Surrogate for My Mafia Ex
That blue dress was hugging her curves in all the right places, marking her like a target.
A sharp, rhythmic knock rattles my office door, breaking my concentration.
“Yeah! Get the hell in here,” I bark out.
The heavy door swings open, and two of my lead lookouts from the theater detail step into the room, their posture stiff, their movements hurried.
“Morning, boss,” Marco says, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket.
“Yeah, yeah, morning, whatever. Cut the small talk. What do you two idiots want?” I ask, lowering my boots from the desk as my irritation flares.