Chapter 4

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.