“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.”
The vow hung heavy in the cramped apartment. She knew the Herculean effort it took for me to say those words. She knew exactly how close the apex predator inside me was to walking out that door and painting the seaport red with Moretti’s blood.
“Then how do we survive this?” she pleaded.
I looked over my shoulder. Lucia was holding Mila’s continue reading …
