In other words, it was a good time to be bleeding freely on the sidewalk without attracting unwanted attention.

With Bo leaning on her shoulders, Astrid helped him through the rain and inside a white building with blue metal balconies. The inner stairwell was dim and a little dingy, but she was more concerned with how to get an injured bootlegger with a body as heavy as a sack of rocks up two flights of stairs. They took it slowly, but it wasn’t easy. He was solid muscle, slick with sweat, and his gun poked into her ribs. But as they climbed, his head dropped against hers and he murmured, “You’re doing great. Only five more steps.”

Him spouting blood like a geyser, giving her encouragement.

“Damn you,” she whispered. “Why do you have to be so wonderful? Couldn’t you just be stupid and mean? It would make my life so much easier.”

“And I wish you could be a nice Chinese girl from a humble family, but apparently we are cursed. There’s the door.”

She heaved him up the last step and pounded on a wooden door with peeling red paint and Chinese characters painted above the number seven. A young Chinese woman wearing a butterfly-patterned apron answered. She was about Astrid’s age, and when she saw them, she emitted a small squeak.

“Nei hou, Le-Ann,” Bo said cheerfully.

“Bo-Sing!” she said in a scolding tone, and then she called out something sharp in Cantonese over her shoulder and waved them inside, chatting the entire time. Astrid had no idea what she was saying, but Le-Ann clearly was familiar enough with Bo; she wondered how many times he had been here with injured employees.

Astrid helped Bo into a tiny hallway, where they were greeted by the woman’s husband, who rushed toward them in rolled-up shirtsleeves, pulling suspenders over his shoulders. He was quite handsome, possibly in his thirties, with small creases gathering on the outer corners of his eyes and mouth. When he saw Bo, he made a low noise of disapproval and shook his head at the bloodied coat. Then he looked into Astrid’s face, and she saw the surprise in his eyes.

“Magnusson,” he whispered.

“Yes, well, first things first, I seem to have been stabbed by a sharp knife,” Bo said in English.

“Of course you have,” the man said, resigned.

“Now that we have that out of the way . . . yes, you are right. This is Winter’s sister, Astrid Magnusson.”

“Miss Magnusson,” the man said with an incline of his head. “I am Dr. Moon. Did you do the stabbing?”

“No, but there’s still time,” she answered.

The doctor nearly smiled and pointed to an open door. “Bring him in here.”

The room was a small office crammed with books and shelves lined with bottles and tins. It appeared to also serve as an examination room and, from the looks of the narrow metal table, a surgery. Bo discarded his coat and suit jacket before Dr. Moon helped her get the patient into a chair.

She gathered up Bo’s cuff links and necktie and put them in his suit pocket—next to the wrapped-up idol—while he dropped his bloodied dress shirt on the metal table. When he carefully peeled off his damp undershirt, his arms corded with straining muscle, Astrid told herself not to get too excited about seeing his bare torso again. She needn’t have worried: a moment later, she was too busy being horrified by the size of the slash on his side.

“Bo!” she said mournfully.

“A scratch, right, Doc?”

Dr. Moon rolled his eyes to the ceiling, let out a long-suffering breath, and turned to Astrid. “Go with Le-Ann. It will take a little while.”

With one last look at Bo, Astrid reluctantly followed Dr. Moon’s wife into a sitting room across the hall. One of the blue metal balconies that Astrid had seen earlier overlooked the rain-slicked street below, and a pair of armchairs sat in front of it. Astrid plopped down on one of them while Le-Ann mumbled something in Cantonese and rushed off.

The room was cozy and well-appointed with lacquered furniture and paintings of mountainous landscapes. A small statue of Buddha sat on a high shelf across from the door. Astrid stared at it, trying not to think about Bo’s wound—and failing miserably—until Le-Ann came back several minutes later with a tray that she set down on a table between the armchairs. Hot tea. Astrid accepted it gratefully, happy to have something to calm her nervous stomach.

As she inhaled the fragrant steam, she took notice of other scents for the first time. Scents of things cooking in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry we showed up like this,” she told the woman, who was turning to walk away. “We’re interrupting your dinner. It smells wonderful, by the way—hou hou. Very good. At least I think I’m pronouncing that right. You probably have no idea what I’m saying, do you?”

Though Astrid knew the woman didn’t speak English like her husband, she kept talking, nonetheless. Out of nervousness, perhaps. A need for comfort.

“If your husband takes care of my brother’s men, I bet you have a lot of people showing up at odd hours. I hope he pays your husband well. It looks like you both do okay,” she said, waving her hand around the room. “Your home is very nice. A lot nicer than I imagined from the state of the building. Bo’s old apartment is like that, too. His building looks sketchy from the street, but it’s nice on the inside.”

Le-Ann crossed her arms over her butterfly apron and tilted her head, murmuring a question in Cantonese.

Astrid tried to imagine what she’d be asking. “Oh, I’ve only been inside Bo’s apartment once, just for a few minutes when I was younger. It was nothing improper. Unfortunately,” she added under her breath. “I recently found out he’s got an old girlfriend who lives in that building. Her name is Sylvia Fong. I don’t suppose you’d know her?”