Chapter 1 - The Man Covered in Flour
Before I had known Roman Duca for an hour, I had covered Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss in enough flour to make him look like an expensive ghost.
In my defense, he deserved it.
My name is Clare Bennett. I was thirty-one years old, owner of Honey & Rye Bakery, and permanently exhausted because bread apparently believed civilized people should begin working at three-thirty in the morning.
By eight o’clock that Tuesday, I had already mixed four batches of brioche, burned my wrist on a sheet pan, argued with a supplier over butter prices, and discovered that one of my employees had accidentally ordered six cases of almond extract.
So when a tall man in a charcoal suit stepped to the front of a twenty-person line and announced that he wanted everything in my pastry case, patience was not among the ingredients I had left.
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” I told him.
The bakery went strangely quiet.
The man looked behind himself.
Then at me.
“You’re speaking to me?”
“No, I’m speaking to the six-foot-three man blocking Mrs. Patterson from her cinnamon roll.”
Mrs. Patterson, who was seventy-eight and had absolutely no instinct for self-preservation, leaned around him.
“That’s me.”
One of the two men standing near the entrance appeared to reconsider every choice that had brought him there.
The stranger looked back at me.
Dark wavy hair. Sharp cheekbones. Expensive watch. Tattoos disappearing beneath the open collar of a white shirt. The kind of face that would have looked perfectly at home on a billboard if the expression hadn’t suggested he knew exactly how much fear he inspired.
“I’ll pay for everyone’s order,” he said.
“They came for breakfast, not a hostile takeover of my croissants.”
Someone snorted.
One of his guards turned it into a cough.
That was how I met Roman Duca.
I didn’t know the name immediately.
Everyone else did.
Sophia Duca was the one who enlightened me.
She swept through the front door ten minutes later wearing a black coat, pearls, and the expression of a woman who had spent six decades learning that rules were mainly for other people.
“Roman.”
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“Aunt Sophia.”
“You ignored my calls.”
“I was occupied.”
“With what?”
Sophia looked at me.
I was holding a tray of raspberry danishes.
Roman was holding a black coffee he’d eventually been forced to stand in line to purchase.
Sophia’s gaze traveled between us.
Then her face transformed.
“Oh.”
I didn’t like that “oh.”
Roman apparently didn’t either.
“Sophia.”
She smiled.
“So this is why you cannot come to dinner tonight.”
“What?” I asked.
Roman said nothing.
Sophia clasped her hands.
“You finally have a girlfriend.”
I nearly dropped the pastries.
“I’m sorry?”
Roman’s guards became intensely fascinated by the ceiling.
“We are not dating,” I said.
Sophia waved one hand.
“Of course. Privacy. I understand.”
“No. You don’t.”
“She was arguing with me five minutes ago,” Roman said.
Sophia beamed.
“Even better. A real relationship.”
I stared at him.
“This is your family?”
“Unfortunately.”
Sophia hit his arm.
Then her phone rang.
Before either of us could stop her, she answered.
“Yes, Francesca. I found him. No, he cannot meet Gabriella tonight. He has a girlfriend.”
My mouth fell open.
Roman rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Sophia looked at me.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Zero minutes.”
Roman looked at Sophia.
Then at me.
Something calculated passed behind his eyes.
“Three months.”
I slowly put the pastry tray down.
“Excuse me?”
Sophia gasped happily.
Roman remained perfectly calm.
“Three months,” he repeated.
I pointed toward him.
“Stop calling me your girlfriend.”
“My aunt believes it now.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’ll stop arranging introductions.”
“Wonderful. Find another fake girlfriend.”
His gaze settled on me.
“I would prefer you.”
“Why?”
For the first time, Roman hesitated.
“Because Sophia already believes it.”
“Wrong answer.”
Sophia stepped backward.
She was smiling far too much.
I pointed toward the front door.
“Out.”
Roman didn’t move.
Instead, he reached inside his jacket and placed a business card on my counter.
“Three weeks.”
I stared at the card.
“Three weeks of what?”
“Keep up the appearance.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll compensate you.”
My stomach tightened.
“You want to pay me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”
“For your time.”
“My time has a price. My dignity doesn’t.”
Then he told me how much.
I grabbed the nearest bag.
