Chapter 3 - Sunday Best and Hidden Pockets
Sunday morning arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.
When Roman’s black sedan pulled up outside my apartment building at ten-thirty, I was standing by my living room mirror questioning every life choice that had led me to this exact moment. I wore a dark emerald wrap dress that hugged my curves in all the right places, a pair of comfortable black flats, and gold hoop earrings. My hair was blown out into soft waves that I had spent forty-five minutes managing.
When I opened the front door, Roman was standing on the landing.
He wore a dark navy blazer, an open-collared white shirt, and trousers that fit with terrifying precision. He looked up as I stepped out, and for three entire seconds, the Chicago traffic outside seemed to vanish.
His dark amber eyes swept over me from head to toe, lingering for a beat longer than social convention allowed. There was no polite, practiced corporate smile on his face. Just an unfiltered, burning appreciation that made my breath catch in my throat.
“You look...” He cleared his throat, adjusting his cuffs. “Remarkable, Clare.”
“Don't sound so surprised,” I retorted, grabbing my leather handbag and locking the door behind me. “Some of us know how to dress for occasions that don't involve flour sacks.”
“I wasn't surprised,” Roman said smoothly as we walked toward the elevator. “Just... arrested.”
“Save the smooth talk for your aunt. We’re going to need a synchronized strategy if we’re going to survive brunch.”
The Duca family estate in the northern suburbs looked less like a home and more like a limestone fortress disguised as a Tuscan villa. Wrought-iron gates swung open automatically as Roman’s sedan approached, revealing manicured gardens, bubbling fountains, and an army of men in dark suits standing casually near the perimeter.
“Relax,” Roman murmured as he parked the car and turned off the ignition, noticing the way my shoulders had coiled into tight knots. “You’re my girlfriend, remember? Nobody is going to mess with you while you’re under my roof.”
“I’m not worried about your men, Roman. I’m worried about your aunt.”
As if summoned by dark magic, the heavy double oak doors of the villa swung open, and Sophia Duca swept down the stone steps like a queen inspecting her fleet.
She wore a cream-colored silk blouse, tailored trousers, and emerald earrings that matched my dress. By the time Roman opened my car door and extended a hand to help me out, Sophia was already standing at the edge of the driveway, a triumphant, knowing smile spread across her face.
“Clare, darling!” Sophia cried, ignoring her nephew entirely as she stepped forward and pulled me into a fragrant, surprisingly warm embrace. “You look stunning. That color is magnificent on you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Duca—”
“Sophia, please,” she corrected, patting my arm affectionately. She turned her gaze to Roman, who stood beside us with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Well. It took you long enough to bring her around, nephew. I was beginning to think you were allergic to happiness.”
“Good morning, Sophia,” Roman said smoothly, stepping close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. His hand settled lightly against the small of my back, his fingers pressing through the silk of my dress with a warm, steady pressure that grounded me instantly. “Be nice. She brought pastries.”
Sophia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I like her already.”
The brunch was an extravagant, chaotic affair held on a sunlit stone patio overlooking a private courtyard. There were cousins, uncles, legal advisors, and assorted business associates, all of whom fell into a strange, respectful silence the moment Roman and I walked in.
I quickly realized two things: first, that Sophia Duca ruled this family with an iron fist wrapped in lace; and second, that everyone in the room was terrified of Roman—except for Lily, who sat at the corner of the table poking at a fruit tart, and Sophia, who treated him like an overgrown toddler who still needed haircuts.
“So, Clare,” Uncle Marco boomed from across the table halfway through the meal, swirling red wine in a crystal glass. “Roman tells me you run a bakery downtown. How does a nice girl from the North Side put up with a stubborn mule like my nephew?”
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. I looked at Roman. He was watching me with a dangerous, amused glint in his dark eyes, waiting to see how I’d handle the wolves.
“With a lot of patience, Uncle Marco,” I said clearly, resting my hands on the table. “And an industrial-sized bag of flour. Whenever he gets difficult, I throw baked goods at him.”
Laughter erupted around the table—loud, genuine laughter from the cousins, a sharp bark of amusement from Marco, and a delighted cackle from Sophia.
Roman groaned softly, shaking his head. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m just establishing boundaries, Mr. Duca,” I murmured back, leaning in close so only he could hear.
After brunch, while Sophia was cornering Marco about the summer catering menu, Lily slipped away from the table and motioned for me to follow her toward the western garden.
I excused myself and walked down the stone path, finding Lily standing by a bronze fountain shaped like a cascading waterfall.
“Hey,” I said softly, coming to a stop beside her. “Everything okay?”
Lily looked down at the water, her fingers tracing the rim of her stone basin. “Uncle Roman hasn't smiled like that in six months,” she said quietly.
My chest tightened. “Like what?”
“Like he’s actually here,” she looked up, her dark eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Since Mom died, he’s been... he’s been like a machine. Just running the business, managing the security, making sure I’m fed and safe. But he doesn't breathe. When he’s with you, he breathes.”
I didn't know what to say. The weight of her words hung in the air between us, heavy and real. I reached out, gently placing my hand over hers.
“He cares about you a lot, Lily,” I said softly. “He’s terrified of failing you.”
“I know,” she whispered, wiping her cheek quickly with her sleeve. “And I’m terrified of losing him, too.”
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind us. We both turned to see Roman walking down the path, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes softening as he took in the two of us standing together by the fountain.
“Sophia is plotting our wedding seating chart,” Roman announced dryly, stopping a few feet away. “I figured I’d rescue you before she starts ordering invitations.”
Lily let out a watery laugh, wiping her face completely. “Good call, Uncle Roman. She was just asking me if Clare likes lilies or roses.”
May you like
Roman’s gaze snapped to mine, the air between us suddenly shifting into something electric and intense.
“Well?” Roman asked quietly, taking a step closer. “Which do you prefer?”
