Page 35 of Imperfect Desires

I grin faintly. “Can’t help it. I’m charming.”

Viktor rubs the space between his brows but doesn’t sound angry—just exasperated in that older brother kind of way. “You were supposed to keep it quiet.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I figured if his guards are bold enough to make a move on me, then I could use them as an example for him.”

Viktor observes me—not with judgment, not with reprimand, but with understanding. He knows who I am and what I do. And he knows I’ve never let him down.

“No deaths?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not a single one.”

He raises a brow. “Pain?”

I grin wider. “A little.”

Viktor leans back, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You and Zasha are going to be the death of me.”

Zasha snorts. “You’d be bored without us.”

“No doubt.” Viktor glances down at the open file Alina’s holding. “We’ll handle the paperwork fallout quietly. No noise.”

“Roman won’t make noise,” I say smoothly. “He got the message loud and clear.”

Viktor raises his brows. “Which was?”

I glance at Alina. Just a glance. Barely a second.

She finally looks up.

And everything inside me stirs.

“I protect what’s mine.”

Her lips part. Her breath catches. Her eyes widen, then quickly drop back to the file as if she’s suddenly forgotten how to read.

My pulse doesn’t slow.

I feel the heat in her stare even as she looks away. The air between us charges, heavy and electric.

Viktor doesn’t catch it. But I do.

And I’m sure she does too.

Why am I fucking playing this dangerous game?

12

Lev

The house is silent when I step in. Not quite—silent. The kind of silence that wraps around you, rich and total, the way only a fortress like this can manage. I move silently through the corridor, the heavy duffel slung over my shoulder, brushing my hip with every step. My boots make no sound on the marble floors—I know this house too well to trip over anything.

Only three people know the estate’s complete layout—me, Viktor, and Zasha. And only the three of us have access to the underground vault.

I walk the path to it without hesitation, my boots whispering against the granite floor. I pass the casual sitting rooms and the soundproofed study, where Viktor conducts Bratva business likea monarch on his throne. I take the stairwell that winds beneath the east wing and arrive at the vault door—hidden behind a biometric scanner and a steel wall masked by false paneling.

I press my thumb to the scanner and wait for the soft chime to sound. The steel vault door unlocks with a heavy clunk, and the hydraulics hiss as the security lock disengages.

Inside, cold fluorescent lights flicker on automatically. The air smells like concrete and control. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the room—gunmetal-gray and perfectly labeled. Rows of cash. Lockboxes. Weapons. Passports. Blackmail folders. The real heart of the Makarov empire beats here, underneath this house.

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