Unfortunately for Roman, it contained flour.
The paper split when I swung it toward him.
White powder exploded across his chest, jacket, trousers, shoes, and half the polished floor.
Nobody moved.
A cupcake could have hit the ground in Milwaukee and we would have heard it.
Roman slowly looked down at himself.
Then at me.
“You’re terrible at negotiating.”
“No,” I snapped. “You’re just not used to hearing no.”
Behind him, Sophia made a choking sound.
Roman turned.
She covered her mouth.
“I am not laughing.”
“You are.”
“I am delighted.”
Roman glanced toward one of his guards.
The man had suddenly developed an urgent interest in the front window.
“You may leave,” Roman told me.
I put both hands on my hips.
“This is my bakery.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he said. “That became apparent.”
He left five minutes later wearing enough flour to prove that money could buy an Italian suit but couldn’t save it from an angry baker.
I assumed that was the end of Roman Duca.
I was wrong.
The following morning, a black sedan stopped outside Honey & Rye at 8:15.
Roman walked in.
“No,” I said.
“I haven’t spoken.”
“You were about to.”
“I want coffee.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“One coffee?”
“Yes.”
“No buying the line?”
“No.”
“No girlfriends?”
His jaw twitched.
“No girlfriends.”
I poured it.
He paid exactly the listed price.
Then left.
Wednesday, he returned.
Thursday, again.
Friday morning, I saw the black sedan and reached automatically for another bag of flour.
Then the passenger door opened.
A girl climbed out.
She looked sixteen, perhaps slightly younger.
Dark hair twisted into a careless knot. Gray sweatshirt too large for her narrow frame. Black jeans. Worn sneakers.
Roman walked beside her without touching her.
Something about him changed.
The arrogance disappeared.
His shoulders softened.
He opened the bakery door and waited.
The girl entered first.
Her eyes swept over the room with the cautious expression of someone searching for exits before deciding whether a place was safe.
Roman approached the counter.
“Clare.”
“No speeches.”
“I wasn’t planning one.”
“You always look like you’re planning one.”
The girl glanced between us.
Roman lowered his voice.
“This is my niece. Lily.”
I looked at her.
“Hi, Lily.”
She didn’t answer.
Roman didn’t push.
Lily stared at me for several seconds.
Then she finally spoke.
“So you’re the famous girlfriend.”
My jaw dropped.
“I am absolutely not.”
Something almost miraculous happened.
The corner of Lily’s mouth moved.
Barely.
But it was a smile.
Roman saw it.
His face changed so quickly I almost missed it.
Relief.
Not amusement.
Not triumph.
Relief so deep it looked painful.
Lily stepped toward the display case.
Her gaze moved across chocolate croissants, lemon tarts, blueberry muffins and cinnamon buns until it settled on a small pastry glazed with honey.
She pointed.
“What’s that?”
“Honey brioche,” I said. “Orange zest, vanilla, local honey.”
Lily looked at Roman.
He reached for his wallet.
I slapped my palm onto the counter.
“It’s on the house.”
Roman looked at me.
“I can afford pastry.”
“I know. That’s part of your charm.”
Lily smiled again.
A real one this time.
Roman went completely still.
I looked from him to the girl.
And for the first time, I realized something that made the argument, the ridiculous proposal and his strange repeated visits feel different.
Roman Duca had not walked back into my bakery because he enjoyed fighting with me.
He hadn’t brought Lily because he wanted to impress me.
There was fear in his eyes.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.
Lily took one bite of the honey brioche.
Then another.
Roman watched as though she were performing a miracle.
“How long?” I asked quietly.
His eyes remained on Lily.
“Eleven days.”
“Since she ate?”
“Since she ate more than a few bites.”
My anger disappeared.
Lily pretended not to hear.
Roman lowered his voice further.
“She hasn’t smiled in almost three months.”
I looked at him.
“What happened three months ago?”
Roman finally met my eyes.
For several seconds, the powerful man who frightened half the city said nothing.
Then Lily turned toward us.
And Roman’s expression closed immediately.
“Another time.”
That was the moment I understood his proposal had never really been about escaping Sophia’s matchmaking.
May you like
Something was wrong inside the Duca family.
And somehow, without asking permission, Lily had just pulled me into the middle of it.
