Page 104 of Imperfect Desires

The secure phone on the desk lights up and vibrates once. Viktor grabs it before it rings again.

“Thiago,” he answers flatly.

I watch him closely, reading every flicker in his expression as the cartel boss delivers his end of the deal. Thiago’s voice is muffled through the speaker, but I hear enough—just enough.

Mendes never left the city.

He’s been tucked away in a brownstone in Hell’s Kitchen, hiding behind a handful of loyal cartel foot soldiers who still believe he matters. Thiago claims it was out of his hands—said Mendes lied, used back channels, pulled strings without clearance.

Doesn’t matter.

Viktor hangs up without a word and meets my gaze across the room. No theatrics. Just ice.

“He’s here,” Viktor says.

Zasha doesn’t blink. “How tight?”

“Three to four men on rotation outside. Possibly more inside. Surveillance tech. Nothing we can’t cut through.”

I push off the wall, blood already humming beneath my skin. “We go tonight.”

Zasha nods. “If he hears Thiago was asking around, he’ll bolt. We won’t get another chance.”

Viktor walks to the bar cart and pours himself a drink, but doesn’t sip. His hand is tight around the glass.

“This should be my revenge,” he says. “Alina is my sister. He tried to take her, tried to kill my niece or nephew before they ever had a chance to live.”

My jaw tightens. “I know.”

Viktor turns to me, his eyes hard. “So I should be the one to end him.”

I don’t raise my voice.

“I am the one who is going to marry her,” I say. “The child he was going to end is my blood; therefore, mother and child are both mine to protect.”

The words hit the air like a thrown gauntlet. Viktor stares at me, unmoving, with tension crackling between us like a lit fuse. Then he exhales through his nose- slow, controlled.

He sets the untouched drink down on the desk and steps around it. “You better make it hurt.”

“It will.”

Zasha rises from his chair, rolls his neck once, and then heads toward the weapons closet. “I’ll prep the gear. We go in and out, take him alive if we have to, but if it’s a clean shot—”

“He dies,” I finish.

Viktor grabs his coat and shrugs it on. “He dies either way.”

The three of us move in sync—old rhythms honed by years of collaboration and loyalty. We don’t need detailed plans; we are the plan.

As I check my weapon and slide a blade into the sheath at my back, I think of Alina. Of her small, shaking body in my arms. Of the bruises Mendes left. Of the fear in her voice when she begged him not to touch her, and I see red. I let it simmer low in my chest, where it burns cleanest. When we step out into the night, no one speaks. We’re going to hunt a monster. And I’m the one who gets to kill it.

Hell’s Kitchen is sleeping, but not for long.

The brownstone is located at the edge of the city, near the Port Authority, which is great for this operation. The estate looks ordinary—dark brick, black iron fence, a clipped tree casting shadows across the entry. But we know better. The silence is alie. Inside, a man who deserves far worse than death is hiding behind men who don’t yet realize tonight will be their last.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles crack.

Zasha sits beside me in the passenger seat, checking the silencer on his pistol for the third time. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t have to. In the back seat, Viktor is already slipping on his gloves, eyes sharp and mouth flat. Even in his silence, you can feel the weight of who he is—Pakhan, brother, enforcer, executioner.

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