“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.”

between us, placing the folder onto the glass coffee table with a soft thud. He slid a grainy photograph across the polished surface. “A discount pharmacy down in Dorchester. Cash transactions only. No insurance, no real name given. But the same woman has walked in twice over the last four months.”

I picked up the photo. My fingers felt numb, detached continue reading …