“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.”

me glaring at a brightly lit vending machine. I was tapping my platinum card against the glass, utterly baffled as to why the coils wouldn’t release a bag of pretzels.

“You don’t know how a vending machine works, do you?” a small voice piped up.

I looked down. Lucia stood there in an oversized hospital gown, her arms crossed.

“I own twelve Michelin-starred continue reading …