“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.”

“She was pregnant,” I said into the quiet car. It wasn’t a question.

“We don’t know that for absolute certain, boss,” Nico deflected gently.

I stared down at the photograph crinkled in my fist. The three little girls formed a defensive perimeter around Elena. Even through the blur of the lens, I could see the stubborn tilt of their chins, the fierce,continue reading …