“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.”

brownstone in Beacon Hill. The girls were sprawled on the Persian rug, engaged in a fierce finger-painting war.

“You actually burned it all down,” she noted softly, watching me fold a newspaper.

“Most of it,” I conceded, my face lined with exhaustion but free of the old shadows. “Enough to start over.”

I looked down at the triplets. Sofia was currently continue reading …