“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.”

the same frigid Boston air.

My eyes dragged over the three little girls in the photograph. They were huddled together, painfully thin and unnaturally still. Even through the grainy lens, I could see they carried the same guarded, defensive posture Elena used whenever my violent world bled too close to her sanctuary.

“There are children,” I said. It wasn’t continue reading …