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"Thank you for your expert medical opinion." The words could be sarcastic, but her tone suggests genuine gratitude beneath the protective barrier of irony.

I return to my seat, reclaiming my vodka. "You fought well tonight. Most people would have been overwhelmed immediately by two trained operatives."

"Most people aren't raised by Mikhail Markov." She takes another sip of vodka, watching me over the rim of her glass. "Though I suspect you already know quite a bit about me, Viktor with no surname."

A test of her own.

"Baranov," I supply smoothly. "Viktor Baranov."

"And what brings Viktor Baranov to Paris on a night when Anastasia Markov happens to need rescuing?"

I smile slightly. "Business."

"What kind of business involves following women from their hotels?"

Direct. Observant. Unafraid to challenge. Definitely not what I expected from Markov's sheltered princess.

"I wasn't following you specifically," I say, offering a half-truth. "I was conducting surveillance on certain parties who operate in that district. You happened to walk into their territory."

"And you just happened to intervene when they attacked me."

"I don't like watching innocent people get hurt." Another stretch of the truth. I've watched plenty of innocent people suffer when the mission required it. But something about her walking into that ambush triggered an unexpected protective response I'm still analyzing.

"How do you know I'm innocent?" Her question carries genuine curiosity.

I study her. "We're all guilty of something, Anastasia Mikhailovna. But whatever your sins might be, they didn't deserve that particular punishment tonight."

She leans back, ice pack pressed against her side, expression thoughtful. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"From someone with your obvious training and capabilities?" She gestures vaguely toward the window, indicating the alley where I dispatched her attackers. "Cold. Mercenary. Opportunistic."

"And I'm not those things?"

Her eyes meet mine, unnervingly perceptive. "Oh, you're all of those things. But there's something else too. Something unexpected."

I maintain a neutral expression, though internally I'm recalibrating my assessment of her. This is not some naïve socialite playing at independence. This woman sees too much, understands too much.

Dangerous.

"You still haven't answered my question," she continues. "What business brings Viktor Baranov to Paris?"

I consider my options. Complete lies would insult her intelligence. Complete truth would destroy my cover and jeopardize five years of planning. A blend, then—enough truth to be convincing, enough omission to remain secure.

"I have interests that occasionally overlap with your father's organization," I say carefully. "Import-export operations, primarily."

"Bratva, then." She says it matter-of-factly, no judgment in her tone.

"I prefer to think of myself as an independent contractor with selective clientele."

That earns a genuine laugh, surprising in its warmth. "A mercenary with standards. How refreshing."

"We all have standards, Anastasia. The question is whether we're fortunate enough to live by them." I finish my vodka, setting the glass aside. "Now perhaps you'll answer a question of mine."

"Fair exchange," she agrees.

"What is Mikhail Markov's only daughter doing wandering the streets of Paris alone, without security, in the territory of organizations that would love nothing more than to use her against her father?"