Chapter 8 - The Ultimatum
The storm cleared as quickly as it had gathered, leaving behind a scarred but unbroken landscape. Donata’s faction dissolved overnight, absorbed and dismantled by Roman’s loyal capos before they could mount a counter-offensive.
Lily continued to visit the bakery every Tuesday and Thursday, her grades improving, her smile growing more frequent, and her baking skills slowly graduating from cinnamon rolls to delicate lemon tarts.
And Roman—Roman became a permanent fixture of the West Loop mornings, quietly drinking his black coffee, watching me work, and slowly tearing down the iron walls he had built around his life.
Yet, as the autumn leaves gave way to the biting chill of an approaching Chicago winter, the elephant in the room finally demanded an answer.
It was a Sunday evening after closing time. The bakery was warm, filled with the rich, comforting scent of melting chocolate and vanilla. Lily had already gone home with her driver, and the showroom was quiet, illuminated only by the warm amber glow of the streetlamps outside.
I was standing behind the counter, wiping down the stainless steel, when Roman walked up, placed both hands on the wooden surface, and looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“The three weeks are up, Clare,” Roman said quietly.
I stopped wiping the counter. My heart gave a strange, painful lurch. For a second, the old fear crept back in—the fear of impermanence, of being temporary in a world where everyone else had a place.
“Are they?” I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“Sophia knows the truth now,” Roman continued, his eyes searching my face. “She cornered me yesterday and asked if we were ever going to stop playing house and actually get married. She said a fake girlfriend doesn't throw a bag of flour at a Duca unless she plans on sticking around to clean it up.”
I let out a soft, involuntary laugh, though my chest felt tight. “Your aunt is terrifyingly perceptive.”
Roman walked around the counter, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He reached out, taking the damp rag gently from my hand and setting it aside. Then he took both of my hands in his.
“I didn't hire you to be a prop, Clare,” Roman said, his voice deep, steady, and entirely stripped of armor. “From the moment you threw that flour at me, I knew I was in trouble. You don't take orders, you don't bow to power, and you make the best damn pastries in this city. I don't want a fake girlfriend, Clare Bennett. I want a real life. With you. If you’ll have me.”
I looked up into his dark, searching eyes, seeing every layer of his guarded soul laid bare before me. He wasn't just Chicago’s most feared man anymore; he was the man who protected my kitchen, the uncle who saved a broken family, and the idiot who stood in my bakery covered in baking powder and asked for a second chance.
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“You realize,” I whispered, a slow smile breaking across my face, “that if we do this for real, you’re going to have to help me knead sourdough at four in the morning.”
Roman’s smile was devastatingly handsome. “Only if I get to taste-test the chocolate croissants first.”
