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The Don's Feeding
Novelix
Completed
They said the Moretti Don lost his mind over me — paid $1.88M bride price without blinking. Then on day two, he dropped a crate of mystery boxes at my feet and told me to pick my meals. Ramen. Spam. $0.99 clearance formula. For three years. When our newborn hit 103.6 in the ER, I called him twelve times. He was babysitting my sister's kid instead. Eight thousand dollars. That's what my daughter's life cost. He still thinks I'm running a scam. He doesn't know — my flight to Honolulu left this morning, and someone's been waiting for me there for years.
Chapters (3)
第1章
My Mafia husband handed me a box of expired Walmart chips to feed our newborn.The same day, my sister posted the $990,000 he wired her.
---
Three days after I give birth to our daughter, I ask Don Dante Moretti for formula money.
Instead, he drops a stack of mystery boxes in my lap.
"Pick one."
Three years of marriage.
Every bite of food I've eaten came out of one of these damn boxes.
The best I ever got was a bucket of fried chicken, still warm.
It all started at our engagement party.
Two families sitting down.
Two hundred made men in the room.Half of Wall Street watching from the back.
The Moretti Family had already agreed to $1.88 million — the standard payout to seal a union between two families like ours.
Cash in. Deal locked.My dad, Frank, walks away rich, and I walk out a Don's wife.
That was the deal.
But Frank wheeled a crate of mystery boxes up to the head table.Grinning like an idiot.
"Don Moretti. Let's not be tacky about money. Pick a box. Whatever's inside, that's what my family walks away with."
I froze.
Every capo in the room went dead still.That wasn't a wedding gift.That was a shakedown at the table.
Dante didn't blink.
He picked one.
Inside — $1.88 million cash. The Hamptons estate. Fifteen percent of Moretti Holdings. A yacht docked in Miami. An Upper East Side townhouse.
Every man in the room stopped breathing.
But Dante signed every paper.
Wired every cent.
Gave me the wedding of the century.I even landed on the cover of Vanity Fair.
Everyone said the cold-blooded Don of the Moretti Family had lost his damn mind over me.
Then, on day two of the marriage, he slammed a whole crate of mystery boxes at my feet.
"Your family loves this little game, right? From now on, whatever you eat gets picked out of a box."
That crate was full of the cheapest garbage money could buy.
Ramen. Spam. Freezer-burned nuggets. Day-old clearance junk.
The house staff got orders straight from him: don't cook for her.
For three years, my three meals a day looked the same.
A pack of ramen.A can of Spam so salty it burned my throat.
And, on a good day, a bucket of KFC.
Grease. Sodium.
I blew up.
I went from a size 10 to a size 22.Nothing in my closet fit anymore.
My fingers swelled so much that my wedding ring cut into my skin.
My face puffed up like bread dough.I was thirsty all the time, and I had heartburn every night.
The maid called me "Shamu" behind my back.
He'd look at me and sneer.
"Look at those thunder thighs. You can't even fit through the door."
Once I got pregnant, I thought — maybe.
Maybe once she's born, he'll be different.
Nope.
Now I'm just asking for one can of formula.
And here it is again.
The box.
Sitting on the hospital tray.
I rip it open.
Inside: a tiny pouch of no-name formula.
Stamped on the front — "CLEARANCE $0.99."
My phone buzzes.
My sister, Sophie, just posted a story.
She gave birth the same week I did.
A screenshot: $990,000 wire transfer.
And a picture of a lunch spread that looks like a Michelin tasting menu.
"Thank you to my brother-in-law for the sweetest gift for baby 💕"
I stare at it a long, long time.
Then I pick up the phone and dial an unknown number.
"You told me once you'd be a father to my kid. Remember?"
"Seven days. Come get me."
...
The nurse leans over while I'm unwrapping the box.
Big smile.
"Aww, a gift from Daddy? He's so sweet!"
She's practically swooning at the stack of pretty little boxes.
Then she sees what's inside.
Ramen. Spam. That $0.99 clearance formula.
The room goes dead silent.
The smell of the Spam hits me, and my stomach lurches.
