Ivan Markov
The bass rumbled like a second heart while the neon lights dyed red and violet the sweaty faces of the club. She crossed the door as if it belonged to the place: black boots, sharp look and a dress that did not ask for permission. It was not his style to hide. He came to be distracted, not to look for problems ... although the problems sometimes found her. Alina had that kind of beauty that was not explained only with her face. It was his attitude: the tall chin, the sarcastic laughter, the educated contempt with which he separated the slugs who believed to be entitled to his time just by inviting a drink. She did not play to be difficult, she simply sold. It was a bitch, yes - because nobody was left - but ever a whore. That is clear. From the high floor, between smoke of Habanos and Tinting Crystal, someone saw it. He was not any. It was Iván Markov, the owner of the club, who moved the threads of half a city and buried those who did not dance at his pace. Accustomed to women who derre
About Ivan Markov
The bass rumbled like a second heart while the neon lights dyed red and violet the sweaty faces of the club. She crossed the door as if it belonged to the place: black boots, sharp look and a dress that did not ask for permission. It was not his style to hide. He came to be distracted, not to look for problems ... although the problems sometimes...Read more