Before I had known Roman Duca for an hour, I threw a bag of flour at him hard enough to explode across his charcoal suit.

The next morning, at precisely 8:15 AM, the distinctive purr of a high-end European engine echoed outside Honey & Rye.

The heavy glass door chimed, and Roman Duca walked in. He was wearing a fresh dark suit—though I noticed with quiet satisfaction that his shoes still had a faint, powdery white residue along the welt stitching.

“No,” I said before he even reached the counter, wiping down the stainless-steel prep table with a damp rag. “We are closed to mafia syndicates today. Try Starbucks down the block.”

Roman stopped two feet from the counter, his expression entirely neutral. “I only want coffee.”

“Black coffee. Drip. Two dollars and fifty cents.”

He placed exact change on the counter, waited for me to pour a paper cup of our strongest house roast, picked it up, and walked out without another word.

He returned the next morning at 8:15.

And the next.

By the third day, the routine had become an absurd, unspoken ritual. He would walk in, place his exact coins on the counter, accept his black coffee, and leave. My morning regulars had started taking bets on whether he would wear navy or charcoal each day. The tension that had sparked the flour explosion had settled into a strange, wary stalemate—a cautious coexistence between a baker trying to keep her business afloat and a Chicago crime lord who apparently enjoyed mediocre drip coffee and powdered lapels.

On the fourth morning, however, the script changed.

The door chimed, and Roman walked in—but he wasn't alone.

I paused, a wooden paddle in my hand, as I looked past his broad shoulders. Standing beside him was a teenage girl who looked about sixteen. She had dark hair twisted into a messy, uneven knot, wearing an oversized gray collegiate sweatshirt that swallowed her frame. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, and her expression wore that heavy, practiced emptiness of a teenager who had spent too much time in waiting rooms, offices, and quiet houses, wishing the world would just stop asking questions.

Roman opened the inner door wider, his hand hovering gently near her elbow—not a grip of control, but a protective, hesitant gesture.

And right then, something in Roman Duca transformed entirely.

The cold, calculated aura of Chicago’s most feared power broker evaporated. His shoulders dropped. The hard lines around his mouth softened. When he spoke to her, his voice lost its gravelly, commanding edge, replaced by a quiet, trembling gentleness I wouldn't have believed possible if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

“Clare,” Roman said, his gaze shifting to me with an unmistakable vulnerability. “This is my niece, Lily.”

Lily looked up, her dark eyes scanning the glass display case filled with bear claws, almond tarts, and powdered donuts before landing on me.

“So you’re the famous girlfriend,” she said, her voice dry and laced with teenage skepticism.

I dropped the wooden paddle onto the counter with a sharp clatter. “I am absolutely, one hundred percent not.”

For one brief, shining second, Lily’s lips twitched upward into a genuine, reluctant smile.

Roman saw it.

And I saw him see it.

The expression that crossed Roman’s face in that instant wasn't power, amusement, or calculation. It was relief—deep, profound, bone-deep relief, like a man who had been wandering through a desert and had finally found water.

Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. The fake relationship, the relentless visits, the strange persistence—it had never really been about tricking Aunt Sophia. It was about creating a normal space. A safe space. A place where a broken family could pretend, even for ten minutes, that they weren't wrapped up in the dangerous, blood-soaked machinery of the Chicago underworld.

I slowly lowered my hands, the anger draining out of my chest, replaced by a sudden, heavy wave of understanding.