It was stupid to assume that would be the end of it. Mishti enjoyed only one hectic week before a loud pounding on her front door rudely pulled her out of an incredibly vivid dream involving chiseled abs, whipped cream, and a very talented tongue. The fact that her anonymous dream lover had dimples meant nothing.

Too furious to care that someone was on her doorstep in the middle of the night, she opened her front door with a growl. And then she nearly screamed.

Squinting in the harsh glare of her security lights, a bruised and shaking Ronobir held an unconscious woman soaked in blood. "I need your help," he told her, fear coming off him in waves.

His behavior reminded her of a stray animal. Don't feed it unless you intend to keep it.

"This is my younger sister. Please," he begged, a muscle twitching in his jaw as though he held back tears.

Fuck. A mafia boss was begging on her doorstep. "Set her on the dining table," she told him, eyeing the faint bloodstains streaking his torn dress shirt. "How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

Mishti knew that was a lie, but glancing at the far too-pale girl told her she couldn't worry about him now. "My medical bag is in the closet — bring it plus the stack of towels on the shelf."

She performed a quick assessment, checked her vitals, and determined that while the woman's breathing was shallow, it was steady, with no apparent head injuries. She carefully peeled back the shredded, bloody side of what once was a costly evening gown. She cursed as she noted the dark blood pooling along her abdomen. Fuck. Gunshot wounds to the core could affect multiple organs. She called out, "From the minimal tissue damage, I'd say a single-shot, medium-velocity handgun. Did you see what they used?"

"Katta," he replied, begrudging respect coloring his tone as he handed over her bag and set the towels on the table.

She took out her scissors, cutting away more of the stained fabric to expose the wound. "Trauma surgeon," she reminded him, "you pick up stuff here and there. We should see more tissue damage than this — Katta usually carries a lot of power. This must have been a long-range shot."

"It was. Bloody cowards came in through the skylight. Ananya happened to look up and see them just in time to warn everyone."

Mishti nodded, muttering to herself, "Then this is the entrance wound." She handed him a towel, demonstrating how she needed him to sweep the blood from the wound while she finished her examination. Through her gloved fingers, she carefully probed the tissue, noticing that while there was damage, no fragments were left in the wound tract. Showing him how to carefully roll his sister to one side while applying pressure to the entrance wound, Mishti quickly examined the damage on her back. "The good news is there's a clean exit wound, so we won't have to remove bullets or fragments."

He bit his lip, his voice shaking as he asked, "And the bad news?"

"We'll have to do surgery with whatever supplies I have here because I assume you won't let me bring her to the ER."

Eyes burning with anger and fear, he gruffly told her, "By now, all the hospitals are staked out. They'll wait for us."

Mishti nodded, hating how defeated Ronobir looked as he stared at his sister's unmoving body. She quickly ran to the kitchen, returning with the saline bags that had accidentally been shipped to her house the other day. "Grab a hanger from the closet and thread it with this bag." She pointed toward the top of her china cabinet. "Hang it from there. I need to start Ananya's IV to combat her dropping blood pressure. She'll need a blood transfusion too. I don't suppose you know her blood type?"

"She's A positive. But I'm O negative, so you can use me."

As she prepared the sedative, she murmured, "You're a universal blood donor." Good. We'll need to sedate Ananya — does she have any allergies or illnesses? Other drugs? Medications? She fixed him with a harsh glare, her tone serious as she told him, "If I don't have all the information, she'll die."

"No, nothing."

Mishti admired how Ronobir had a firm grip on his emotions even when his sister was his whole world. The ability to remain calm under pressure was a skill set that trauma surgeons and mob bosses had in common. Rechecking her vitals, Mishti saw that the injected anxiolytics worked efficiently. Forceps in hand, she paused, keeping her voice matter-of-fact as she warned, "Without the proper diagnostic equipment, I don't know if her organs sustained injuries. The only thing I can do is suture the wounds and give her a transfusion. After that, it's on her."

"She's strong. A fighter," Ronobir replied gruffly, busying himself with the pile of towels at the end of the table.

Pushing the curved needle through torn tissue, she murmured, "Just like her brother." An undefinable look passed between them. Gratitude? Understanding? She shook it off and bent down to her work once more. Ronobir quietly served at her side, handing her instruments, applying pressure, and keeping the wounds clear for her to apply the tiny, even sutures.

She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until she finally exhaled at the snip of the scissors. She tied off the edge with her signature reverse running whipstitch. At Ronobir's distraught expression, she reassured him, "The hell of it is over." Quickly setting up the field kit for blood transfusions, she explained, "She's going to need more blood than you can spare, but we at least can get her stable while we figure out the rest."

As Ronobir settled into a chair, he stared blankly at the tubing that filled with his blood. Mishti studied him. The flecks of blood along his cheeks somehow made him seem hot. And she wanted to lick the intricate black tattoo that peeked out of his open collar. What was wrong with her? "You're both in evening clothes," she blurted out. "Are all Chatterjee parties so exciting?" At his hesitation, she nervously added, "Not that you have to tell me anything. There's probably a lot you can't say and even more, I don't want to know."

The corners of his mouth twitched as he replied, "Our festivities generally are not without conflict. But this one took an unexpected turn. Our enemies betrayed us by aligning with Dawood's mercenaries. Even as we speak —"

Fuck. Dawood was an old mafia in Bombay. "No. Didn't hear that. I know nothing," she vehemently said. She toyed with the edge of her pajama pants, the edge stiffening as something unpleasant happened. "How did you know where I live?" Am I followed? Are your minions hiding in my flower bed right now, waiting for you to signal them to put me in cement shoes?!"

"Bollocks, that's not even—" he sputtered indignantly, "of course not."

However, as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously to him, Ronobir shifted awkwardly in his seat. He muttered, "The gambling den may track addresses for those who enter the establishment. Makes debt collection easier."

"Your job is so weird."

Letting out a surprised chuckle, he nodded at her t-shirt that read, 'Eat. Sleep. Fix stupid people.' Gray eyes twinkling, he remarked, "And your job is normal?"

Mishti started to get defensive but thought back to her nights in the ER and the staggering cornucopia of vegetables she'd seen over the years. Seriously, would people not shove up in whatever hole they could find?

Her silence amused him, and he flashed her a dimpled smirk as he said, "It seems we both find aspects of our chosen professions tedious." He suddenly glanced at his sleeping sister, his voice tight as he told Mishti, "You're an extraordinary creature. What you did for Ananya won't be forgotten. Our family owes you a debt."

Carefully cleaning his abrasions with antiseptic, she snorted softly. "Just forget my name AND address and we'll call it even."

He grabbed her hand, caressing her open palm. "Come work for us. The family's current doctor is an alcoholic vet whom we continuously have to pay off various boards so he can keep his license."

"My answer hasn't changed," Mishti told him firmly.

Ronobir smirked as he replied, "Let's see what we can do about that."