I dated a mob boss for six years and we planned 99 weddings — guess how many times I became a bride.

Part 1 – THE 99TH WEDDING

I dated a mob boss for six years. We planned 99 weddings. Guess how many times I became a bride? Zero.

Every time his fragile assistant, Helen, tripped or got kidnapped, he shot off faster than a smuggling boat leaving port. So this time I’m done playing. I disappeared. And guess what? He lost his mind.

It was our 99th wedding attempt. The venue was a private yacht anchored off the coast of Port Monroe. A white carpet stretched across the back deck, and in the distance the statue of Concordia stood quietly over the Golden Sea.

This time, there were no invitations, no friends, just a few close relatives who treated the whole affair more like a formality than a celebration.

A few days before, I had been ambushed during a family meeting by one of Anthony’s old rivals. I escaped alone, twisting my ankle in the process. It was still swollen, but I pushed through and confirmed the final sequence of vows with the bishop.

Anthony didn’t seem to care. He hadn’t visited the bridal suite. Hadn’t looked at my foot. He spent the entire pre-ceremony break crouched in the VIP lounge, carefully wrapping a bandage around Helen’s toe that she had scraped while boarding the yacht. He gently held her foot, blue over the wound, as if she were a frightened animal.

Across the deck, my mother watched with a stormy expression. “He never did that for you,” she said quietly. “This isn’t a wedding. It’s still a humiliation.”

I put on the same dress that had waited for me through 98 failed ceremonies. At sunset, I stood at the stern of the yacht, waiting for Anthony to walk me down the aisle of roses.

Minutes passed. He never came.

When I approached the VIP lounge, two armed guards blocked my way. “The boss has an urgent matter to attend to,” one said.

“What urgent matter?” I asked.

The door opened. Anthony came out supporting Helen. His face was tense with worry. “Her foot is infected,” he said. “I need to take her to the emergency room. Let’s put this on hold. Once she feels better, I’ll be completely yours.”

He didn’t even look at me. He just helped her into the helicopter.

That year marked our sixth anniversary. It was also the 99th time he canceled our wedding because of Helen.

In the past, I would have collapsed, screamed, begged, but this time, I just smiled weakly. “Sure, Helen’s foot can’t wait.”

He stopped, surprised by my calm. “When I return, I’ll bring you fresh lilies,” he said.

But I had never liked lilies. I once had an asthma attack at a banquet due to lily pollen. He had panicked. He had taken me to the hospital and promised me he would never forget. Apparently, even that didn’t last 6 years.

The helicopter rose into the sky, fluttering my veil and lifting rose petals from the deck. I turned to look at the guests.

“The wedding is canceled,” I announced.

Then I raised the scissors in my hand and cut the dress I had worn 99 times. The white satin fell around me like a silent funeral.

I looked at the empty sky where the helicopter had disappeared and whispered, “Anthony, six years of waiting ends here, just like this dress.”

It wasn’t until the end that my mother finally spoke. “Honey, come back with us to Valparaiso.” She had said it before, but this time it sounded different.

Sitting on the edge of the yacht’s deck, I looked up and found her hopeful eyes.

The truth was that my father was the don of the largest mafia syndicate in Valparaiso. I had been raised in his inner circle, prepared to inherit the business someday. But when I went to college, I met Anthony. I left everything behind and followed him to Monroe, a city of greed and betrayal.

Anthony came from nothing and hated anyone mentioning his past. I never told him the truth. To him, I was just a girl from a struggling neighborhood. For six years, I worked my way up in the syndicate from a simple position to a seat at the main table. People called us a lethal duo. Ruthless in business, unstoppable in love.

I once thought I would tell him who I really was, but that moment never came. Now it no longer mattered.

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t let you suffer again.”

Back in the apartment I shared with Anthony, everything felt empty. I made a pot of pasta and opened Instagram. Helen had posted a photo. She wore a tight dress, clinging to Anthony, smiling as if the world belonged to her. The caption: “I tricked the stoic boss into playing golf. I promised him roasted lamb ribs at my house, and he said yes.”

I immediately knew he wouldn’t come home, as always. Fortunately, we had never processed a marriage certificate.