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$9.90 a Month,The Mafia Don's Wife
Novelix
Completed
"Three days after I push out Don Moretti's daughter, I beg my husband for formula money — and the head of the New York Moretti crime family drops a stack of mystery boxes on my hospital bed. ""Pick one."" $9.90. Meanwhile, my sister posts a $990K wire transfer from him on Instagram, captioned: ""Thanks, brother-in-law 💕"" Three years ago my parents scammed him for a $50 million bride price. He's been punishing me ever since — no job, no cards, armed guards at the door, and a monthly allowance pulled from a box. He thinks I'm a gold digger. He thinks the baby's a scam. He'll find out the truth. Just three days too late."
Chapters (3)
第1章
My Mafia husband made me beg for $9.90 to feed our newborn, while my sister was showing off the $990,000 he gave her.
Three days after giving birth to the Don's daughter, I beg my husband for formula money.
Instead, the head of the Moretti crime family drops a stack of mystery boxes on my hospital bed.
"Pick one."
Three years married to the Don, and every dollar I've had came from one of these damn boxes.
The most I ever got was $108.
It all started at our engagement party.
In front of two hundred made men and half of Wall Street, my dad brought out a crate of mystery boxes instead of the $50 million tribute Luca's family had already agreed to.
"Don Moretti, let's not get tacky over money. Pick a box. Whatever's inside, that's what the bride gets."
I froze.
Luca picked one.
Inside was a slip worth $50 million in cash, the Hamptons estate, 15% of Moretti Holdings, a Miami yacht, and an Upper East Side townhouse.
Every capo in the room went white.
That wasn't a wedding gift.
That was a damn shakedown.
But Luca didn't blink.
He signed every paper, wired every cent, and gave me the wedding of the century.
I even landed on the cover of Vanity Fair.
Everyone said the Don was crazy in love.
The next morning, he dumped a crate of mystery boxes at my feet.
"Your family loves games? Fine. From now on, your allowance comes from a box. Every month. That's the new Moretti way."
Three years.
Sometimes $9.90.
Sometimes $108.
When I got pregnant, I thought a baby would change everything.
I was wrong.
Now I'm begging for enough money to buy one can of formula, and that damn box is back.
$9.90.
Then my sister Sadie posts on Instagram.
A screenshot of a $990,000 wire transfer.
"Thank you, brother-in-law, for the baby's welcome gift 💕"
I stare at the screen.
Then I dial an international number.
"You once said you'd be my child's father. Remember?"
"Seven days. Come get me."
...
I'm opening a box when the nurse peeks over.
"Aww, gift from hubby? So sweet!"
Then she sees the slip. $9.90 — monthly allowance.
Dead silence.
Luca doesn't even look up. He waves at Marco to clear the rest away.
"Rules don't bend just because she pushed out a kid."
The nurse's mouth opens, then closes.
She probably wants to ask: what kind of husband gives a woman who just gave birth $9.90 out of a mystery box?
But how do I even explain it?
Explain that my parents secretly took the money they'd promised for the boxes and used it to pay for Sadie's wedding and buy her a condo in Tribeca.
Explain that when I confronted Mom, she clutched her chest and said, "Tell Luca, and I swear to God, I'll jump off this roof."
Explain that after that, the Moretti family put the word out: no company in New York would hire me.
Not a boutique.
Not a gallery.
Not even a coffee shop.
So I had no choice but to live off those mystery boxes.
I look down at my daughter. Her tiny face is scrunched up, sleeping quiet.
"Luca, can I get a temperature-regulating swaddle? Newborns can't regulate their own body temperature—"
"You milking the kid for cash now?" he cuts in. "The hospital's got blankets."
The door shuts.
His Italian loafers click down the hall.
Fading.
A minute later, the nurse comes back with a small blanket.
"Just an extra from the nurses' station. It's clean. For the baby."
She tucks it around my daughter, so careful. A stranger. Kinder than the man who fathered her.
I whisper thank you.
She hesitates, then, quiet: "Your husband… he probably just isn't good at showing it."
I smile. Don't answer.
That night, I scroll and hit Sadie's Instagram.
Private NICU suite. Every imported baby brand you can name.
Caption: "He said the baby deserves nothing but the best 🤍"
The likes roll in.
