“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.”

They stalked schoolyards and monitored pediatricians.

“So you went to Victor Moretti,” I said, tasting bile.

Pure terror washed over her features. “He promised me a clean break. He said he had the infrastructure—fake documents, erased digital footprints. He said he could make a ghost.”

“Victor never helped anyone out of charity, Elena. He operates on continue reading …