I’ve got a killer hourglass figure and siren eyes. In Hollywood, I’m the ultimate sex symbol.

But after five years in this town, not a single producer would dare lay a finger on me.

Because the man in my bed is Don Vincenzo, the most ruthless mafia boss in New York.

Seven years together. Every time we finished, he’d hold me close, kiss me, and carry me to the bathroom to clean me up.

I naively thought I’d be the only woman by his side. That I'd even be his Donna.

Until the night of my 28th birthday. After the family dinner, I heard him sneer to his underboss: "Chloe is fun to play with, but for my Donna, I have other options."

In that instant, I ripped out my cheap, pathetic heart. I became exactly what he wanted: a perfect mistress who only cared about his money.

But Vincenzo didn't seem to like that.

His dark, dangerous eyes locked onto mine. "Besides this Manhattan penthouse, is there really nothing else you want from me?"

I wrapped my arms around his neck, letting out a fake gasp of surprise. "You mean I can pick out a Ferrari, too?"

Vincenzo got out of bed without a word.

I stared at his back.

The scratch marks I left last night trailed from his shoulder blades down to the dimples of his lower back. The dark purple hickey on his neck was coldly hidden away as he pulled on his turtleneck.

"Are you mad?" I tried to keep my voice soft.

His hands paused on his tie.

"...Vincenzo?"

"Shut up."

I froze.

He slipped on his suit jacket, not even glancing at me.

The door slammed shut, making the whole penthouse shudder.

I sat on the bed, hugging my knees. I stared at where he just sat. The sheets were still warm.

Strange.

What's wrong with asking for money?

He’s the Don of New York. He sneezes, and the East Coast catches a cold. Is he really short on cash for a Ferrari?

The man burns through half my yearly acting salary on cigars every month.

I hesitated and grabbed my phone. My thumb hovered over his name for a long time.

Then, I put it down.

When Vincenzo is in a bad mood, it’s best to stay away.

After seven years, I know the rules better than anyone.

I got up and walked barefoot to the back of the walk-in closet.

There was a climate-controlled safe. The passcode was my birthday. He set it himself.

Inside sat six Cartier jewelry sets. One-of-a-kind pieces from Swiss underground auctions. One-of-a-kind. Getting them out of the vault alone took three signatures.

When he won them for me, he bit my ear and whispered, "Wear them. Show those old Hollywood bastards who you belong to."

I pulled out the deepest box—the sapphires. The first set he ever gave me. I kept it.

For the other five, I snapped pictures one by one.

I opened an encrypted app and texted a number I hadn't touched in five years.

"Five sets. Take all. Cash."

Instant reply: "Miss Bennett, usual rules. 30% off."

"20% off. Delivery tonight."

"...Deal."

I tossed my phone onto the floor. Standing barefoot on the hardwood, I actually laughed.

I had no use for this stuff anyway.

Wear the same piece twice on the red carpet, and you're a joke.

If I wasn't going to be his plus-one at those elite galas anymore, these rocks were just cold stones in a safe.

Selling them wouldn't buy a top-tier Ferrari, but a base model would do.

I neatly stacked the empty boxes back and locked the safe.

I slept like a baby that night.

But at 9 AM the next morning, a frantic call woke me up.

"Chloe, did you and Vincenzo break up?!" Harper screamed.

I shot up in bed.

"What?"

"All of New York is talking about it! Have you not checked your phone?!"

"...It was on silent."

"Check Page Six! Front page!"

I put her on speaker and opened Safari.

The latest headline burned my eyes.

[EXCLUSIVE] Godfather Don Vincenzo Meets Secretly with Chicago's Conti Heiress at Long Island Estate. Mafia Princess Genevieve Poised to be the Next Donna!

Below was a grid of nine photos.

Long Island. The white mansion. The rose garden I’d visited countless times. A blonde woman was wearing Vincenzo’s black trench coat, smiling back at him, barefoot on the grass.

Vincenzo stood behind her, looking down at her. His eyes held a tenderness he never gave to me.

I recognized that coat.

Custom Brioni. The inner left collar had my initial embroidered on it—C.

I stared at that 'C' for a very long time.

"Chloe?" Harper asked cautiously. "...Are you okay?"

I scrolled down to the comments.

Top comment: "Now that's a power couple. The Conti Princess and the Marchetti Don. A perfect match."

Second: "Look at that cheap mistress who slept her way up. Seven years and not even a ring. Pathetic."

Third: "An actress bimbo thinking she could be the Donna? Keep dreaming."

I liked the comment.

"Chloe!" Harper was on the verge of tears. "Don't scare me, say something."

"I'm fine."

"Seven years, how could he..."

"Harper," I cut her off. "I sold five sets of Cartier yesterday."

"...What?"

"The cash cleared. I'm treating you to dinner tonight at Per Se."

Dead silence on the other end.

