The Sex Symbol the Don Will Never Keep

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a robe, and checked my phone. The Page Six headline was gone.

Refresh. The photo grid on Twitter was gone, too.

I typed "Vincenzo Genevieve" into the search bar. Scrubbed from the internet.

I chuckled.

Only one person in New York had the power to do that.

True, a marriage between two major families involved both the legal and underground worlds. They couldn't make a public spectacle of it.

But if it wasn't true, why go to such lengths to delete it?

I tossed my phone onto the bed.

No wonder he walked out without looking back yesterday. He was getting married. He couldn't even be bothered to buy me gifts anymore.

Too bad. I never got the deed to this penthouse.

For the next three days, Vincenzo didn't call. I didn't either.

When Martha brought in my breakfast, she hesitated.

"Miss, the Boss hasn't..."

"Martha," I stirred my coffee. "Did he say I need to move out?"

"...No, but—"

"Then we're fine."

I smiled.

But on the fourth morning, I stood in the foyer with my luggage.

Martha stood by the door, her eyes red.

"Miss, are you sure you won't wait?"

"Wait for what?" I dropped the keycard on the console table. "Wait for him to bring his fiancée home?"

She was speechless.

"This place was never mine anyway," I said. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years."

I slid the box with the Cartier sapphires over to her.

I moved back to Brooklyn.

To the tiny apartment I bought with my first movie paycheck seven years ago. It faced north and was freezing in the winter.

But the door was mine. The windows were mine. The bed was mine.

Harper came over that night. She slammed her hand on the table and declared we were going out.

"Come on, I'm taking you to Pegasus. I'm buying out the VIP room and every hot guy in it for you tonight."

Pegasus was the most expensive male strip club on the Upper East Side.

The moment I sat on the couch, seven or eight beefcakes in leather pants surrounded us.

Oiled pecs, fake smiles, and cloying cologne.

"Champagne, ladies?"

"Back off."

"Wanna dance, gorgeous?"

"I said back off."

I rubbed my temples.

Harper was already sandwiched between two blondes, drinking heavily. "Chloe!" she yelled, drunk. "Are you still thinking about Vincenzo?!"

The whole VIP room turned to look. I dragged her to the corner.

"Harper, shut up."

"I thought you were over him!" She slurred. "Then let loose and have fun!"

"...We were never boyfriend and girlfriend."

Her eyes went wide.

"What?"

"He was my keeper. I was his pretty little pet." I grabbed her drink and downed it. "Seven years ago, he paid off my two-million-dollar debt. Five years ago, he opened the doors to Hollywood for me. I paid with my body, he bought his fun. Fair trade."

Harper’s jaw dropped.

"...You should have told me."

"And what would you have done?"

She went quiet for a moment, then suddenly slumped on the table, crying.

"You have the right idea... Being single is great... I regret saying yes to Mason's proposal. Marriage is so boring..."

I clamped my hand over her mouth.

"Are you crazy? If your jealous fiancé hears that, I'm a dead woman tomorrow."

But I jinxed it.

Half an hour later, the VIP door was kicked open.

Mason stood there, his face dark. His suit and tie were a mess, like he'd just fought his way out of Wall Street.

Without a word, he scooped Harper off the couch, threw her over his shoulder, and walked out.

Harper waved at me upside down. "Bye Chloe!"

Me: "..."

The room went dead silent.

The muscle boys looked at me, then at the door.

I grabbed my purse and stood up. "Party's over. We're done for the night."

I walked out the back door and ordered an Uber in the alley.

1 AM in Brooklyn. The streetlamp by the dumpster was flickering.

A black SUV pulled up silently at the end of the alley. The window rolled down.

"Miss Bennett."

I looked up.

Lorenzo was leaning back in the driver's seat, smoking. He had dark circles under his eyes.

Vincenzo's underboss. The guy from the study who said "the boys are waiting to celebrate."

I turned to walk away.

"Hey, hey, hey—" He got out and blocked my path. "Miss, I'm begging you."

"Begging me for what?"

"The Boss is on a warpath."

I paused.

"He's locked himself in the underground vault for three days," Lorenzo pleaded. "Cleaning guns, drinking. He bites the head off anyone who goes in. Today he even smashed his phone on a call with Don Salvatore."

"Not my problem."

"Miss." He opened the back door. "What did you two even fight about? Just go see him, please?"

Before I could argue, he grabbed my shoulders.

"Let me go!"

"Forgiveness later, Miss."

The next second, I was shoved into the backseat. The door slammed shut.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV stopped at the back door of a downtown Manhattan casino. The same place my dress was ripped seven years ago.

Lorenzo pulled me out and dragged me all the way to the deepest VIP room.

He pushed the door open and shoved me inside.