Chapter 1 - The Portrait on Newbury Street
The Boston wind whipped down Newbury Street, carrying the sharp, bitter chill of October, but Dante Russo felt none of it. His eyes were fixed on the small canvas propped against the red brick wall, and beneath his tailored overcoat, his heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal.
Seven years.
For seven long years, he had lived with the phantom of a burning car on Interstate 93. He had watched the flames consume the wreckage, had identified the charred bracelet, and had stood dry-eyed in the Cambridge rain while dirt was shoveled over a mahogany casket. He had built an empire on blood, grit, and calculated coldness because the one thing that had ever made him human had been ripped away.
Yet here, standing in front of three shivering, auburn-haired little girls, was a living, breathing brushstroke of her face.
"How much?" Dante had asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
Now, crouching on the cold pavement, Dante looked into the wide, green eyes of the boldest triplet. Her small fingers trembled as she clutched the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills he had thrust into her hand.
"Why?" the little girl asked again, her chin lifting with a stubborn defiance that belonged entirely to Elena. "Why are you giving us so much money for a painting?"
"Because it's worth a lot more than you think," Dante said quietly, his gaze shifting to the canvas. The brushwork was unmistakable. It was Elena’s unique style—the way she captured light playing across water, the way she made the subject look as though they were about to speak. "Where did you get this?"
"Mom painted it," the second sister spoke up, clutching the folded scarf tighter around her neck. "Before she got really sick. She said if we were ever freezing and starving, we should bring it out here and sell it to someone who looked like they had a lot of money."
Dante stood up slowly, motioning to his head of security. "Nico."
Nico stepped forward instantly, his face a mask of professional vigilance. "Yes, Boss?"
"Cancel the dinner at the North End," Dante ordered, his eyes never leaving the children. "And get the medical team out to the vehicle right now. We're going for a house call."
"Boss, your meeting with the Moretti syndicate—"
"I don't give a damn about Moretti," Dante cut him off, a lethal edge sharpening his voice. "Find out where these children live. Right now."
May you like
The boldest girl stepped backward, clutching the cash to her chest. "Hey! You said you just wanted the painting!"
"I want the painting," Dante said, gently lifting the canvas by its wooden frame and sliding it into the protective leather portfolio one of Nico's men carried. "And I want to see your mother. Because if Elena Ward is alive, someone in this city is about to answer for a very long, very painful lie."
