Chapter 15 - THE PROPOSAL I REMEMBERED
Our wedding took place at Bennett Inn beneath the oldest peach tree.
Not New York.
Not a cathedral.
Not a Moretti estate.
Home.
Grandma insisted on planning everything.
This was terrifying.
Tess served as maid of honor and repeatedly reminded me that she had technically been kidnapped because of our relationship.
“You mention it every week.”
“Trauma is forever.”
“You ate snacks with the kidnappers.”
“They had good crackers.”
Daniel walked me down the aisle.
Halfway there, he stopped.
“You okay?”
I looked at Vincent waiting beneath the tree.
Black suit.
No tie.
Nervous.
The most feared man I once knew looked terrified I might change my mind.
“I’m good.”
Daniel smiled.
“Then go.”
I walked the rest alone.
Because I wanted to.
Vincent held out his hand.
“Hi.”
I laughed.
“Hi.”
“You remember today?”
“So far.”
“Promising.”
The officiant began.
Our guests included Sofia.
Marco.
Grandma.
Daniel.
Tess.
Half the town.
Several former federal investigators who looked uncomfortable around the Moretti table.
And no Cavallos.
Victor had been sentenced to decades in federal prison.
The corruption prosecutions continued.
The tunnel beneath the inn had been legally sealed except for one small section preserved as a historical exhibit.
Grandma charged fifteen dollars for tours.
Capitalism survived.
Bennett Inn did too.
The viral fame became genuine tourism.
We expanded carefully.
No luxury resort.
No giant corporation.
Just twelve additional rooms, restored barns, and a restaurant where Grandma insulted customers who complained about portion sizes.
Vincent maintained offices in New York.
But he spent half his time with me.
He had converted the Moretti organization into legitimate businesses over several difficult years.
Not perfectly.
Real change rarely was.
But enough that our children—if we had them—would inherit companies, not wars.
During vows, Vincent looked at me.
“The first time you proposed, you were missing one boot.”
People laughed.
“You were standing on a picnic table.”
More laughter.
“And you told me you could make excellent peach cobbler.”
“I can.”
“You can.”
His voice softened.
“I said no take-backs because for the first time in a very long time, someone looked at me without fear.”
My eyes filled.
“You didn’t know my name mattered.”
“You didn’t know what I owned.”
“You saw a man standing alone.”
Silence.
“And you decided he looked lonely.”
He smiled.
“You were right.”
My throat tightened.
“I didn’t know how lonely until you left for the bathroom and I realized the entire festival felt quieter.”
I whispered:
“That is disgustingly romantic.”
“Let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
Everyone laughed.
“You gave me chaos.”
“Family.”
“A grandmother who threatens me with kitchen utensils.”
Grandma shouted:
“Respect earns safety!”
Vincent nodded solemnly.
“Exactly.”
Then:
“And you gave me a future I never planned.”
He slid the ring onto my finger.
“No take-backs.”
I smiled.
“No take-backs.”
We kissed.
The crowd cheered.
Three years later, Bennett Inn hosted another festival.
This time, I had a two-year-old daughter on my hip.
Her name was Caroline Sofia Moretti.
She had Vincent’s dark eyes.
My blonde curls.
And Grandma’s complete absence of fear.
Our son, Gabriel Daniel, was six months old and asleep against Vincent’s chest.
Yes.
Two children.
Apparently I was very good at ruining carefully organized Mafia-boss schedules.
Vincent had become ridiculous as a father.
He researched car seats for six weeks.
Called pediatricians over hiccups.
Once threatened a stuffed bear because Caroline cried after falling on it.
I recorded that.
Blackmail matters in marriage.
That evening, the country band started playing the same song from the night we met.
Vincent looked at me.
“No.”
I laughed.
“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Dance?”
“That’s safer.”
We danced beneath the lights.
Caroline danced between us.
Gabriel slept.
Grandma sold cobbler.
Tess managed the inn and had finally stopped telling strangers about her kidnapping.
Mostly.
Then someone played the old viral video on a festival screen.
There I was.
Twenty-six.
Drunk.
Missing a boot.
Sitting on Vincent Moretti’s shoulders.
The crowd laughed.
Video Daisy shouted:
“I’d make a great wife!”
Present-day Vincent looked at me.
“You were correct.”
“I was intoxicated.”
“Still correct.”
Then video Vincent said:
“No take-backs, sweetheart.”
Our daughter pointed at the screen.
“Daddy!”
“Yes.”
“Mommy silly!”
Vincent laughed so hard he nearly woke Gabriel.
I stared at the screen.
Back then, I thought the worst thing that could happen was discovering whether the dangerous stranger had accepted my proposal.
I had been wrong.
The proposal opened a door into family secrets, murder, corruption, tunnels, hidden ledgers, and one of the most complicated family trees in recorded history.
But it also gave me truths I had spent my whole life missing.
A father who never knew I existed.
A mother whose betrayal had actually been sacrifice.
A grandfather who had tried to protect us.
And a man who had spent his life surrounded by people afraid of his name until one drunk country girl asked why he looked lonely.
Vincent leaned toward me.
“Regret it?”
“The peach wine?”
“Me.”
I looked at him.
At our daughter.
Our sleeping son.
The inn glowing behind us.
The peach tree still standing.
“No.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because your grandmother made another bottle.”
My eyes widened.
“Absolutely not.”
He laughed.
I pointed toward the kitchen.
“Destroy it.”
“Daisy—”
“The last bottle led to marriage, kidnapping, federal indictments, and two babies.”
“That is an impressive return on investment.”
I laughed.
Then kissed him.
Some love stories begin with flowers.
Some begin with carefully planned dates.
Ours began with homemade peach wine, one missing cowboy boot, a dangerous stranger, and a proposal I could barely remember.
But the answer?
That part I remembered forever.
May you like
Yes.
No take-backs.
