Chapter 3 - The Recipe for Truce
“That,” I said, walking out from behind the counter and wiping my hands on my apron, “is a chocolate eclair filled with espresso pastry cream. If you eat two of them too fast, you’ll vibrate straight through the ceiling.”
Lily’s eyes lingered on the pastry for a moment longer before she glanced up at her uncle. Roman didn't hesitate; he immediately pulled a leather wallet from his jacket.
“We’ll take two,” Roman said.
“Actually,” I interrupted, looking directly at the teenager, “if you help me frost the cinnamon rolls in the back kitchen, you get them for free. Labor laws for temporary bakery interns are very relaxed in here.”
Lily blinked, surprised. She looked at Roman, silently asking for permission without realizing she was doing it.
Roman looked at me, a silent question in his dark eyes. I met his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. We weren't playing his game anymore; we were playing mine.
“Go ahead, Lily,” Roman said softly, stepping back toward the small seating area near the window. “I’ll wait here with my coffee.”
For the next twenty minutes, the back kitchen was blessedly free of mafia tension. Lily stood beside me at the stainless-steel prep table, her sleeves rolled up, carefully spreading cream cheese frosting over warm cinnamon rolls with a spatula. At first, she was silent, guarded like a stray cat trapped in a cage. But as I showed her how to swirl the spatula for a professional finish, her shoulders slowly relaxed.
“He talks about you, you know,” Lily murmured, her eyes fixed on the pastry in front of her.
I paused, holding a piping bag of caramel. “Does he? I assume it’s mostly complaints about my lack of corporate hospitality.”
“No,” Lily said, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth. “He said you threw a bag of flour at him. He said you were the only person in Chicago who wouldn't blink if an army marched through your front door.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “An army wouldn't dare march through here. My commercial mixer costs more than most of their getaway cars. I’d beat them with a rolling pin.”
Lily actually laughed—a real, bright sound that echoed off the white tile walls. Hearing it made me realize how rare that sound must have been in Roman Duca’s fortress of a home.
When we returned to the front counter with a fresh box of pastries, Roman was sitting at a corner table, staring out at the grey Chicago morning. When he saw Lily smiling, his entire expression softened into something almost tender.
“Thank you, Clare,” Roman said quietly as he stood up to leave, holding the pastry box in one hand.
“Don't thank me yet,” I replied, leaning against the counter. “If she comes back tomorrow demanding more sugar, I’m sending the bill to your office.”
May you like
Roman looked at me for a long moment, the air between us shifting from hostility to a fragile, unspoken truce. “Send whatever you like, Clare. Just keep the door open.”
As the bell chimed behind them and they stepped out into the biting wind, I stood there in the quiet bakery, realizing with a sinking sense of dread that my peaceful, solitary life had just been permanently hijacked.