Luca. Mom. Dad. All of them.
I stare at "nothing but the best" for a long time.
I remember, years ago, Luca telling me: "If we have a girl, I'll spoil her rotten. She'll be the happiest little princess on the planet."
Back then his eyes had light in them.
Now that light is shining on somebody else's kid.
I fold the $9.90 slip and tuck it in my wallet.
Last month's $6.60 is already in there. The one before, $5.30.
Luca's back at the door. I didn't hear him come in.
He sees me folding the slip. Pauses. Then:
"Take care of the kid. Stop scheming for money."
Out in the hall, he takes a call.
I can hear every word through the door.
"You lost. She didn't throw a fit." He laughs, low. "Gold digger's not giving up the Moretti name. Especially not now she's got the kid."
I lean back and close my eyes.
My phone buzzes.
International number.
A beat of silence. "Ticket's booked. Seven days. Don't stand me up."
I don't say anything.
I look at my daughter. Still sleeping. Her tiny hand wrapped tight around my finger.
"Okay."
---
第2章
Discharge day. I'm packed up hours early.
My daughter's wearing the one new outfit she owns — a gift from my best friend Lena.
I sit on the edge of the bed holding her, waiting for Luca.
All I get is a text.
"Sending the driver. I'm at Sadie's — she's getting discharged today too, nobody to help her out."
Not surprising. Predictable, honestly.
Ever since my sister played the grieving widow card, he's been running to her nonstop.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds. Swipe out. Don't reply.
The driver's on time. Tony. Car spotless as always.
My daughter fusses against my chest. Time to feed her.
I pull out the bottle. Tony catches it in the rearview and winces.
"Sorry, Mrs. Moretti… Boss says no food in the car."
I freeze.
"I'm just feeding her. I won't make a mess."
"The Don said… please, ma'am, don't put me in this spot."
I stop. Put the bottle back. Hold her a little tighter.
She screams the whole ride home. Starving. I rub her back the entire way.
The second I'm home I open my phone. Sadie's posted a new video.
She's riding shotgun in Luca's Maserati. A pint of cherries in her lap, tossing them into her mouth one by one.
Red juice everywhere.
Luca's driving, glancing over at her every few seconds. Soft eyes. Actual soft eyes.
Mom and Dad are in the back seat. Mom's got a bottle to Sadie's baby's mouth. Dad's holding a burp cloth under the kid's chin, grinning so hard his eyes disappear.
One big happy family.
I swipe the video away.
Doorbell rings that afternoon.
Sadie.
Baby in her arms—chubby, glowing, dressed head to toe in Bonpoint.
She cranes her neck toward the crib in my living room.
Then she snorts behind her hand.
"Sis... Luca's a freaking Don. He owns half of New York. And this is where his baby sleeps?"
I don't answer.
She digs through her diaper bag and pulls out a plastic sack.
"Old clothes my baby outgrew. Don't be too proud, sis, the fabric's really nice."
"Luca bought them. Few thousand a piece."
She looks down at my daughter. Same smile. "God, sis, why is yours so skinny?"
I take the bag. Force out a thank you.
Close the door. Chuck the bag in the trash.
Lena calls that night.
"I saw Sadie's video, I'm LOSING it. She's doing it on purpose! And Luca — you almost bled out having that baby, how the hell does he treat you like this?"
"Don't you dare go without, okay? Anything the baby needs, you tell me, I'll get it."
"Lena. Thank you."
"Don't do that to me. You're number one in my book, always."
My throat closes up. At least one person's still in my corner.
I hang up. Start packing.
A few outfits.
My passport.
My daughter's things.
A small duffel.
All shoved to the back of the closet.
Luca is home.
He's leaning in the doorway, watching me.
He lets out a short laugh.
"Need cash for new clothes? Just ask. Cut the sob-story act."
I don't turn around.
He walks over and pulls me against his chest, resting his chin on top of my head.
Whiskey on his breath. His voice goes soft. "Frost. Baby. Enough."
For a second I lose my bearings. Years ago, he held me exactly like this.
That night I got caught in the rain and spiked a fever. He drove eight hours through the night to get to me.
Wrapped me up in his arms. "You don't wait out storms alone. Not ever. Not with me around."
Now the same warm arms. Just because he's drunk.
