“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.”

only a hollow ache. Violence had always been my default currency, but every bullet fired now would ricochet right into Room 412.

“What’s your play, then?” I rasped.

“Paper trails,” Luca urged. “We hand the extortion evidence over to the Feds. We leverage our political contacts. We use the law. Clean hands, Dante.”

Clean hands. It sounded like a fairy continue reading …