Page 96 of Imperfect Desires

Mendes.

The bastard’s face stares up at us—grinning, arrogant, still alive.

Viktor’s voice is like broken ice. “Mendes will make sure he’s impossible to find now.”

He’s right. That son of a bitch has gone underground and won’t resurface until he believes it’s safe. Only this time, it will never be safe for him again.

I lean forward, my arms braced against the table. “He also has the cartel's backing. It may not be official, but he’s been operating under their flag for decades. He’s smart enough to exploit their silence.”

Zasha speaks up, voice low but steady. “And there’s no way he pulled this off without help. Inside eyes. Someone let him move Alina without triggering alarms. Either Cartel or someone feeding him intel.”

The room pulses with tension. I feel it in my spine- the need to move, to act, to hurt. But Viktor is already a step ahead.

He reaches for one of the secure satphones and dials a number from memory—one that isn’t stored in any digital system, only committed to the minds of those who deal in death and diplomacy.

He doesn’t sit or blink; he simply holds the phone to his ear until the click on the other end connects. He has just involved the cartel leader.

Good.

Viktor speaks first, his words sharp, clipped, and clear. “One of your men touched my family.”

There’s a pause before he responds. “Let’s meet.”

“We’re coming to you.”

Silence stretches for just a breath. Then— “I’ll be expecting you.”

Viktor ends the call without goodbyes or niceties. He looks at us with a gaze intense enough to flay flesh from bone.

“Gear up. We are heading to Thiago’s.”

I nod my agreement because this isn’t about politics anymore. It’s not about alliances or protocol. It’s about my Alina. AndI will burn every bridge, every border, every bastard breathing between me and the man who tried to break her.

Thiago’s compound stands like a fortress carved into the hills—high walls, taller iron gates, and men with concealed rifles stationed like statues. Every move is calculated. Every shadow is watched.

We arrive in a black SUV. No insignias, no fanfare. Just our presence. The gates open for us like they know better than to make us wait.

Inside, we’re met by more walls of men—Thiago’s security. Faces hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, fingers brushing triggers. Watching us like they expect a shootout. And maybe they should.

Because I’m not walking in here as a diplomat. I’m walking in as a man who nearly lost the woman he loves—and I haven’t yet decided if this place will still be standing when I walk out.

Thiago appears at the entrance of his home, flanked by two of his lieutenants. He’s dressed in a white linen shirt and slacks, like a man at peace.

But I know better. Thiago is never at peace.

He steps forward with a calm expression—neutral, unreadable, the kind of look carved by decades of power and blood.

“Viktor,” he says, voice smooth. “Zasha. Lev.”

We don’t shake hands. There’s no point pretending this isn’t what it is. We’re shown into a wide, sunlit room lined with tinted windows and thick stone walls. It’s beautiful, expensive, and deadly.

Like Thiago himself.

We stand. No one sits. No one wants to appear too comfortable. Then Viktor speaks. And he doesn’t waste a breath.

“Carlos Mendes kidnapped my sister.”

Thiago’s expression doesn’t change.

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