“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.”

the odds of taking me in a street fight.

“I said go. It’s fine,” Elena whispered.

The triplets retreated into the parish hall, but they never took their eyes off me. I watched them go, noting the frayed hems of their pants, the way one of them dragged her foot to keep a broken sole from flapping on the wet tile. Guilt detonated inside me. I commanded continue reading …