“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.”

growled, the vibration tearing at my throat. “I think Elena was running for her life. And I think he charged her for the privilege.”

By dawn, the sky bruised into a sickly gray, weeping heavy rain against the glass. I hadn’t moved to change my clothes. The glass table was now a chaotic collage of surveillance photos, redacted reports, and the oil painting continue reading …