Page 152 of Auctioned Innocence
“Marco!” I rush to his side, careful of his tubes and monitors. “How long have you been…”
“Long enough to hear I’m going to be an uncle.” His grip is weak but real as he squeezes my hand. “Congratulations, little sister. Both of you.”
Dante moves to Marco’s other side, clasping his shoulder carefully. “Thank you. For everything. For raising her, protecting her, making her into the incredible woman she is.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Moretti,” Marco says, but his eyes are bright with emotion. “Save that for the proposal.”
“The what?” I turn to stare at him. “Marco…”
“About time you made an honest woman of her,” Marco continues with a knowing grin. “Especially now.”
Dante clears his throat, color rising in his cheeks. “Actually… Marco, I need to ask you something. Officially.”
A strangled noise rises in my throat.
“I know traditionally I should ask your father,” Dante continues, his voice steady despite the emotion underlying it, “but Marco, you’re the one who raised Sofia. You’re the one who protected her, who made her strong, who became both brother and father to her when she needed it most.”
Marco’s expression grows serious, understanding the weight of this moment.
“I love your sister more than my own life,” Dante says quietly. “She’s my partner, my equal, my everything. I want to spend the rest of my life making her happy, protecting her, building a family with her. So I’m asking—do I have your blessing to marry Sofia?”
Marco says nothing. The room is heavy with emotion and years of brotherhood between these two men who both love me.
“Dante,” Marco says finally, his voice rough, “you’ve already proven yourself a hundred times over. You’ve protected her, fought beside her, treated her as the warrior she is instead of trying to cage her like everyone else wanted to.” He pauses, looking between us. “You have my blessing. My complete, enthusiastic blessing.”
Dante’s relief is visible. “Thank you.”
“But,” Marco adds with a hint of his old authority, “if you ever hurt her?—”
“You’ll kill me,” Dante finishes with a small smile. “I know. I’d deserve it.”
“Good.” Marco settles back against his pillows. “Now quit stalling and ask her properly.”
My heart pounds as Dante moves to my side, reaching into his pocket. When he pulls out a small, elegant box, I can barely breathe.
“Sofia.” He sinks to one knee beside Marco’s hospital bed. “I had Mario pick this up for me yesterday while we were here with Marco. I’ve been planning this since that night in the penthouse when I realized I couldn’t imagine any future that didn’t include you.”
He opens the box to reveal the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen—a stunning emerald surrounded by diamonds, the green stone catching the hospital’s fluorescent lights and throwing them back like fire.
“The emerald reminded me of your eyes when you’re angry,” he says with a soft smile. “Which is when you’re most beautiful. Most dangerous. Most yourself.”
Tears blur my vision as he continues.
“Marry me, Sofia. Be my wife, my partner in everything. Let me spend the rest of my life showing you exactly how much I love you, how proud I am of your strength, how grateful I am that you chose me.” His voice grows husky with emotion. “Letme be the father to our children that they deserve. Let me build the family with you that we both dreamed of.”
“And let me spoil my nieces and nephews rotten,” Marco adds softly, making me laugh through my tears.
I look between my brother and the man I love—my family, complete and safe and together. In this sterile hospital room, with machines beeping and the smell of antiseptic in the air, I’ve never felt more surrounded by love.
“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, my voice strong and certain, “Yes, Dante. Yes to everything.”
The ring slides onto my finger like it was made for me, a perfect fit. When Dante stands to kiss me, it’s gentle and reverent and full of promises for our future.
“If you’re done making out in front of the invalid,” Marco says dryly, though his eyes are suspiciously bright, “I’d like to hear about my future niece or nephew.”
We settle into the hospital chairs, hands linked, and tell him everything. About the baby’s due date—late spring, based on me being six and a half weeks pregnant. About how shocked and happy and terrified we both are.
“I keep thinking about what kind of life we want to give this baby,” I say, looking down at the ultrasound photos. “How we want to raise them differently than we were raised. With love instead of duty, choice instead of obligation.”
