Page 83 of Imperfect Desires

“No confirmation yet. Just whispers. Someone’s shaking trees. Looking hard.”

I freeze.

My heart leaps to my throat. The Bratva is looking for me. Of course, I expected them to, but hearing it renews my hope.

Mendes’s jaw ticks. “Is Viktor back?”

“I don’t know. But whoever is leading this is loud. Money’s moving. Calls are being made. He is not relenting and they’re leaving no stone unturned.”

Mendes cuts the call, his fingers tightening around the phone. The smooth calm he wore like a mask begins to crack. I can see it—the sudden shift from smug bastard to calculating predator.

His next call is to his sleezy doctor.

“Henaro,” he says, voice low and urgent. “We need to change plans. Can you do the procedure at the house?”

A pause.

Mendes nods. “Pills then. Bring whatever you need. I want it done right now.”

My stomach twists violently.

He ends the call and turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Change of plans, dear wife. No clinic. Too much noise. Looks like we’re going back home.”

The driver silently adjusts the course of our trip.

Mendes studies me like I’m a book he already knows the ending to. “Don’t bother hoping, Alina. No one’s coming.”

I look away again, but this time I’m not crying. I’m thinking about how to best his evil doctor.

30

Lev

The night breathes around us—cool, quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that only comes before violence.

I crouch low beside a rusted shipping container, binoculars pressed to my face. A hundred meters away, framed by floodlights and chain-link fencing, stands the compound.

Mendes’s safehouse.

It’s worse than I expected.

The place isn’t just guarded—it’s fortified. Armed men walk the perimeter in staggered shifts, rotating every five minutes like clockwork. There are motion detectors near the east wall.Cameras positioned high in the corners. The main gate is reinforced steel. The kind used for keeping people out—or in.

Smart bastard. He knew someone would come looking. But what he doesn’t know is that nothing—no lock, no army, no concrete fortress—is enough to keep me from her.

I lower the binoculars slowly, jaw clenched.

Anton shifts beside me in the brush, his rifle slung across his back. “Too many eyes,” he mutters. “Not just posted—they’re patrolling like they expect war.”

“They’ll get one,” I say coldly.

He glances over, waiting for orders.

I scan again, tracking guard paths, noting intervals. I spot a potential blind spot along the northern edge—just a few seconds of overlap, but enough. There’s a vent system snaking out from the west wing. Possibly a weak point. The second floor has no patrols. Either they’re arrogant… or they’ve got something or someone inside that is worth hiding.

My muscles tense.

Alina.

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