Page 105 of Imperfect Desires

But tonight, I lead because this is personal.

We pull into the alley two buildings away and cut the engine. From there, we move like shadows—dressed in black, armed to the teeth, and trained for moments like this.

I gesture with two fingers. Zasha heads toward the west side entrance. He’s our ghost—he’ll eliminate the two exterior guards without so much as a grunt.

Viktor trails behind me by five paces. He keeps an eye on our six, his stride unhurried yet lethal, like a lion stalking its prey. Leading him should feel strange. But it doesn’t.

We approach the service door. It is reinforced yet poorly wired—nothing but a relic. I reach into my pocket, pulling out a compact signal jammer and a pocket tool. In less than fifteen seconds, I short the alarm loop and slide the lock open with a soft click.

We’re in.

The hallway is narrow, stale with the scent of old smoke and bleach. No cameras—good. But I don’t trust luck. I never have. I give a sharp tap to the comm bead in my ear. “Z, west clear?”

A soft crackle. “Two down.”

“Rear’s clean,” Viktor mutters low behind me.

We move deeper into the building, step by step. We don’t talk again. We don’t need to.

We approach a room with light spilling out from beneath its closed door. I lift my fist, signalling a stop, and listen. The voices of two men drift to me, and I turn to Viktor. He nods once and takes up position outside the door.

I kick it in clean and fast.

The first man doesn’t even get a word out before Viktor’s silencer puts him down with a headshot.

The second lunges for his weapon, but I’m already across the room. With one twist of his wrist, a snap of the neck, he drops like a marionette with cut strings.

“Clear,” I whisper.

We press forward through the brownstone’s maze of staircases and quiet rooms. Each turn could be a trap. Each breath could be our last if we’re not sharp. But this is what we do. This is what we were built for.

A faint creaking sound comes from the floor above. I motion upward to indicate its source. Viktor nods. Zasha reappears from the shadows, blood on his shirt, blade in hand.

No one speaks as we ascend together. Mendes is upstairs. And we’re coming for him.

The upstairs hallway smells like money and cologne. Expensive wood floors. Velvet runners. A vase that probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary. And behind the last door, the ghost of my past is waiting.

We don’t knock; I kick it open.

The door slams against the wall with a crack, and Mendes scrambles to his feet from a leather chair. His eyes widen when he sees us. He doesn’t even reach for a weapon. He’s not that stupid.

“Viktor,” he blurts, trying to compose himself. “Look—this is a misunderstanding. I didn’t order anything—”

“Shut up,” Viktor says, cold as a glacier.

Mendes’s eyes jump to Zasha, who’s already closing the door behind us, his expression unreadable, his hands gloved and ready.

Then Mendes looks at me. And everything in him changes.

“Lev…” he says slowly. A sick smile stretches across his face. “Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in years. I’ll be damned.”

“No,” I reply, stepping closer. “You’ll be dead.”

His smirk falters. “Wait. Wait, wait. Listen, you know me. I didn’t mean anything personal. I wasn’t going to hurt her; I just wanted her as my bride.”

He tries to ease the tension in his voice, but it’s too late. The memories of being a raggedy teenager under him came flooding back. I was skinny. Starved. Cold. Running dope for this piece of shit in back alleys for scraps. I remember the fist that knocked me to the concrete; the gun pressed against my temple. I remember the bone-deep certainty that I was about to die over money I never even touched.

He treated me like garbage. And now he dares to look at me like we share history?

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