“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.”

to ask me for a dime.

Part 2

The rain hammered down on Boston with a violent, biblical intensity, as if the sky itself was desperately trying to scrub away seven years of institutional rot and deceit. But I knew better than anyone that some bloodstains never wash out. I bypassed my closet entirely, stalking out of the penthouse in my wrinkled dress shirt continue reading …