“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 tried a dozen times! But every time I geared up to say it, the reality of who you are crashed through the front door.”

My mind violently snapped back to the basement of Trattoria Rossi. A rival associate screaming. The sickening crunch of bone. The blood pooling on the concrete, and Elena standing frozen at the top of the stairwell, her face drained continue reading …