Chapter 4 - Unwelcome Guests
Three days of relative peace followed. Lily returned twice—once after school on Thursday, and again on Saturday morning—each time lingering longer, asking questions about dough hydration, and actually laughing at my terrible baking puns. Roman accompanied her both times, sitting quietly in the corner, nursing his black coffee, watching us with an intensity that felt less like surveillance and more like quiet wonder.
I had almost started to convince myself that we could maintain this bizarre arrangement: a neighborhood baker, a Chicago mafia boss, and a teenager finding a safe harbor over sugar and butter.
Then came Tuesday afternoon.
The bakery was empty except for a regular customer reading the morning paper by the window. The bell above the door chimed, and two men walked in.
They didn't look like my usual customers. They wore cheap, ill-fitting polyester suits, their hair slicked back with too much gel, and their eyes darted around the room with nervous, predatory energy. They didn't look at the display case; they looked at the cash register, and then at the back kitchen door.
My stomach tightened. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped up to the front counter.
“Can I help you gentlemen? We’re closing in ten minutes, so if you want coffee, it’s to-go only.”
The taller of the two men—a scarred brute with a broken nose—smiled, revealing a gold-plated molar. “We ain't here for coffee, sweetheart. We’re here to talk about protection.”
The word hung in the air like poison.
I froze, my blood running cold. Honey & Rye had operated in this neighborhood for five years without a single incident of local extortion, mostly because the West Loop had been quiet—or because everyone knew whose territory it technically bordered.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “Leave.”
“Now, don't be like that,” the second man said, stepping closer to the counter, placing a heavy, ring-bearing hand on the glass display. “Business is tough out here. Fires happen. Ovens break down. It’s a tragedy when a nice little place like this goes up in smoke because the owner forgot to pay her insurance dues to the Outfit.”
The Outfit. Not Roman’s faction—a rival crew trying to muscle in on West Loop territory by squeezing local businesses.
“Get your hand off my glass before I introduce you to my industrial flour scoop,” I said, my voice shaking slightly with adrenaline, though I refused to back down.
The scarred man laughed, reaching over the counter to grab my wrist. “You’ve got a lot of mouth for a—!”
He never finished the sentence.
The front door burst open with a force that rattled the glass panes in their frames. Two of Roman’s guards moved into the room with terrifying, silent speed, while Roman himself strode across the checkered floor like an avenging angel wrapped in tailored wool.
He didn't yell. He didn't wave a gun. He simply grabbed the scarred man by the collar of his cheap suit, hoisted him off his feet with casual, terrifying strength, and slammed him against the wooden pillar near the door.
The entire bakery shook.
“You stepped onto my street,” Roman whispered, his voice so quiet it sent a shudder down my spine. “You stepped into her bakery. And you touched her.”
The man choked out a panicked denial, his face turning pale as he stared into Roman’s pitch-black eyes. “Duca—wait—we didn't know—we thought—!”
“You didn't think,” Roman interrupted coldly. He motioned to his guards with a flick of his wrist. “Take them out back. Tell Sal to remind them whose name is on the permits for this district. And make sure they never walk through a West Loop door again.”
Within ten seconds, the two thugs were dragged out through the alley exit, leaving behind absolute silence.
I stood behind the counter, my chest heaving, the adrenaline finally crashing down and leaving my knees weak. I gripped the edge of the stainless-steel counter to steady myself.
Roman turned around, walking slowly back toward the counter. His expression was a mask of cold fury, but as his eyes landed on me, the anger vanished, replaced by sudden concern.
“Clare. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I breathed, swallowing hard. I looked down at my hands, realizing they were trembling. “I—no. I’m fine.”
Roman reached across the counter, his large, warm hand gently covering my shaking fingers. For the first time, I didn't pull away.
“You shouldn't have to deal with animals like that,” Roman said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
May you like
“This is my city too, Roman,” I whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. “I chose this neighborhood. I built this place from the ground up. I’m not running.”
Roman held my gaze, a slow, profound respect settling in his eyes. “I know you aren't, Clare. That’s why I can’t stay away.”
