Chapter 1

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."

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