Surrogate for My Mafia Ex
It’s the only unorganized thing in the room, tossed carelessly near the edge as if he had thrown it down in a hurry.
My fingers tremble as I reach for it. Part of me is terrified of what I’ll find, graphic, bloody mafia images of bodies left in alleys. I brace myself, unthreading the string tie, and slide the stack of glossy papers into the light.
My breath hitches. “Michelle,” I gasp, my vision blurring in shock.