“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.”

the window, watching the sun drag itself over the Boston skyline, feeling like a gargoyle intruding on a sanctuary.

“You kept your word,” Elena rasped, her voice dry as parchment.

I pivoted instantly. “I’m still here.”

She didn’t look at me. Her frantic gaze swept the room, doing the desperate maternal arithmetic of counting heads. Only when she saw all continue reading …