THE LITTLE GIRL ASKED TO SIT WITH A STRANGER—BUT HER MOTHER NEVER EXPECTED THE MAFIA BOSS TO RECOGNIZE HER FACE

stayed visible.

At ten precisely, Vincent Callaway walked down the center aisle.

Sixty years old.

Charcoal suit.

Gray vest.

A face weathered by a life nobody would choose if they knew the cost.

He slid into the pew beside Damen and placed a black leather portfolio between them.

“You cost me Marcus,” Callaway said. “An eight-year investment.”

“Marcus was your continue reading …