"Did you hear me?" I asked.

"Chloe..." Her voice shook. "Are you really not sad?"

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The Manhattan skyline stretched out beneath me, gray and washed out like an old canvas.

I looked at my reflection in the glass. Siren eyes, pouty lips, an hourglass waist.

I was the most expensive face in Hollywood, and the most expensive plaything of the mafia don.

I curled my lips into a smile.

Sad? What right did I have to be sad?

I hung up and tossed my phone into the couch cushions.

Walking into the bathroom, I let the hot water run. Steam fogged up the mirror.

I wiped it with my hand, and my face blurred into view.

My mind drifted back to seven years ago.

I was twenty-one. My father owed a Brooklyn underground casino two million dollars.

The day the debt collectors came, he fell to his knees, shoved me forward, and said, "She's worth the price."

I was wearing a secondhand red dress when they dragged me into the casino basement.

"Damn, look at this body."

The guy ripping my dress had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Ash fell onto my collarbone, burning a red mark into my skin.

The dress tore from my neckline down to my waist. I curled up in the corner, biting my lower lip to keep from screaming.

Click. The basement door opened.

Dead silence fell over the room.

Italian leather shoes stepped onto the blood-stained concrete and stopped right in front of me.

I looked up. That was the first time I saw Vincenzo Marchetti.

He was thirty. Slicked-back black hair, strong brow bone. His icy blue eyes were deep and as cold as the Hudson River in winter.

He didn't even look at me. He just took off his suit jacket, tossed it over me, and said in a low voice:

"Buy her a dress."

His men instantly replied, "Yes, Don."

I didn't know what "Don" meant back then.

All I knew was that my heart was racing.

The changing room was on the second floor. I put on the new dress and leaned against the sink, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Outside the door, those thugs were still there.

"Fuck, the Boss has his eye on her."

"So what?" The guy who ripped my dress scoffed. "He'll play with her for a night and toss her aside. The women who've been in the Don's bed could line up from here to Long Island."

"She'll be crawling back tomorrow on her knees, begging us to pay off her debt."

"With a body like that, I'm gonna make her get on her knees and..."

I pushed the door open and walked out, grabbing a wine bottle from the sink.

The moment the thug turned around, I smashed the bottle over his head.

Glass shattered everywhere. Blood splattered on my new dress.

At the end of the hallway, Vincenzo was leaning against the wall, smoking. Watching me.

That was the first time I saw him smile.

He said something in Italian to his men. I only found out what it meant later.

"I'll take the wildcat."

Day two, he paid off the two million.

Day three, he moved me into the Manhattan penthouse.

Day four, he asked, "What do you want?"

I said, "I want to be the biggest star in Hollywood."

He laughed and flicked his ash.

"Done."

Three months later, laundered Marchetti money poured into a Universal blockbuster. The lead actress contract was handed to me.

Five years. Five blockbuster hits.

Not a single producer in Hollywood dared to touch a hair on my head.

Because they knew—touching me meant going to war with Don Vincenzo.

I thought I was special.

I thought that over those seven years, every kiss, every hug, every gentle moment when he carried me to the bathroom to wash me... was real.

I thought I'd be his Donna.

Until six months ago.

The family dinner at the Long Island estate on my 28th birthday.

I was wearing a Valentino couture gown Vincenzo picked out himself. I walked in from the terrace to find him.

I stopped outside the study. The door was ajar, the smell of cigars wafting out.

"Don," it was Lorenzo, his underboss, laughing. "Miss Bennett looks stunning today. Are you really going to marry her? The boys are waiting to celebrate."

My heart skipped a beat. I froze by the door.

I heard Vincenzo let out a low chuckle.

It was quiet, but every word felt like a nail in my coffin.

"Marry her? Chloe is fun to play with. But for my Donna, I have other options."

"Women like her belong in bed, nowhere else."

I don't remember how I walked away.

I only remember hiding in an empty guest room on the second floor, closing the door, and sliding down to the floor.

The Valentino gown was crushed.

I covered my mouth and cried for half an hour. My mascara was ruined. I looked like a ghost.

I picked myself up, walked to the mirror, and pulled out my compact. Stroke by stroke, I fixed my face.

When I came downstairs, Vincenzo was waiting by the stairs with champagne.

He saw me, his eyes softened, and he pulled me into his arms.

"Happy birthday, baby."

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket. Inside were the Cartier sapphires.

I looked at him and smiled sweetly.

"You're so good to me, Boss."

I got on my tiptoes and kissed him.

There was zero emotion in that kiss.

He didn't notice a thing.

...

The hot water was still running.

I buried my face in my hands.

Seven years ago, I thought I'd never be able to let him go.

Seven years later, I realized human potential is limitless.

I pulled myself out of that dangerous obsession. A clean break.

No feelings, just business. And I was good at it.

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.