“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.”

wrist.

Instinct overrode my paralysis. I reached out to grab her shoulders. “I’m getting you to Mass General. Now.”

She slapped my hand away with shocking force. “No!”

“Elena, you have cancer. You need oncologists, not a soup kitchen.”

“I said no!” she gasped, leaning heavily on the brick. “Hospitals demand Social Security numbers. They dig into backgrounds.continue reading …