“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.”
I crossed the flooded asphalt, stopping ten feet from the shelter’s awning. My security detail stayed in the cars. I didn’t want to look like a mob boss arriving to collect a debt. I just looked like a drenched, broken man.
Then, three small silhouettes stepped out from the warm yellow light of the doorway.
