The Sex Symbol the Don Will Never Keep

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?