The man who once drove all night for me won't even show up to bring us home from the hospital.
I gently pull his hands off me.
"I'm not fighting."
Three a.m.
My daughter is crying.
I pick her up and try to feed her.
She sucks a few times, then starts wailing.
I don't have enough milk.
I tear through every cabinet.
No formula.
I open my phone. Account balance: $9.90.
3:10 a.m.
3:30.
4:00.
She's still crying.
I walk her back and forth across the living room. Loop after loop.
Master bedroom door's shut. Luca's dead asleep.
I press my lips to her forehead. "I'm so sorry, baby."
"Just a few more days. Mama's getting us out."
---
第3章
Her fever hits 103.6.
I'm shaking head to toe as I rush her into the ER.
I sign her in.
Wait in line.
Still shaking.
The doctor pulls off his stethoscope and frowns.
"This baby's malnourished. Way underweight. Her immune system is severely weakened."
He looks up at me, his voice heavy.
"This is dangerous for a newborn. What the hell are you two doing as parents?"
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
What are we doing.
Between the two of us, we get $9.90 a month.
I call Luca.
He actually shows up.
Something inside me lifts a little.
Three years of marriage. First time I've ever asked him for anything.
"She needs specialty formula. And supplements. Please — no more mystery boxes. Just give me a real allowance."
He stares at me a few seconds. Digs a card out of his pocket. Flicks it at me.
"Two grand on it. Should cover it."
"It's not enough. The doctor said follow-ups, and —"
His voice drops. Cold.
"Frost. $50 million wasn't enough for you. Now two grand's not enough either?"
"You and your family had a nice little scam running that night. You didn't think it'd come back to bite you?"
"That wasn't me!"
For my daughter, I finally scream it.
"My parents did it behind my back! To fund Sadie's dowry and her condo! I had nothing to do with it!"
Luca freezes. Then he laughs.
"Frost. You'll say anything for a payout, huh."
"First you lied about the baby being sick. Now this fairy tale."
He looks down at me. Nothing but disgust in his eyes.
"Don't think popping out a kid gives you leverage. You think I don't know what game you're playing?"
His phone buzzes.
Screen lights up: Sadie 💗
He picks up.
His voice instantly softens.
"You're here? Which exam room? I'm on my way."
He hangs up.
Doesn't even look at me.
Walks out.
Turns out, he wasn't here for me.
He wasn't here for our baby.
He came for Sadie's baby.
I stand in the hallway, my baby screaming her lungs out, watching his back disappear around the corner.
Hospital entrance.
“Frost.”
Sadie's voice behind me.
Her baby's chubby and pink, wrapped in a Gucci onesie.
She looks at my scrawny, yellow-tinged daughter. Something flickers across her face.
Then she reaches into her nanny's diaper bag and hands me a canister of formula.
"My baby can't finish it. You take it."
"Luca felt so bad for us — poor little widow and her baby — bought us a hundred cases."
I stare at that can. $1,800 a canister.
My daughter's entire monthly allowance can't buy a single scoop of her cousin's formula.
I clench my fist. Take the handout.
That night I call my mom.
"Mom. The baby needs to be hospitalized. Can you lend me something? Just a little."
Silence on the other end.
"Your sister just had a baby too, she needs the money. Go ask your husband!"
"Mom —"
"Enough, enough, stop calling. Your sister's resting, you're gonna wake her."
Click.
Late that night, I fall asleep on the couch with my daughter.
At some point, a blanket lands on me.
Half-conscious, I see Luca bending over. So careful. Like he's scared to wake something.
But by morning, there's a fresh pile of mystery boxes on the dining table.
He's across from me sipping his espresso. Nods at the pile.
"Pull one."
I look at them. And suddenly I'm just done.
"Luca. I'm tired. I'm not pulling anymore."
His cup pauses halfway to his mouth.
He just glances up. Cold, measuring. "What's the new angle for cash? Last time it was 'the baby's sick.' What's this act called?"
I don't answer.
I turn around and go mix a bottle from Sadie's handout formula.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I check.
Lena. "Frost… there's something I don't know if I should tell you…"
Next message is still typing.
My daughter starts crying in the living room.
The thermometer beeps.
104.2.
I shut my phone off. Grab her. Run.
---
