“Please mister, buy this painting so we can buy bread,” three dirty triplets begged. The billionaire mafia boss stared at the canvas, his heart stopping. The woman painted on it was the wife he mourned for years. With shaking hands, he pulled out a black card and whispered, “Take me to her.”

Part 1

I did not sleep that night, because sleep is a luxury reserved for men who still trust the earth to keep its dead safely buried. I stood utterly alone in my penthouse high above Boston, watching the city’s lights bleed into the black water of the Charles River like shards of shattered glass. A glass of amber whiskey sat untouched on the mahogany continue reading …