“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.”

defiant glare in their eyes. My eyes. My chin.

“I know,” I rasped.

The drive to Roxbury felt like a descent into purgatory. Time stretched and warped. Every red light was a physical torment; every happy family huddled beneath an umbrella on the sidewalk felt like a personal accusation. I had spent years viewing myself as a ruthless kingpin, untouchable continue reading …