“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.”

sprawling, indifferent grid of concrete and neon that had hidden my family in plain sight while I sat up here, playing king of the ashes.

“What else do you have?” I asked, my voice deadly calm.

Nico flipped the folder open. “Frank Keller dug up the old fire report from Interstate Ninety-Three. There are massive inconsistencies.”

“Explain.”

“The body in continue reading …