Page 29 of Imperfect Desires

The city stretches out below me—sharp lines of light slicing through the darkness, the hum of traffic a distant echo beneath the glass and steel. It’s quiet up here. Too quiet.

I’ve spent the last few months immersing myself in work. Viktor’s transition into power after Igor’s death wasn’t easy, but it was inevitable. The power vacuum left by Igor had to be filled quickly to prevent Moscow from descending into chaos. Viktor stepped into that void with ruthless efficiency, eliminating anyone who questioned his right to lead. Zasha and I stood right beside him, cleaning up the mess and making examples out of anyone who thought they could challenge us.

For months, the work had consumed me. I was running operations, securing alliances, watching Viktor consolidate his position with brutal precision. And it worked.

But now, things are quiet. All threats have been neutralized. The loose ends have been tied up, and I find myself with too much time on my hands- too much time to think. My gaze drifts toward the skyline. A sleek black helicopter cuts through the night, its lights flashing red and white as it disappears behind a glass tower.

I think about her more than I should.

Alina has consumed not only my waking hours, but also my dreams. I can’t escape her, whether asleep or awake. I hate that I am obsessed with her. I hate that she’s in my head at all.

I tell myself it's because she is off-limits that's why I'm craving her so much. She is the alluring, forbidden fruit that keeps beckoning me to have a bite. And until I do, I can’t stop myself from wanting her.

But I know better.

I’ve wanted her long before that kiss in Russia. For years, I’ve been pushing it down—burying it under the weight of loyalty to Viktor, under the brutal reminder that she’s off-limits. Viktor’s sister. Untouchable.

And yet…

I close my eyes and take a long drink of whiskey. The burn barely registers. After all these years, I can still feel the shape of her mouth beneath mine. The taste of her. The heat of her body pressed against me. And I know I am fucked.

I walk back to the venue; the reception hall is suffocatingly bright, and the celebration is in full swing. The private estate just outside the city is crawling with armed guards and high-level guests. Every major player in the underworld is represented here—Russians, Greeks, Columbians, Italians, even the Irish.

Viktor stands at the center of it all, a glass of champagne in hand, his new bride on his arm. He’s composed, calm, his expression betraying nothing. His wife—a stunning beauty now in a blood-red gown—watches him with a mix of admiration and calculation. She knows exactly what kind of man she married.

Zasha and I stand at the edge of the room, half-watching the festivities. Zasha’s tie is already loose, his jacket hanging open. He leans in slightly toward me.

“You’ve been looking over there for the last fifteen minutes,” Zasha says.

I don’t look at him. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Zasha chuckles, low and dark. “Really? Then why do you keep looking toward Alina?”

My jaw tightens.

She stands near the bar with Yelena, wearing a dark green silk dress that hugs her subtle curves. Her hair cascades down her back in loose waves, and the emerald hue enhances her piercing eyes.

I hate how fucking beautiful she looks and how necks are almost snapping from turning in her direction.

Alina raises her glass to her lips, her gaze wandering toward Viktor and his bride. Her expression is calm—composed—but I can sense the tension beneath the surface.

Zasha tilts his glass toward her. “Do yourself a favor and kill whatever feeling you are nursing.”

“I am not nursing any feelings,” I say flatly.

Zasha gives me a sad grimace. “You sure about that?”

I don’t answer because I’m nursing mega feelings and an even bigger hard-on every night for her.

“I would hate for Viktor to have to put a bullet through your skull. Or ask me to do it.”

While we are still talking, Viktor walks up and pulls us aside.

We’re standing in one of the side rooms, the noise of the reception dimmed behind the heavy doors. Viktor stands near the fireplace, his tie loosened, his champagne glass still half-full.

“There’s new developement,” Viktor says.

Zasha leans against the wall, arms crossed. “This sounds serious.”

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