My Don Paid Me 800. His Secretary Stole Millions Chapter 01

My Don Paid Me 800. His Secretary Stole Millions Chapter 01

The Wind of Frugality Blows Through the Mafia.

I became Don Rizzo’s mistress.

Knox had my “pay” cut from 3000 a month to 800.

And he didn’t even tell me himself. He let his secretary do it.

I moved out of his villa that same night.

Two months went by. Don Rizzo stumbled onto my livestream.

He’d been losing his mind trying to find me.

There I was. Inside my hot dog cart.

Spilling the whole “gold digger” thing online.

“Everyone calls me a gold digger,” I said, flipping a sausage on the griddle.

“But 3000 a month? I make more selling hot dogs.”

“3000 a month, twenty-four-seven on-call—that’s below minimum wage, guys.”

The chat exploded.

[Poor thing, you’re so pretty but your sugar daddy’s that cheap?]

[Girl, RUN.]

That night, Knox pulled up in his Rolls-Royce. Blocked my whole cart.

And he had the nerve to look hurt,

“I thought you were vacationing on an island somewhere,”

“And you’re here… selling hot dogs?”

“I gave you eighty thousand a month. And you disappear without a word?”

I laughed,

“Your childhood friend Elaine told me times are tough.”

“Economy’s down, even the mafia’s cutting costs.”

“She slashed my pay from 3000 to 800.”

“I ran before I couldn’t even afford your HOA fees!”

Knox went rigid.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Elaine lit up the screen:

[My Don, I’ve already transferred Rae’s eighty thousand.]

[She said it’s not enough, she’s asking for the new Hermès bag!]

—

“Ms. Vance,” Elaine said, sliding a piece of paper across the desk,

“According to this month’s Don’s Mistress Performance Review, your composite score is a C.”

My brain short-circuited,

“Elaine. What does that mean?”

She didn’t blink,

“It means your base pay for this month needs to be recalculated.”

“Ms. Vance, the economy is struggling. Every industry is cutting costs and improving efficiency.”

“Don’s opinion is that your position also needs optimization.”

I nearly shot up from my chair,

“We agreed on 3000 a month. That’s already low.”

“That’s the maximum—assuming perfect attendance and full performance.”

She pushed the review form toward me,

“On the thirteenth of last month, Don texted you at 2:00 AM. You replied five minutes later.”

“A serious work infraction. Deduction for delayed emotional labor: five hundred .”

I inhaled sharply,

“I had a fever that night. I’d just taken medicine and fallen asleep—”

“Ms. Vance. We evaluate outcomes, not excuses.”

She tapped the desk again,

“Also on the twentieth. Don took you to a gala.”

“You smiled three times all night. And you didn’t drink for him.”

“This indicates extremely poor service awareness. Deduction: 800.”

I was shaking with rage,

“I’m allergic to it. Don knows that.”

“That’s a personal problem. It shouldn’t become an excuse for work avoidance.”

She wasn’t done,

“Finally, given your frequent requests for emotional reassurance from Don recently—”

“This constitutes a failure in upward management.”

“Final comprehensive assessment: your actual pay this month is 800.”

She pulled a thin stack of cash from her bag and slapped it on the table.

“Don’s words were: work more, earn more.”

“If you think it’s too little, you can find ways to improve your performance yourself.”

I stared at those bills—so thin they could blow away with a sneeze.

My eyes burned.

Mrs. Brown’s leg surgery was next month.

The prosthetic replacement.

800 dollars wouldn’t even buy the screws.

“Can you… make an exception?”

“I really need this money. Can I advance next month’s—”

Elaine stood up, looking down at me,

“Ms. Vance. This company has rules and procedures.”

“Don doesn’t appreciate people who don’t know their boundaries.”

I tucked the 800 dollars carefully into my pocket.

After Elaine left, I wiped my face and walked into the kitchen.

Half a box of macaroni sat on the counter.

Discount store score. My dinner for the past seven days.

I boiled it. Couldn’t even afford sauce.

I sat there eating plain pasta, feeling my whole life fall apart.

My phone rang.

Sister Smith from the orphanage.

“Rae, Mrs. Brown’s leg is hurting again.”

I grew up in that orphanage.

Mrs. Brown was the director. She was the closest thing I’d ever had to a mother.

She was anxious,”The doctor said if we don’t replace the prosthetic soon, there’s a risk of infection.”

My heart seized.

“How much more do we need for the surgery?”

“Around fifty thousand.”

She sighed.

“Rae, I know you’re struggling in New York. Everything’s so expensive there.”

“If it’s too much, we can figure something else out—”

“No,” I cut in. “I’ll handle the money. Please take care of Mrs. Brown.”

I hung up.

Stared at the bowl of plain macaroni.

And finally let the tears fall.

Fifty thousand.

To Knox, that was maybe a bottle of wine at a dinner party.

To me, it was Mrs. Brown’s life.

I wiped my face and opened my chat with Knox.

Scroll, scroll, scroll.

Every single message was me saying good morning, good night, asking how his day was.

His replies were always the same, [Mm.]

I took a breath.

[Don Rizzo, are you free tonight? I need to see you.]

Ten minutes. No reply.

I called him.

Rang forever before he picked up.

“What?”

“I need to advance next month’s pay. Can I?”