“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 won’t,” I vowed, my voice thick with tears. “I swear on my life, I won’t.”

Part 3

The ambulance idled in the downpour, its spinning cherry lights painting the St. Jude’s brickwork in harsh strokes of red and white. I stood rigid beside the gurney, watching the paramedics hook an oxygen mask over Elena’s pale face. Sofia, Lucia, and Mila clung to continue reading …