Surrogate for My Mafia Ex
He ushers me through the back doors and out to the massive, sprawling driving range.
I find Anthony Scarfo standing alone on the manicured grass. He’s dressed in an expensive polo shirt, swinging a titanium golf club powerfully at a ball, sending it rocketing off into the distant fog. The desk attendant quickly scurries back inside, leaving us completely alone in the open air.
“Scarfo,” I say, projecting my voice over the quiet expanse of the green as I step up to him, offering my hand.
He pauses his swing. He turns his head, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto my outstretched hand. A slow, arrogant smirk spreads across his face before he grabs my hand, shaking it firmly.