Chapter 1 - The Ring and the Reclaimed VowThe heavy black limousine idling on the dirt driveway of the Bennett Family Inn looked like a obsidian warship parked among wild yellow sunflowers.
My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I thought it would crack my sternum. I stood on the porch in my faded denim shorts and oversized t-shirt, my blonde hair still messy from sleep, clutching the wooden railing as my six-foot-four "fiancé" stepped onto the creaking pine steps.
At thirty-four, Vincent Moretti was the undisputed king of the Midwest underworld. In Chicago and New York, his name caused corporate boards to dissolve and syndicate capos to lower their eyes. His broad shoulders were framed beneath a dark charcoal bespoke suit, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show dark, intricate tattoos snaking over his powerful forearms. His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine with an intense, unshakeable focus that made the morning air freeze.
Beside him stood his chief of private security, Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Vance, carrying a sleek velvet box.
"Morning, sunshine," Vincent greeted softly, his deep, gravelly baritone vibrating right through the floorboards under my bare feet. A faint, razor-sharp smirk touched his handsome jawline. "You look a little less lively than you did on my shoulders at midnight."
"Mr. Moretti," I stammered, my face burning with a mixture of catastrophic humiliation and sheer terror. "Listen... about last night. Grandma's peach wine is ninety percent grain alcohol. I was drunk. I didn't know who you were, and I certainly didn't mean to—"
Vincent didn't wait for me to finish. He covered the distance between us in two long strides, stepping up onto the porch, his massive frame towering over me, instantly blocking out the morning sun.
He reached out, his broad, warm, calloused fingers gently taking my right hand. Before I could pull away, he clicked open the velvet box held by Marcus and slid a magnificent ten-carat solitaire diamond ring onto my ring finger. It fit perfectly.
"V-Vincent!" I gasped, trying to yank my hand back, but his grip was like an iron band wrapped in warm velvet. "I can't accept this! It was a mistake!"
"I don't make mistakes, Daisy," Vincent declared flatly, his storm-gray eyes burning with an absolute, sovereign authority that dropped the temperature to zero. "And I don't let women propose to me in front of half a million viewers and then walk away. You asked for a husband who could fix your fences, protect your family, and keep your inn alive. I'm here to collect my peach cobbler."
Tears of panic flared in my eyes. "My family inn is three hundred thousand dollars in debt, Mr. Moretti! There are people trying to foreclose on us! My life is a disaster!"
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Vincent leaned down, his face inches from mine, his dark scent of cedarwood, rain, and expensive bourbon enveloping my senses.
"Your debt was paid off forty-five minutes ago, sweetheart," Vincent whispered, his thumb gently brushing across my cheek. "And the people trying to foreclose on your inn are currently being processed by federal marshals. You belong to Vincent Moretti now. And no one touches what's mine."
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