The Don’s Cheap Allowance

Two blinding red lines.

I sat in a narrow public restroom, staring at the cheap one-dollar pregnancy test in my hand.

Three weeks late. I was stuck.

On the other end of the phone, my best friend Stella's voice nearly pierced through my cracked phone screen. "Are you insane?! You don't even know where your next meal is coming from, and you're carrying Marcello's kid?!"

I gripped the plastic stick hard and stayed silent.

"He's a billionaire Boss! He controls the entire East Coast! He won't even give you money for a condom?!"

I hung up without a word.

It wasn't that he wouldn't. It was that I couldn't even scrape together enough loose change to walk into a pharmacy.

As the wife of the most powerful mafia Don in the New York underworld, my bank account balance was fixed at a grand total of one hundred and fifty dollars a month.

My stomach churned with sharp cramps and acid. I had to eat. The thing inside my stomach needed to survive.

Last month, Bianca, the family's chief bookkeeper, brought her men to my penthouse. Under the guise of "protecting the peace of the lady of the house," she fired every single servant.

She cut off our daily food deliveries and froze every single supplementary credit card in my name.

I was locked inside a glittering, gilded tomb.

Clutching the fifty bucks Stella just wired me, I sneaked out of the apartment like a common thief and squeezed into the seediest discount supermarket in the Bronx.

A heavy-set woman shoved me hard just to grab the very last bag of near-expiration sliced bread.

My back slammed against the metal shelf. I instinctively shielded my stomach. While she lunged for another loaf, I grabbed the stale bag and bolted.

Hiding in a windless alley, I ripped open the packaging and forced myself to swallow.

The dry bread crumbs scratched my throat, choking me until tears streamed down my face. But for the sake of the baby, I couldn't throw it up.

The moment I swallowed the last bite, I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcello's direct number.

I needed cash. Prenatal care, basic vitamins—anything. I had to swallow my pride and call him.

The phone rang five times before it was answered.

"Looking for the Boss?"

It was Bianca. She didn't even try to hide her contempt.

I straightened my back and went straight to the point. "Transfer me two thousand dollars. I'm pregnant and I need to go to a clinic."

A cold, mocking chuckle came through the earpiece.

"Pregnant? Sienna, you're making up pathetic lies just to squeeze money out of us?"

I raised my voice. "This is Marcello's child! Send a doctor to check me right now!"

"Save it," she cut me off coldly. "Last week you faked anemia, and I made an exception to spot you twenty bucks. What, getting greedy now?"

"Bianca, you have no right—"

"Vargas family money doesn't grow on trees, and it sure as hell isn't getting wasted on a parasite like you who does nothing but lie."

The line went dead.

The cold early winter wind in New York cut right through my thin jacket, freezing me to the bone.

Two years ago, Marcello pulled me out of the crosshairs of drug dealers and paid off the crushing debts my addict father left behind.

On our wedding night, he pulled me into his arms, his eyes burning with intensity as he whispered, "I'm going to make you the queen of all New York."

Wrapped in his arms during those tender, intimate nights, I truly believed he loved me.

But what about reality?

Six months ago, I went out to the streets to draw portraits for people, just wanting to make a few bucks for art supplies.

His right-hand man suddenly showed up, treating me with cold, rigid politeness as he ushered me into a Maybach.

"The Don says you shouldn't be seen out here."

A thug stepped behind my easel and kicked it down. Someone dropped a lit match, and my hard work turned to ash in seconds.

When I got home that night, he handed me the deed to a top-tier Manhattan art gallery.

"A Vargas woman doesn't hustle on the streets. Consider this compensation."

But the very next day, Bianca pulled me aside to tell me that for security reasons, any income from the gallery had to be formally approved by the Don before I could withdraw a cent.

To this day, I haven't seen a single penny.

Under the disguise of protection, he broke my wings and banned me from earning a living, yet he let his loyal subordinates push me so low I was worse off than a homeless person.

I looked down, pressing my palm against my flat stomach.

I refuse to let my child grow up in a dumpster.

I picked up my phone and called Stella back.

"Stella, did you say earlier that a casino is looking for a temporary dealer? One hundred bucks a night?"

"They are, but I'm telling you not to go. What if you run into Marcello—"

"I won't. Just put me down for it." I cut her off, marched over to the trash can, and threw the cheap pregnancy test away.