Three years of salt and grease have trained my body to crave the very thing that's poisoning it.
Dante doesn't even blink.
He waves at his underboss to clear the rest away.
His voice is flat and cold.
"Rules don't break just because she pushed out a kid."
His eyes drag over me.
They stop at my body — the hospital gown stretched tight across my stomach.
It's the biggest gown they had, and it still gapes at the snaps.
He lets out this ugly little laugh.
"Should be grateful I don't starve you. Hate it so much? Then why the hell are you still this fat?"
The nurse's eyes flick down my body, then away.
My face burns.
The nurse's mouth opens.
Closes.
She probably wants to ask — what rules?
What kind of psycho makes a new mother pull ramen out of mystery boxes?
But how the hell do I explain?
Explain that my own parents, to scrape together a fresh start for Sophie and a down payment on her condo, swapped the Moretti payout for a crate of mystery envelopes the morning of my engagement.
Explain that when I confronted them, my mom, Carol, clutched her chest and hissed, "You tell Dante and I swear to God, I'm jumping off this balcony."
Explain that after that, the Moretti Family's shadow was everywhere.No company in this city would hire me.
My bank account had exactly what I'd saved before the wedding.
And that was it.
I look down at my daughter.
Her little face is scrunched up.
She's sleeping so quietly.
"Dante. Can I get her a temperature-control swaddle? Newborns can't regulate their—"
"Trying to milk the baby for cash already?" he cuts in. "Hospital has blankets."
The door slams.
His Italian loafers click down the hallway.
Then they fade out.
The nurse suddenly disappears.
Comes back a minute later holding a soft little blanket.
"From our nurses' station. It's clean. Use it for the baby."
She tucks it around my daughter so gently.
A stranger.
Softer with my kid than the kid's own father.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She hesitates.
Then, quiet: "Your husband... maybe he's just bad at showing it."
I smile.
I don't answer.
That night I scroll and there it is again.
Sophie's post.
VIP maternity suite.
Every brand imaginable.
Imported everything.
Caption: "He said nothing but the best for baby."
The likes roll in.
Dante. Carol. Frank. All of them.
I stare at "nothing but the best" until the words go blurry.
I remember, years ago, Dante told me — "If we have a girl, I'm gonna spoil her rotten. She'll be the happiest little princess on Earth."
His eyes were lit up when he said it.
Now that light's shining on someone else's kid.
I fold up the $0.99 formula wrapper.
Slide it into my wallet.
That wallet — I made it myself.
Three years of ramen wrappers, chip bags, canned meat labels, folded together layer by layer.
Dante's back in the doorway.
I didn't hear him come in.
He sees me folding the wrapper.
Pauses.
Then he just says: "Take care of the kid. Stop scheming for money."
Out in the hallway, he makes a call.
I hear every word through the door.
"You lost the bet. She didn't make a scene."
He laughs.
"Gold-diggers don't walk away from being the Don's wife. Especially not with a baby now."
"And who else would take a girl her size?"
I lean back against the pillow.
Close my eyes.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
Silence for one second.
Then his voice.
"Flight's booked. Seven days. Don't stand me up."
Then, softer — "Eleanor. Wait for me."
I look at my daughter.
She's still asleep.
Her tiny fingers are wrapped around mine.
Squeezing tight.
"Okay."
---
第2章
Discharge day.
I've had my bag packed since dawn.
My daughter's wearing the only new outfit she owns — a onesie my best friend sent over.
My ankles are so puffy that my shoes won't close all the way.
I sit on the edge of the hospital bed, holding her, waiting for Dante.
All I get is a text.
"Driver's coming. I'm with Sophie. She's checking out today too, no one over here to help."
Not surprising.
Predictable, honestly.
Ever since Sophie became a widow, he's been "helping out" a lot.
I stare at the screen.Exit the chat.
Don't reply.
The driver's on time.
Car's spotless.
My daughter whimpers against my chest.
She's hungry.
I pull out the bottle.
The driver glances in the rearview mirror.
His face twists up, apologetic.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry... the Don doesn't allow food in the car."
