Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
The fallout from the bakery incident was swift and absolute. Within twenty-four hours, rumors swept through the West Loop underworld that Roman Duca had drawn a permanent, bleeding red line around Honey & Rye Bakery. No rival crew, no freelance extortionist, and no ambitious capo ever dared set foot within three blocks of my storefront again.
Yet, safety came with a heavy, suffocating price tag.
Three days after the incident, Roman arrived not for a quick morning coffee, but with a formal, leather-bound invitation delivered by one of his stone-faced guards. It was embossed in gold leaf: an invitation to the annual Duca family autumn gala at their private estate on Lake Shore Drive.
And right beneath Roman’s name as host was mine, printed in elegant script: Clara Bennett, Companion.
I stared at the heavy cardstock while the morning dough proofs rose silently in the background. My first instinct was to grab another bag of flour and throw it at the nearest wall.
Instead, I waited until Roman showed up at 8:15 the next morning.
“Take your name off this invitation,” I said, slamming the card down onto the counter the second he walked through the door.
Roman stopped, looking at the invitation before meeting my eyes. “It’s a family gathering, Clare. Sophia is hosting. If you aren't there, she will dispatch a dozen Italian grandmothers to interrogate every square inch of this bakery until she finds out why her favorite fake granddaughter broke up with me.”
“This isn't a family dinner at a trattoria, Roman! This is a high-society mob gala filled with capos, corrupt politicians, and enemies who would love nothing more than to slice open your soft spot!”
“You are not a soft spot,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl as he stepped closer to the counter, closing the distance between us. “You are the only real thing in my life that isn't built on blood, debt, or betrayal. That is why I need you there. Not as a prop—but as my anchor.”
The raw honesty in his voice hit me harder than any threat ever could.
I stood there, staring into the dark, stormy depths of his eyes, realizing with terrifying clarity how far I had fallen into his orbit. The fake relationship had stopped being fake the moment he defended my kitchen with his bare hands.
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“If I go,” I whispered, pointing a finger at his chest, “I wear what I want, I leave whenever I get tired, and if anyone looks at me sideways, I’m throwing a tray of eclairs at their head.”
A slow, devastating smile broke across Roman’s face. “Deal.”
