“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.”
On the exact anniversary of the night I found them at St. Jude’s, I drove them down to the Charles River. The city lights sparkled across the water, but they no longer looked like broken glass. They looked like stars.
Mila slipped her small, sticky hand into my left palm. Lucia leaned heavily against Elena’s hip. Sofia stood independently continue reading …
