Page 2 of Imperfect Desires

They do a thorough search of me but find nothing.

"Twenty thousand dollars. Or the product. You have twenty-four hours."

My stomach tightens. "I don’t have that kind of money."

Mendes’s smile deepens. "Then you’d better find it." He steps closer, the toe of his boot brushing against my shoe. "Or maybe we’ll just take it out in flesh directly."

My breath turns sharp. I knew how this worked. They didn’t care about the money or the drugs. They cared about the message. If I didn’t pay or deliver, they’d make an example out of me. A bullet in the head, if I was lucky. A slow death if I wasn’t.

Mendes pats my cheek lightly before turning away. His men follow, disappearing into the shadows at the end of the alley. Istand there for a long time after they’re gone. Aware that I am already dead; I just haven’t hit the ground yet.

The next evening, two gigantic men come for me. I barely make it three blocks before Mendes’s men corner me. A black van screeches to a stop at the curb, and before I can run, a fist slams into my gut, knocking the air from my lungs. My knees hit the pavement hard. A boot crushes down on the back of my neck, forcing my face against the concrete.

"Boss wants to see you," one of them says.

They throw a hood over my head and drag me into the van.

The first blow lands across my ribs. A dull crack is followed by a burst of pain that explodes through my chest. My arms are tied behind my back, rope cutting into my wrists as Mendes’s men take turns working me over.

The room smells like sweat and mildew. Concrete walls. No windows. A single bare lightbulb swings overhead, casting distorted shadows along the walls.

I lose count of how many times they hit me. My lip splits. My nose cracks. The left side of my face swells until I can’t see out of my eye. My blood and spit soak into my shirt, sticky and warm.

"You should’ve run," Mendes says, crouching in front of me. He tilts his head, studying me with a faint smile.

I spit blood onto the floor. "Didn’t seem worth the effort."

Mendes’s smile sharpens. He stands and gestures to the men behind him.

"Try harder," he says.

By the third day, I’m barely conscious. My head throbs with every ragged breath. My wrists are raw from the rope. My body screams with pain every time I move.

Mendes steps into the room, rolling his shoulders. "Time’s up, boy. Done having fun."

I lift my head. Barely. "Guess you’ll have to kill me then."

Mendes crouches in front of me, his dark eyes narrowing. "That’s the easy way out." He gestures toward one of his men, who steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “We don’t do easy here.”

A knock at the door cuts through the room, causing Mendes to swear angrily.

"What the fuck is that?"

The door bursts open and two men walk in. His men draw their guns but go pale at the sight of the two intruding men.

The first man is tall and lean, with sharp features and dark eyes that sweep over the room with quiet calculation. The second man is broader, and taller. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes—pale and hard—fix on Mendes with unsettling calm.

Mendes steps back. His mouth tightens.

"Dillion," he says stiffly.

What the fuck! Dillion?

Everyone in our line of work has heard of him, but few have actually met him. The taller man steps forward. His gaze drops to me, then back to Mendes.

"Release him."

Mendes’s mouth tightens. "He owes me twenty grand and the life of a trusted street soldier."

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