“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.”
that had suddenly torn the veil between the living and the dead.
At noon, my younger brother Luca slammed through the penthouse doors. He brought the sharp smell of espresso and furious suspicion. “You blew off the Caruso syndicate negotiation over a damn painting?” he shouted, stopping dead when he finally processed my face.