I blink at him.
"I'm just feeding her. It's a bottle. I won't spill."
"The Don said — please, ma'am. Don't put us in that spot."
I stop.
Put the bottle back in the bag.
Hold her a little tighter.
She screams the whole way home.
I pat her back.Over and over.
When we get home, I open my phone.
Sophie's posted a new clip.
She's in the passenger seat of Dante's car.
A whole box of cherries in her lap.
She's popping them into her mouth one by one, red juice everywhere.
Dante's driving.
Every few seconds he glances at her, this stupid soft look on his face.
Carol and Frank are in the back seat.Carol's holding a bottle to Sophie's baby.
Frank's holding a burp cloth under the baby's chin, laughing so hard his eyes disappear.
One perfect family.
I swipe away.
Afternoon.
Doorbell.
Sophie's on the porch, holding her chubby, pink-cheeked baby.
She peeks past me into the living room.
Sees the crib.
Covers her mouth and giggles.
"Ellie... that crib is ancient. Isn't your husband loaded?"
She looks me up and down.
Grins wider.
"Ellie, your body... is Dante feeding you a little too well?"
"You're huge! Are you sure there isn't another baby in there?"
I don't answer.
She digs a bag out of her purse.
Shoves it at me.
"My baby outgrew these already. Don't mind the hand-me-downs — the fabric's really good. Dante bought them. Few grand a piece."
She glances down at my daughter.
Same smile.
"Ellie... yours is so scrawny. Something wrong with her?"
I take the bag.
Squeeze out a thank you.
Close the door.
Three years of salt and grease have wrecked me.
That night, Lindsey calls.
"I saw Sophie's video. I'm gonna lose my shit. She did that on purpose! And Dante — you just had a baby, you're still bleeding, and he treats you like this? Screw him!"
"El, don't you dare suffer in silence. Whatever the baby needs, you tell me. I'll buy it."
"Lindsey. Thank you."
"Girl, don't. You're my number one. Always."
My throat closes up.
At least one person's still in my corner.
I hang up.
Start packing.
A few outfits for me and the baby.
The stretchy ones that still fit.
My documents.
A small go-bag.
I shove it deep in the back of the closet.
Dante's leaning against the doorframe when I close the closet door.
Don't know how long he's been there.
He lets out a dry laugh.
"Want money for bigger clothes? Just ask. Skip the sob-story routine."
"Maybe get a tent while you're at it."
I don't turn around.
He walks up behind me.
Wraps his arms around my waist.
His arms used to wrap all the way around me.
Now his hands barely touch.
Rests his chin on the top of my head.
Whiskey.
His breath reeks of whiskey.
"Ellie," he murmurs. "Stop the drama."
For half a second, I forget where I am.
Years ago, he held me like this too.
I got caught in the rain.Ran a 103 fever.
He drove all night from another state to get to me.Wrapped me up in his arms and said, "You'll never wait out a storm alone again."
Same warm arms.
Except now it's just because he's drunk off his ass.
The man who once drove all night — didn't even show up to bring me and our baby home from the hospital.
I gently lift his hands off me.
"I'm not making a scene."
3 A.M.
She's crying.
I pick her up, try to nurse her.
Two sucks and she's screaming again.
I don't have enough milk.
The past few days I've eaten nothing but hospital trays.
Now I'm home and there's nothing but unopened mystery boxes.
I can't even feed myself.
My milk supply's dying.
I tear the pantry apart.
I rip open a box.
Ramen again.
My stomach flips.
My mouth waters and I want to throw up, both at the same time.
3:10 A.M.
3:30.
4:00.
She won't stop.
I pace the living room.Circle after circle.
Dante's behind the master bedroom door.Dead asleep.
I press my lips to her forehead.
"Baby. Mommy's sorry."
"Just a few more days. I swear. Mommy's getting you out of here."
---
第3章
Her temperature hits 103.6.
I run to the ER holding her.
Registration.
Waiting room.
My whole body's shaking.
I'm wheezing by the time I reach the desk.
My legs burn.
The doctor lowers his stethoscope.
