“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.”

softly. “I let you mourn because I truly believed your grief was the only thing that would keep them breathing.”

“Them?” I asked, wanting to hear her say it.

Tears finally breached her lower lashes, mixing with the rain tracking down her hollow cheeks. “Our daughters, Dante.”

The confirmation hit me like a firing squad. I turned my head away, my jaw trembling continue reading …