Chapter 1 - The Flour and the Family
The dust of the flour had barely settled on the dark wood of the kitchen counter before the silence stretched out, thick and heavy with the scent of unbaked dough and cinnamon. Lily stood near the display case, her fingers lightly tapping against the glass while her dark eyes flicked between her uncle and me. She looked like a girl carrying an anchor in her chest—guarded, exhausted, and desperately trying to pretend she didn't care about anything in the world.
Roman didn't move. He stood just three feet away, the lingering white powder from my abrupt projectile on his charcoal lapels looking absurd against the dangerous reputation he carried across Chicago.
“It’s a cinnamon brioche twist,” I said, answering Lily’s question about the pastry she was staring at. My voice was firmer than my racing heartbeat. “It has cream cheese icing that I make from scratch every morning at four. Do you want one?”
Lily glanced up at Roman, a silent question passing between them.
Roman nodded, his gaze never leaving my face. “Get two. And whatever else you want, Lily.”
“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, but her stomach betrayed her with a soft, audible rumble.
A tiny flicker of amusement touched the corner of Roman’s mouth—a ghost of a smile that made him look less like a syndicate boss and more like a man who was utterly out of his depth. He pulled a heavy leather wallet from his jacket, placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, and slid it toward me.
“Keep the change,” he said quietly.
“I don’t take hush money, Mr. Duca,” I replied, ringing up the pastries with sharp, efficient keystrokes on the old register. “Even if it’s disguised as a breakfast subsidy for a teenager.”
Lily snorted—a quick, sharp sound of genuine surprise. She looked at me with new interest, her posture relaxing by a fraction of an inch. “You’re brave. Uncle Roman usually makes grown men in tailored suits sweat through their collars just by looking at them.”
“Grown men in tailored suits don’t have to wake up at three-thirty to bake bread,” I said, handing her a warm pastry in a white paper bag along with her change. “They spend their mornings intimidating people. I spend mine making things people actually enjoy.”
Roman accepted the receipt I slid across the counter, his fingers brushing against mine. The contact was brief, but it sent a strange, low-voltage current straight up my arm. I pulled my hand back as if I’d touched a hot stove.
“We need to talk, Clare,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave, pitching it so Lily wouldn’t hear as she retreated to a small corner table by the window.
“We already talked. You made a proposal. I threw flour at you. End of negotiation.”
“It wasn't a negotiation. It was a poorly calculated offer.” He leaned forward, bracing his broad hands on the glass display case just as I had done ten minutes earlier. Up close, his eyes were the color of dark, untreated amber—intense, calculating, and impossible to look away from. “I didn't come back today to ask you to play my girlfriend for Sophia.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Then why are you here? To order a bulk supply of croissants for your criminal syndicate?”
“Lily hasn’t spoken three sentences to me in two months,” Roman said, his voice dropping into something raw and unguarded that caught me completely off guard. “Her mother—my sister—passed away six months ago. She’s been living with boarding schools, counselors, and empty houses ever since. When she saw you yesterday—when she saw someone who wasn't terrified of me, someone who stood her ground—she asked to come here.”
The air in the bakery suddenly felt very thin.
I looked over at Lily. She was sitting by the window, staring blankly out at the gray Chicago street, picking at the edge of her paper bag without eating. The bravado, the sharp edges, the cold billionaire demeanor—none of it mattered when it came to a grieving teenager who had lost her mother.
“Why me?” I whispered, looking back up at Roman.
“Because you’re real,” he said simply. “And she needs someone real in her life right now. Not another paid companion. Not another terrified sycophant.”
“And the fake girlfriend thing?”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “Sophia is relentless. If she thinks I’m involved with someone stable, someone who isn't connected to the life, she’ll back off. But that’s secondary now.”
“Conveniently secondary,” I muttered.
“Will you help her, Clare?” Roman asked, ignoring my sarcasm. His dark eyes held a desperate, quiet plea that completely dismantled every defense I had prepared. “Just... let her sit here after school. Talk to her. Let her see that the world outside my front door isn't made of glass and bullets.”
May you like
I stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then I reached across the counter, picked up the fifty-dollar bill he had left, and slid it back toward him.
“Keep your money, Mr. Duca,” I said softly. “But if she wants to learn how to bake, tell her to show up tomorrow at two o’clock wearing clothes she doesn't mind ruining with flour.”
