The body was still warm when Dimitri Ivanov took a slow drag from his cigarette, watching as his men handled the mess. The alleyway reeked of blood and gunpowder.

Then she stumbled in.

A woman—tipsy, swaying on unsteady heels—wandered right into the scene. Her dress shimmered under the dim streetlights, her hair was slightly tousled from the night’s revelry, and her laughter was soft.

“Oh,” she giggled, stopping just a few feet from the corpse. “Did I crash a party?”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow, flicking ash from his cigarette. His men froze.

She laughed.

“Did he owe you money?” she asked, gesturing toward the dead man. “Or did he just have a really bad personality?”

One of his men, Mikhail, tensed. “Boss, you want me to—”

Dimitri lifted a hand, silencing him. This woman—whoever she was—was either fearless or too drunk to realize she should be. Either way, it was entertaining.

She stumbled again, and before she could fall flat on her face, Dimitri reached out, catching her by the wrist. Her skin was warm, soft against his rough grip. Her hazy eyes locked onto his, bold and utterly uninhibited.

“Well, well,” she murmured, tilting her head. “You’re kinda handsome for a killer.”

He smirked. “And you’re kinda reckless for a drunk.”

*She giggled^. “Guilty as charged.”

Dimitri studied her. He should have ordered her taken care of—should have had her disappeared before she could sober up and remember too much. But something about her amused him. Interested him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She blinked, as if trying to remember. Then, with a slow, mischievous grin, she whispered, “Guess.”

Dimitri chuckled, pulling her in just a little closer.

Oh, printsessa… You have no idea what you just walked into.