“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.”

buried because he held the shovels. Moretti had vanished to Europe a month after Elena’s funeral, leaving a trail of sealed court files and offshore wire transfers that I had been too drowned in scotch to investigate.

Nico lowered his gaze. “Boss… do you think Moretti helped her vanish?”

My fists clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white. “No,” I continue reading …