“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.”

glass of the table just to keep my knees from buckling.

“When was this taken?” I demanded.

“Three weeks ago,” Nico answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Three weeks. While I had been sitting in mahogany boardrooms, breaking men financially, threatening rivals, and ruling this city through calibrated intimidation, my dead wife had been breathing continue reading …