The Canceled Wedding and The Mafia Bride’s Regret

One month before the wedding, my fiancée, Diana, insisted on having a child with

her childhood sweetheart.

I didn't agree. But she kept bringing it up, day after day, cornering me like

she was negotiating a business deal that had to close.

Then, two weeks before the big day, I received an anonymous package.

It was a pregnancy report from a private clinic on the Upper East Side.

It stated clearly: Diana. Five weeks and three days pregnant.

In that instant, I realized she had never cared what I thought. She had already

made her choice; she was just "notifying" me, her official fiancé.

I sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of our apartment, watching the

city lights, a cold chill settled in my bones.

The next day, I canceled the venue, tore up the invitations, and burned every

gift she had ever bought me.

On our wedding day, I didn't show up. Instead, I boarded a flight to Milan alone

to join the International Medical Center and begin my career in clinical

research.

From that moment on, I was done with Diana Falcone.

"I’ve explained this to you a thousand times, Nathan. Ian is dying. His bone

cancer is terminal," Diana said.

"The doctors said he has a year at most."

"His final wish is to leave a child behind to carry on his bloodline."

"I owe him my life... this isn't just about a favor; it’s about the honor

between two Mafia families."

Diana stood before me, speaking in that same gentle tone she always used, but

every word felt like a knife twisting in my heart.

Five years ago, on the streets of Chicago, the Moretti family got into a turf

war with Boston drug dealers. She was caught in the crossfire, and Ian took a

bullet for her. Since then, he had become a saint in her eyes.

But I didn't get it.

Sacrificing me as a bargaining chip for her "gratitude"—she called that love?

"It’s just artificial insemination," she continued, trying to persuade me.

"There won’t be anything physical between us... it’s just for the baby."

She paused, her gaze complex. "You love me, don’t you? If you love me, you

should understand. You should support me."

I stood up abruptly, my voice trembling with rage. "Diana, we’re getting married

next month. And you’re behind my back, carrying another man's child. What am I

to you?"

She went silent.

As she looked down, I caught a flash of hesitation in her eyes. It might have

been guilt, or maybe just the habit of a calculated move.

A second later, her face smoothed over. Her voice was low and unshakable.

"Nathan, this isn’t just about me and Ian. This was arranged by the families."

"The Falcones and the Morettis reached a deal during negotiations. As long as we

have a child, the decade-long feud between our families ends."

"I can’t go against the entire family’s decision."

I looked at her and felt like I was staring at a total stranger.

We grew up together. From the slums of Brooklyn to Manhattan Medical School, I

was there for her every step of the way.

I thought we had a clean kind of love. A love that belonged only to us.

But the truth was, she never truly stood by my side. She just saw me as a

"suitable" fiancé—gentle, respectable, smart enough to stay out of trouble, and

knowing my place. I was a polished accessory for the heiress of the Falcone

family.

Her true childhood sweetheart wasn't me. It was the boy she used to play with as a

five-year-old, the son of her family's blood rival. The boy she had kept in her

heart even when they were on opposite sides of a war.

Did she love me? Maybe.

But the moment family, power, "honor," and her childhood sweetheart were put on the scale,

I was always the first thing she was willing to sacrifice.

She wanted to say something else, but her phone cut her off.

She walked quickly to the balcony to answer it, her voice turning soft and

tender.

I couldn't hear what the person on the other end said, but I saw the faint,

gentle smile on her lips.

That was a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in a very long time.

I knew it was Ian.

I looked back at the pregnancy report on the table. The date was from five weeks

ago.

Five weeks ago, Diana had disappeared for an entire night.

She told me there was trouble with the smuggling routes at the New Jersey docks.

But now I realized she was out completing that "bloodline" procedure.

I had been excluded from their plan from the very beginning. They weren't

waiting for my "consent"; they were just waiting for me to be "informed."

I had been looking forward to our wedding day, imagining us walking down the

aisle hand-in-hand.

Now, all those hopes were nothing but smoke, vanishing into thin air without a

trace.

Just then, my phone vibrated, breaking my train of thought.

It was my mentor’s assistant from med school.

"Nathan, I know you’re about to get married, but I wanted to ask one last

time—are you sure you won’t reconsider joining our hospital?"

"You were the most talented student the Professor ever had. He’s always wanted

you on the research team."

"Since you’re getting married, the Professor said he can give you a special

schedule—two months on, two weeks off—so you have time to be with your wife."

My old mentor had started a new surgical research project at a hospital in

Milan. He had invited me six months ago.

He wanted me on the team for advanced clinical studies.

But joining that hospital meant leaving my private life behind. I’d be off the

grid for long stretches—months, maybe a year or more.

At the time, I didn't want to be away from Diana for that long, so I turned him

down.

But now, Diana was carrying another man's child.

Since she never considered our relationship or our upcoming marriage, there was

no reason for this wedding to happen.

"I’ve made up my mind," I said quietly. "I’ll take the position. I don't need

the special leave. I’ll follow the standard project schedule."

The voice on the other end sounded thrilled. "That’s great! The Professor will

be so happy."

"When can you head over? A week after the wedding? That way you can still go on

your honeymoon."

"No," I replied firmly. "I can leave on the day of the wedding."

I looked at the calendar on the desk.

The 10th of next month was circled heavily in red marker.

I had originally circled it to remind myself how many days were left until the

best day of my life.

Now, that date was a countdown to my escape.

In fifteen days, Diana and I would be over. I’d never see her again.