“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.”

look at their “widower” with resigned dread.

“Elena,” I choked out. The name felt like shards of glass tearing up my throat.

She flinched. Her knuckles turned white against the doorframe. “Girls,” she instructed, her voice fragile but laced with steel. “Go inside. Now.”

They hesitated. The bold one jutted her chin out, staring me down as if she was calculating continue reading …