The Surrogate for My Don
I was painting a field of lavender, the purple flowers swaying in the breeze.
"News from Chicago," Alex said, his voice neutral, walking up behind me with a tablet.
"What news?" I didn't look up, just kept mixing my paints.
"Victor Moretti is dead."
My hand didn't even flinch. I dipped my brush into a pool of lavender paint.
"Oh," I said.
Just that. One syllable. An ending.
"You don't want to know how?" Alex asked.
I finally looked up at him, a small, real smile on my lips. "He's not my problem anymore, Alex," I said, my brush never faltering. "He's just a name from another lifetime."
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