The Bride Who Never Was

Eight years ago, I sent the most dangerous heir of the Medici family in New York to prison. Eight years later, on the Brooklyn Bridge, traffic rushed endlessly.

I stood there in a dark blue convenience store uniform, sweat beading down my face in thin streams.

When the light turned red, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up beside me. As the tinted window slowly rolled down, a familiar face appeared. It was Elena, my former best friend.

“Christine. Long time no see. You used to be the Medici family’s future Donna. Back then, everyone in the family had to bow to you. The whole city of New York was practically yours. But I heard you’re sick now and reduced to working at a convenience store, struggling every day. Do you regret it?”

She was right in front of me, yet I couldn’t see her face clearly.

Elena continued, “Christine, back when we were waitressing together in that restaurant in Italy, I told you Vincent wasn’t a bad person. Yet, you still sent him to prison for eight years. In those eight years, Vincent asked to see you many times, and every time, you refused. He was released today. We waited for you for a long time, but you never came. It seems like you forgot.

“I don’t understand. Vincent treated you so well back then. He knew your family was poor and that your mother had kidney failure, so he volunteered to be a donor. When you got into that car accident, he stayed by your side day and night, taking care of you. Do you really feel nothing for him at all?”

My fingertips trembled slightly. Still, my voice came out mechanical and cold.

“No. I would never have feelings for a criminal.”

At that moment, a low, cold chuckle came from inside the spacious Cadillac. I looked over in disbelief. Only then did I realize a man was sitting beside Elena. Even in the dim light, I could trace the sharp lines of his face from memory.

Eight years ago, he was my first love, the man I had reported to the FBI while working at that Mexican restaurant, the man I had watched being taken away. Now, he was the Godfather of the Medici family, the ruler of New York’s underground world, Vincent Medici.

Our eyes met. His gaze was ice-cold, and his lips curved into a mocking smile.

“Christine, I really did waste my heart on you eight years ago. You ungrateful woman, you deserve to be alone. You deserve for everyone to leave you.”

Only someone who had truly loved knew exactly where to strike to hurt the most. It felt like an invisible hand had seized my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe.

I opened my mouth, but everything I wanted to say collapsed into a few words.

“You’re right, Mr. Vincent.”

Disappointment flickered across his face before he looked away.

Then, he gave an order to the driver. “Roll up the window. There are five thousand streets in New York. From now on, I don’t want to see Christine on any of them.”

The window slowly rolled up. When the red light turned green, I could only watch as the Cadillac disappeared into the traffic.

Helpless, I crouched down. The diary in my pocket pressed painfully against my side. I pulled it out and opened it to the first page. The same sentence filled it, over and over again.

“Vincent Medici is the most important person in this world. No matter who I forget, I must never forget Vincent Medici.”

The second, third, fourth pages, and beyond were all records of our relationship from eight years ago.

“March 11, 2015. Vincent took me to Rockefeller Center to look at the stars. He said there was a star just for me, named Christine.”

“March 18, 2015. Vincent met my mom today. She liked him very much as a son-in-law.”

As I read, tears filled my eyes. Only then did I truly understand what it meant they said, ‘A moment’s happiness must be repaid a hundredfold in suffering.’

At eight that night, in an old apartment building in Queens, the hallway light had been broken for a long time. In the darkness, with my fading sense of direction, I stumbled again and again. I had walked that path for eight years, yet to me, it felt more unfamiliar with each passing day.

I let out a faint sigh. Then, I looked up, and standing at my door was Vincent Medici, dressed in a sharp suit, his expression cold as ice.