Chapter 6 - The Lake Shore Gala
The Duca estate on Lake Shore Drive looked less like a home and more like a nineteenth-century European palace. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over high vaulted ceilings, classical string quartets played softly from a raised balcony, and hundreds of Chicago’s elite moved through the grand ballroom in silk gowns and tailored tuxedos.
I stood near the edge of the room in a dark emerald silk dress that hugged my frame, holding a glass of sparkling water like it was a shield.
“You look breathtaking,” Roman murmured, stepping up beside me in a sharp black tuxedo.
“I feel like a hostage in expensive wrapping,” I muttered, taking a sip of the water.
Before Roman could reply, a sharp, imperious voice cut through the air.
“Roman! There you are!”
A tall, striking woman in her late forties with raven hair and diamond earrings swept toward us, flanked by two middle-aged men who looked like corporate executives with hidden arrest warrants. This was Donata Duca—Roman’s estranged cousin and the head of the rival faction that had been trying to undermine his authority for months.
“Donata,” Roman said, his voice turning to ice.
Donata’s sharp eyes flicked over to me, a patronizing smirk playing on her lips. “And this must be the little baker from the West Loop. How charming. Tell me, my dear, does Roman pay you hourly, or do you get a monthly retainer for playing house?”
The ballroom seemed to hold its breath. Several capos nearby turned their heads, watching to see how the famous crime boss would handle a direct insult to his partner.
I didn't flinch. I set my glass of water down on a passing waiter’s tray, stepped forward, and looked Donata dead in the eye.
“I don't work hourly, Donata,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady across the silent floor. “And I certainly don't work for free. But if you’re worried about my compensation, feel free to check the bakery registry—at least my business is legal, solvent, and doesn't rely on blackmail to stay afloat.”
A muffled cough of laughter came from somewhere near the string quartet.
Donata’s face flushed a furious, mottled crimson. “You insolent little—!”
“That’s enough,” Roman commanded. The single word carried the terrifying, absolute weight of a king addressing a traitor. The temperature in the room plummeted ten degrees. Donata glared at me with pure venom, turned on her heel, and stormed away into the crowd.
Roman turned to me, a mixture of awe and fierce protectiveness in his eyes. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Clare.”
May you like
“You already did,” I reminded him softly. “You forgot my espresso this morning.”
Roman laughed—a deep, resonant sound that made the heads of several powerful mob bosses snap around in sheer disbelief. In that moment, surrounded by wolves and assassins, I realized I wasn't afraid at all.
