“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.”
Elena’s eyes darted to mine. She wanted to believe me—I could see the desperation in her irises—but belief had historically gotten her nearly killed. Promises in my world were just pretty lies told before the bullets started flying.
Ten minutes later, Nico was stationed in the hallway. I didn’t let him inside. Frank Keller continue reading …
