“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.”

out from behind a stack of shipping pallets. He looked older, the gray in his hair more pronounced, but he still wore that repulsive, patrician smirk. Two massive Russian contractors flanked him, their hands hovering near their waistbands.

“Dante,” Moretti echoed, his voice slick with false warmth. “I always hypothesized that grief would eventually continue reading …