“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.”

His hand darted into his bespoke coat for a concealed weapon.

I didn’t think. I reacted. I stepped inside his guard, deflected his drawing arm with my left forearm, and slammed my right palm upward into his jaw, driving his skull back into the steel barrel. He slumped instantly, groaning. I stood over him, my knee pressed into his throat, my fist cocked continue reading …