“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.”

a lit match to a powder keg. Bad news was always a dangerous currency in Dante Marino’s presence.

“We found something, boss,” Nico murmured.

I didn’t turn around. My gaze remained welded to the three faint smudges that were already ripping open seven years of meticulously buried guilt and rage. “Where?” I rasped, my throat raw.

Nico closed the distance continue reading …