Frowns.
"This baby is severely malnourished. Underweight. Immune system's shot."
He looks up at me，voice is sharp.
"This is dangerous for a newborn. What the hell are you two doing as parents?"
His eyes go over my body, then back to my baby.
"You're clearly not starving."
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
What are we doing.
Her whole diet is bargain-bin formula.
Mine is a crate of ramen and Spam.
What am I supposed to feed her with?
I call Dante.
And unbelievably — he shows up.
Something stupid inside me lights up.
Hope.
Three years of marriage.First time I've ever begged him for anything.
"She needs special formula. And supplements. Please. Just — stop with the mystery boxes. Give me real food. Give me real money. Just for her."
He stares at me for a beat.
Reaches into his jacket.
Tosses a card at me.
"Two grand on it. That's plenty."
"It's not enough. The doctor said she needs follow-ups and—"
His voice drops.
Ice-cold.
"Eleanor Rossi. $1.88 million wasn't enough to fill your gut. Now two grand's too little?"
"Should've thought about today when you set up that mystery box scam to rob me."
"I didn't do the mystery box thing!"
For my daughter, I finally scream it out loud.
"Frank and Carol did it behind my back! For Sophie's fresh start! Her damn condo down payment! I had nothing to do with it!"
Dante freezes for one second.
Then he laughs.
"Eleanor Rossi. For a couple bucks, you'll lie about anything, huh?"
"Lie the baby's sick. Now spinning fairy tales about Frank and Carol."
He looks down at me.
Pure disgust in his eyes.
"Don't think popping out a kid gave you leverage. Is the baby even really sick? You think I don't see the angle you're playing?"
His phone rings.
Screen lights up.
"Sophie."
He picks up.
Voice goes soft in a snap.
"You made it? Which room? I'm on my way."
He hangs up.
Doesn't even glance at me.
Walks out.
Turns out he wasn't at the hospital for us.
He was here to take Sophie's kid to a wellness check.
I stand in the hallway holding my screaming baby, watching his back disappear around the corner.
Outside the hospital.
"Ellie."
Sophie's voice behind me.
Her baby's in her arms — plump, pink, dressed head to toe in designer.
She glances at my thin, yellow-tinted daughter.
Something flickers in her eyes.
Then she reaches into her nanny's diaper bag and pulls out a can of formula.
Hands it to me.
"My baby doesn't finish these. You take it."
"Dante feels so bad for us poor little single moms. Bought us like a hundred cases."
She looks me over.
"And maybe eat a little less of those boxes, okay? You're busting out of that shirt."
I look at the can.
$180 apiece.
A whole month of my daughter's food costs less than one can of her cousin's.
I dig my nails into my palm.
And I take the handout.
That night I call Carol.
"Carol. The baby needs to be admitted. Can you lend me some cash. Just for a few days."
Silence on the line.
A few seconds.
"Sophie just had a baby too, she needs the money. Go ask your husband! It's one can of formula! He won't say no!"
"Carol—"
"Enough. Stop calling. Sophie's resting. You're gonna wake her."
Click.
Late at night, I fall asleep on the couch holding my daughter.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, a blanket ends up over me.
Half-conscious, I see Dante bending down.
Gentle.
Like he's afraid to wake something.
But the next morning, there's a fresh stack of mystery boxes on the kitchen table.
My back and knees scream when I stand up.My feet are so swollen I can barely bend my ankles.
He's sitting across from me, drinking his black coffee.
Eyes flick over my body.
He snorts.Tips his chin at the boxes.
"Pick one."
I look at the boxes.
And I just feel — done.
"Dante. I'm tired. I'm not picking anymore."
His coffee cup pauses mid-air.
His eyes come up.
Suspicious.
"What's the new hustle? Kid was sick last time. What's the play now?"
I don't answer.
I get up.
Go mix the can of formula Sophie tossed me like scraps.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Lindsey.
"El. There's something I don't know if I should tell you..."
Three dots.
She's still typing.
In the living room, my daughter's crying again.
The thermometer beeps.
Numbers jump.
104.2.
---
