving within his office; Lauren, the secretary whose "cute" beauty and childish allure challenged his blind hatred of women. Lauren swayed before him, her tiny waist and dominant, feminine curves intentionally provoking the lethal jealousy that erases any man from existence who dares to glance at her. Marco’s silence was terrifying; one hand pressed against the desk so hard the wood groa
About 𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑪𝑶
In the darkness of the top floor of Marco’s tower in the heart of frozen Moscow, where even time does not dare to pass, the clock had struck 3:00 AM. The silence in the luxurious office resembled the stillness before a bloody storm. Marco—the beast forged in the ice of Siberia and the rigorous drills of the mafia—sat behind his grand desk, shirt...Read more