“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.”

He brought a Russian wet-work team.”

I looked up. Elena was staring at me, the wooden spoon trembling in her grip. From the living room, Mila’s innocent giggle rang out over a cartoon.

I hung up the phone slowly. The past hadn’t just knocked on the door. It was holding a battering ram.

Part 4

For three agonizing seconds after I spoke Victor Moretti’s continue reading …