“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.”

painting a shockingly accurate portrait of my scowling face. Lucia was painting a blue sky. And Mila, true to form, was pressing three deliberate fingerprints into the corner of the canvas.

“I missed so much,” I murmured, the familiar sting of regret flaring.

Elena reached out, her fingers warm and strong, interlacing them with mine. “You missed their continue reading …