“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.”

beside me, her arms crossed defensively, but her shoulder pressed firmly against my thigh.

“Are you sad today?” Sofia asked, looking up at me with those piercing, analytical eyes.

I surveyed my kingdom. Not the high-rises or the bank accounts, but the four beating hearts standing on the concrete beside the water.

“I am,” I told my daughter honestly. “But continue reading …