“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.”

final report?” I demanded.

Nico slid the final page toward me. “Victor Moretti.”

The name hit the room like a localized earthquake. Victor Moretti. He was a slick, politically connected fixer who wore bespoke suits and maintained flawlessly manicured, filthy hands. He had a smile Elena once noted belonged to a man who knew exactly where the bodies were continue reading …