“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.”
pale, hollowed out. Nico kept stealing nervous glances at me through the rearview mirror.
“Frank tracked their routine,” Nico said, his voice a cautious murmur over the rhythmic thumping of the wipers. “The girls were spotted at the St. Jude church shelter in Roxbury. They show up twice a week when the food pantry opens.”
