The Sex Symbol the Don Will Never Keep

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