“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.”

boxes of high-end boots. I also brought sketchpads and charcoal—remembering how Elena used to say a world without art was a prison.

Sofia inspected the new boots as if inspecting a bomb. “Are we supposed to act grateful now?” she challenged, crossing her arms.

“No,” I replied evenly.

Her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. “Then why did you buy them?”

“Because continue reading …