Page 5 of Imperfect Desires

My footsteps echo off the marble as I leave the mausoleum. The cold bites at my cheeks, but I don’t bother adjusting my coat.

When I return to my room, Yelena is standing in the doorway, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders in perfect waves. Yelena and I are physically identical, but that is where our similarities end. She is more like our father in character—dark and sharp, her beauty is edged with a ruthless kind of calculation. She raises a brow at the half-packed suitcase sitting on my bed.

“Are you done packing?”

“Almost,” I say, walking toward the bed. I zip the suitcase with a measured click, aligning the edges of the fabric perfectly before stepping back.

Yelena’s gaze sweeps over me, her expression cool. “Jeez, Alina. It’s just a trip. Stop acting as though you're being sent off to join the circus.”

A trip?

Our father has arranged for us to fly to New York with him for our eighteenth birthday. He says it’s a celebration—a chance for us to see the world outside of Moscow. But I know better. My father never does anything without an agenda. I know he’s already started arranging our future; there are whispers of alliances and power moves with other bratva families flying around the mansion already.

“Maybe it’s more than just a trip,” I say carefully.

Yelena’s gaze sharpens, then she shrugs. “Maybe.”

I watch as she crosses the room; her manicured fingers trailing over the sleek edge of the vanity. She lifts a crystal perfume bottle and sprays a delicate mist over her wrist.

“I still think your fears are unfounded,” Yelena says.

“I hope so.”

“But even if Papa is taking us on this trip to show us off to potential suitors, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“What?” I look at her incredulously. “Don’t you want to have a say in the man you marry?”

“I do not really care. So far, he comes from a reputable family.”

“And that’s that?”

Yelena smiles faintly.“Qui.”She replies in French.

I swallow hard, feeling the coldness of that truth settle on my chest. Our lives aren’t truly our own. We were born into this game—and we’ll play it whether we want to or not.

Yelena’s gaze flicks toward the window, where the dark outline of our father’s guards stands at their posts below. Her lips curve faintly.

“Besides,” she says, “it’s New York. The Big Apple. I have been dying to explore it.”

I laugh under my breath, but a chill slides through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I lift my chin and adjust the neckline of the dress. The smooth satin brushes against my collarbone. My heart feels tight, like someone is pressing down on my chest from the inside. I take a breath, but it doesn’t help.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Or maybe nothing will change at all.

The Safehouse in New York is quiet.

It’s a private, heavily guarded building- more like a mansion. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the glittering skyline, with the pale glow of city lights reflecting off the polished marble floors. The air carries a faint scent of expensive leather and aged scotch.

Yelena stands beside me near the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest. Our father is seated across the room on one of the black leather couches. He swirls the dark amber liquid in his glass slowly, his expression thoughtful.

“There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell the both of you.” He says.

His tone is calm, even—but there’s something beneath it. A weight. A warning. I sit up straighter. Yelena’s gaze sharpens beside me.

“You are adults now,” he continues, his eyes sliding toward us. “And deserve to know the truth.”

My stomach knots. The room feels too quiet, the air too thin. This is it; I was right to be apprehensive about this trip.

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