Chapter 13 - THE MAN WHO FINALLY RAN OUT OF DOORS
Victor Cavallo was arrested in my kitchen.
Grandma complained about the blood on the tile.
Apparently federal takedowns did not excuse housekeeping.
The third ledger went to the corruption task force.
Within weeks, indictments spread across three states.
Officials resigned.
Former agents were charged.
Two judges retired very suddenly and discovered retirement did not prevent arrest.
Victor’s development company collapsed.
The mortgage purchase disappeared.
Bennett Inn was safe.
Mostly.
There was still the minor issue of being nearly bankrupt.
Vincent offered money.
I said no.
He offered a loan.
I said no.
He offered investment.
I stared.
“What percentage?”
He smiled.
“Now we’re talking.”
“No.”
His smile vanished.
I laughed.
“I knew it.”
“Daisy.”
“I am not letting a Mafia boss buy my inn after surviving a thirty-year property conspiracy.”
“Formerly Mafia-adjacent businessman.”
“That sounds worse.”
He had started dismantling the criminal parts of the Moretti organization after seeing what secrecy did to generations of his family.
Legitimate shipping.
Real estate.
Security.
Those stayed.
Everything else went to attorneys and federal negotiations.
It was messy.
Expensive.
Necessary.
I respected it.
Annoyingly.
Then America became obsessed with us again.
Not because of crime.
Because someone posted a photograph of Vincent washing dishes at Bennett Inn.
Headline:
MAFIA BOSS FIANCÉ DOES CHORES AT COUNTRY HOTEL.
I showed him.
“You missed a plate.”
“I own companies.”
“You are currently drying forks.”
He glared.
I enjoyed it enormously.
The fake engagement had become useful.
Tourism exploded.
People drove from six states to stay at “the Mafia proposal inn.”
We sold out weekends for three months.
Grandma created a peach cobbler called:
NO TAKE-BACKS.
It became our bestseller.
I hated the name.
Customers loved it.
Vincent stayed longer than necessary.
At first for security.
Then because he liked the porch.
Then because he liked Grandma’s coffee.
Then because—
Well.
Me.
One evening, we sat under the oldest peach tree.
The hole had been filled again.
No ledger underneath.
Just dirt.
I asked:
“When are we ending the fake engagement?”
His expression changed.
“Do you want to?”
Dangerous question.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
That hurt more than expected.
“Okay?”
“You want it ended.”
“Yes.”
“So we end it.”
I stared.
“That was easy.”
“Should it be difficult?”
“No.”
I hated his maturity.
Then he took the ring from my finger.
Carefully.
My heart sank.
Ridiculous.
It had never been real.
He put it in his pocket.
“Press statement tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“Daisy.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
I did.
His eyes were softer than I had ever seen them.
“The engagement was fake.”
“I know.”
“My feelings aren’t.”
My breath caught.
He continued.
“I liked you before I knew about the tunnel.”
“You met me drunk.”
“You insulted my suit.”
“It was too expensive for a county festival.”
“You proposed within forty minutes.”
“You looked lonely.”
He smiled.
“I was.”
Silence.
“Then you showed up in my life and turned every plan I had sideways.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It has been surprisingly pleasant.”
I laughed.
Then stopped when he stepped closer.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
My heart pounded.
“You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“Very civilized.”
“I’m trying.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He kissed me beneath the peach tree.
No cameras.
No viral video.
No peach wine.
Just us.
When we pulled apart, Vincent whispered:
“That was significantly better than the proposal.”
“You’re never letting that go.”
“Never.”
Then Marco ran toward us.
“Boss.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Every time.”
Marco looked apologetic.
“Sorry.”
“What?”
“The federal team opened one final file from the ledger.”
“And?”
Marco looked at Daisy.
“At her.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Caroline Bennett left a financial account.”
My mother.
“For me?”
“No.”
Marco hesitated.
“For Vincent.”
I stared.
My dead mother had left money to a man who was fifteen when she died.
Why?
May you like
The answer was hidden in one note:
FOR THE DAY HE SAVES DAISY.
