Page 4 of Imperfect Desires

Maybe tomorrow, I will understand what it truly means to no longer be a girl.

I lift my chin and adjust the neckline of the dress. The smooth fabric brushes against my collarbone. My heart feels tight, likesomeone 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.

I have spent my entire life surrounded by luxury and silence.

The marble floors of our Moscow mansion are always polished to perfection, the cold glass windows framing the snow-covered landscape outside. Bodyguards are stationed at every entrance, ensuring that no one comes or leaves without permission. Tutors drill my twin sister, Yelena, and me in languages, history, and the refined etiquette expected of the Makarov name. We live like princesses in a gilded cage—a life of privilege, but one carefully stripped of freedom.

Tomorrow, I turn eighteen.

It’s supposed to be a milestone—a step toward independence. But in the bratva, eighteen isn’t an age of freedom. It’s the age when a woman becomes valuable enough to be used as a pawn. A strategic piece to be placed on the board in whatever way benefits the family. My father hasn’t said it aloud, but I know the signs. The recent visits from other bratva heads, the whispered conversations in the hallways when they think Yelena and I can’t hear them. My future is being decided, and I have no say in it.

But that’s not what weighs on my chest tonight. What I am battling with is that I am turning the same age Viktor had been when he died.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, my fingers trailing over the fine lace of my designer dress. The delicate fabric is soft under my fingertips, but it does nothing to soften the hard edge of my reflection. My long black hair spills down my back, sleek and dark like a raven’s wings. My electric blue eyes—so much like my mother’s—stare back at me, calm and steady. I adjust my posture, lifting my chin a fraction higher, smoothing the slight crease in my dress. Every movement is measured and practiced.

The soft ticking of a distant clock fills the quiet. A sliver of pale morning light filters through the frosted window, casting a faint shimmer across the glass vanity nearby. The subtle glow highlights the delicate features of my face—the sharp cut of my cheekbones, the elegant arch of my brows. My reflection is flawless. Controlled. Exactly as it should be.

But beneath the polished exterior, a heaviness weighs in my chest.

My gaze shifts toward the silver-framed photograph resting on the vanity. A woman with dark hair and haunting blue eyes smiles back at me, her hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a young boy with the same blue eyes. My mother. And Viktor.

Viktor’s eyes stare back at me, sharp even through the soft gloss of the photograph. His smile is small, almost secretive, as if he knows something no one else does. He would have been thirty-one now. The next leader of the bratva. He would have been standing right next to my father now—controlling Moscow’s underworld with the quiet ruthlessness our family is known for.

Instead, he’s gone.

I turn away from the mirror, the echo of my shoes tapping against the marble floor as I cross the room. I open the door quietly, slipping past the ever-watchful eyes of the bodyguards stationed in the hallway. They don’t stop me. They know it is impossible for me to leave the premises on my own.

The family mausoleum stands on the far edge of the estate grounds. The towering stone archways are laced with creeping frost, the cold seeping through the thin soles of my shoes as I step inside. The air is heavy and still, the scent of stone and aged flowers thick in the quiet.

I kneel slowly in front of the shared marble slab that bears the names of both my mother and Viktor. The coldness of the stone bites into my skin through the fabric of my dress. My fingers brush over the smooth engraving, lingering on the curve of Viktor’s name.

“I’m turning eighteen tomorrow,” I whisper. The words barely stir the silence.

I bow my head, pressing my forehead lightly against the marble.

“You were eighteen,” I say softly. “The same age I’ll be tomorrow.”

The weight in my chest sharpens, pressing harder.

I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My father rarely speaks of it, but I’ve pieced together the details over the years. Viktor had just turned eighteen. He was supposed to have one final huge celebration before he was fully integrated into the Makarov organization. My mother had insisted on riding with him. They had been on their way from the estate when their car was attacked. Viktor’s body had been so badly damaged that my father only allowed a few people to see it. He was riddled with bullets and then hacked into parts. At least that is the story Nikolai, my father’s right-hand man, had told my sister and me. My mother had died instantly, too, but her body was spared.

My father never recovered from the loss, and neither had I. Papa had stepped up to fill the void, even with the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He raised us with strength and purpose, shielding us from the worst of our world while preparing us to survive in it.

But growing up in the shadow of Viktor’s absence left questions no one dared to voice. He was the firstborn. The heir. The one everyone said was destined to lead. His name was spoken like a ghost—softly, reverently, always with a sense of what could have been. Not because my father wasn’t enough, but because Viktor had been a young but promising heir.

And I can’t help but wonder… if he had lived, would things have played out the same? Would he have stood beside our father as a shield between us and the path being carved beneath our feet? Would he have challenged the idea that daughters were best used to broker power?

I’ll never know.

But even in that silence, I trust my father. I know he’s doing what he believes is best for the family and for our future.

Still… that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

I sigh and push back to my knees, pressing a kiss to the cold stone before standing.

“I wish I had known you,” I whisper.

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