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.

The room was thick with smoke.

The stench of cigars, whiskey, and a faint hint of gunpowder mixed in the air.

Seven or eight men in suits were gathered around the couches. When they saw me, they all stood up in unison.

"Thank God you're here!"

"The Boss has been in a killer mood. Please go calm him down."

"Lorenzo said he'd get you here no matter what. We're getting slaughtered out here."

I didn't say a word. I looked past them to the leather sofa at the back.

Vincenzo was leaning back, eyes closed.

His shirt was wide open, two buttons torn off. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead.

A freshly cleaned handgun lay on the coffee table next to a nearly empty bottle of 25-year Macallan.

I walked over. Just like I had done countless times over the past seven years, I naturally sat down next to him.

"Vincenzo?" I asked softly. "Are you okay?"

He didn't open his eyes.

Suddenly, he leaned sideways, his heavy weight crashing onto my shoulder. The smell of alcohol washed over me.

I stiffened and put a hand up to support him.

His forehead brushed against my cheek. His nose pressed against my temple. He was burning up.

I thought he was waking up.

"...Genevieve."

He mumbled.

The name was a whisper, but it hit me like a gunshot.

I looked down at him.

His brows were furrowed, his eyelashes fluttered, but there was a faint ghost of a smile on his lips.

The other guys in the room hadn't heard. They were still smiling, trying to hand me a drink.

I didn't touch it. The fight drained out of me all at once, a cold exhaustion settling in my bones.

Just as I thought. He didn't need me anymore.

I gently pushed him off my shoulder and let him lean back against the sofa.

His phone on the table buzzed.

A name flashed on the screen: Genevieve C.

I stared at the name for three seconds. I declined the call.

Ten seconds later, it rang again.

I answered it. "...Hello?"

A pause on the other end.

"...Chloe Bennett?"

Her voice was clear, with a slight Chicago twang.

"It's me."

"Where is Vincenzo?"

"Wasted," I said. "Sapphire Private Club on Seventh Ave, VIP Room 3. Come pick him up."

She was silent for two seconds.

"Okay."

...

I hung up and tossed the phone back onto the table.

The guys in the room looked confused.

"What are you doing..."

"His fiancée is on her way," I stood up and smoothed out my coat. "Take good care of her."

Lorenzo froze at the door. "Miss..."

"Lorenzo." I looked at him. "Your boss isn't drinking because of me."

He opened his mouth to speak.

I walked past him to the door and looked back one last time.

Vincenzo still had his eyes closed, leaning against the sofa, a deep scowl on his face.

In the seven years I’d known him, he didn't blink when his arms routes were hijacked. When three East Coast families teamed up to hunt him down, he just smiled and lit a cigarette.

He never drank out of sadness.

The one and only exception... was for a woman named Genevieve.

I walked out of the club but didn't go far.

I bought a water at a bodega in the back alley and leaned against the wall to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a pitch-black Maybach pulled up to the front entrance. Bulletproof. Chicago plates.

The door opened, and a blonde woman stepped out. Red-bottom heels, beige trench coat, pearl earrings.

I walked over from the alley. She turned, saw me, and smiled.

"Chloe."

"Genevieve."

She was taller than in the photos. Elegant features. Every move she made carried the natural grace of someone raised as a mafia princess from birth.

"Thank you for the call tonight."

"Don't mention it."

She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my face for a second, like evaluating a display piece.

"I heard you two... were together for seven years? That's a long time... for a girl like you." She smiled politely. "But he's getting married now. Chloe, you're a smart girl. I don't care about the past, but moving forward, I don't want you two to have any contact whatsoever."

I lowered my eyes.

"I understand."

I knew my place. She was the only daughter of the Conti family. The future Donna.

I was just a wildcat kept in a gilded cage for seven years.

I knew the difference in our status.

It was 4 AM by the time I got back to Brooklyn.

I put my phone on silent and collapsed onto the bed.

Even though I’d braced myself for this, actually facing it still sent a sharp, agonizing ache through my chest.

Tears slipped out and soaked my pillow, but I was never looking back.

...

I didn't expect to be woken up by my phone buzzing at 10 AM the next day.

Vincenzo’s name flashed on the screen. Over twenty missed calls.

I rubbed my temples and picked up.

"You've got some fucking nerve." His dark, icy voice seeped through the speaker. Every word was laced with venom.

"Chloe Bennett," he spat my name. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I was wide awake instantly.

But before I could process what he meant, the line went dead.

I stared at the screen.

Three seconds later, I tried calling him back. My number was blocked.

Fine. Perfect.

I deleted every photo, every contact detail related to him.

If it was over, I was going to sever every tie from these last seven years. Once and for all.