The Lord's Plaything
We ran six community centers, a scholarship program, a legal aid clinic for families caught in the crossfire of organized crime.
Dante still handled the family's remaining interests—the investments, the political connections, the occasional problem that couldn't be solved with a donation. But the violence had faded to something rare and reluctant.
We had a daughter. Valentina, age three, with Dante's gray eyes and my red hair and a stubbornness that made both of us despair.
"She's going to be impossible," Dante said, watching her refuse to eat her vegetables for the fourth night in a row.
"She's going to be formidable."
Bab Populer