“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.”

matches, slaps to the face, furious accusations. But this quiet, factual devastation was worse. She had done exactly what a good mother should do.

“I want to know them,” I pleaded, my voice cracking.

“I know.”

“They belong to me.”

“They belong to themselves!” Elena fired back, her protective instincts flaring. “They are not collateral, Dante! They aren’t continue reading …