Chapter 1 - The Portrait of a GhostThe wind off Boston Harbor didn't just bite that October evening; it tore through wool and leather like a blade. Dante Russo didn't feel it. His fingers, calloused from decades of handling triggers, ledgers, and the quiet execution of underworld business, hovered just inches from the rough canvas.
The paint was fresh. Not old, cracked museum oil, but acrylic mixed with linseed oil, smelling faintly of turpentine and cheap mineral spirits.
"She painted it herself, mister," the smallest triplet whispered, clutching her torn coat tighter around her thin shoulders. Her voice trembled, carrying the hollow echo of a child who hadn't eaten since yesterday's noon. "Momma always paints when her chest hurts. She says it keeps her from floating away."
Dante’s jaw tightened until the bone ached. Elena Ward was dead. He had paid off the medical examiner, bribed the state troopers, and stared into the charred, unrecognizable heap of steel and flesh on Interstate 93 seven years ago. He had buried an empty casket under a heavy granite stone in Cambridge because there had been nothing left of her to put in the ground.
Or so he had been led to believe.
"Nico," Dante said without turning his head. His voice was a low, controlled growl that made his chief enforcer take an involuntary half-step back.
"Boss?"
"Cancel the meeting with Salvatore. Tell him I’m dead if he asks."
"Dante—Salvatore controls the docks—"
"I said cancel it." Dante stood up slowly, towering over the streetlamp's sickly yellow glow. He carefully lifted the small canvas from the brick wall, his thumb brushing the corner where a signature was scrawled in delicate, familiar cursive: E. Ward, '26.
May you like
Fresh ink. This year. This month.
"Take us to her," Dante commanded, looking down at the three identical faces staring up at him with his dead wife’s eyes. "Now."
