“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.”

in a federal holding cell, singing like a canary to save his own skin. Corrupt judges stepped down. Frozen accounts were seized. The men who thought they owned Boston realized the foundation had just been ripped out from under them.

My hands weren’t entirely clean. I spent weeks in deposition rooms, signing over massive portfolios of illicit business,continue reading …