THE HONEY AND RYE BAKER

The winter sun was bright and merciless, reflecting off the snow banks outside Honey & Rye Bakery.

It had been three weeks since the explosion at the Joliet mill. The news had reported it as an industrial accident. A tragic structural failure in an abandoned building. No bodies were officially identified. The Duca family cleanup crew was thorough, operating in the shadows with terrifying efficiency.

Aunt Sophia had vanished. Rumor was Roman had given her a one-way ticket to a remote villa in Sicily, with instructions never to return if she wanted to keep breathing.

I wiped down the espresso machine, breathing in the scent of fresh vanilla and roasted coffee. The bakery was quiet, the morning rush having died down an hour ago.

The bell above the door chimed.

I looked up.

Elena walked in. She was wearing a thick, soft cashmere sweater, her dark hair neatly pinned back. She still looked frail, the shadows under her eyes deep, but the hunted, terrified look was completely gone. She held herself with a quiet dignity that demanded respect.

Beside her was Lily.

The oversized, defensive gray sweatshirt was gone, replaced by a bright yellow knit sweater. Her shoulders were relaxed. She wasn't hiding anymore.

“Good morning, Clare,” Elena smiled softly.

“Good morning,” I smiled back, reaching under the glass counter. I pulled out a small, white pastry box and handed it over the counter. “Two almond honey cakes. No almonds for Lily.”

Lily took the box, opening it eagerly. She pulled out the sweet, sticky cake and took a large bite, closing her eyes in sheer delight. It was the first time I had seen her eat without hesitation. She felt safe. She was finally home.

“Thank you, Clare,” Elena said, reaching across the counter to squeeze my hand. “For everything.”

“I just bake bread,” I deflected gently, feeling my cheeks warm.

“You gave me my daughter back,” Elena said firmly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “You gave us a future.”

They moved to the corner table by the window, the morning light catching them as they talked quietly, a mother and daughter getting to know each other all over again.

I watched them for a moment, a profound sense of peace settling over me.

“You’re staring.”

I jumped, turning around.

Roman was leaning against the doorframe of the prep kitchen. He was wearing a charcoal suit, immaculately tailored, looking exactly like the terrifying Mafia boss who had thrown a business card on my counter three weeks ago.

But his eyes were different. The cold, impenetrable ice had melted. When he looked at me, there was a warmth that made my breath catch.

“You sneak up on people,” I accused, grabbing a rag to wipe down an already clean counter.

“You’re just easily distracted,” he countered smoothly, walking over.

He didn’t stop on the customer side of the counter. He walked around it, stepping into my space behind the register. The proximity was electric.

“How is she?” I asked softly, nodding toward Elena.

“Better,” Roman said, his eyes following my gaze. “She’s taking back control of the accounts today. She’s strong. She always was. I just couldn’t see it.”

He turned his attention back to me. He reached into his pocket and placed something on the counter.

It was a small, worn leather coin pouch. And resting on top of it was the silver rosary with the three cracked beads.

“Leo dropped these,” Roman said quietly. “My men found him recovering in a hospital upstate. Marcus’s men roughed him up, but he’s going to be fine. He asked me to return the rosary to Elena.”

I touched the silver cross, smiling softly. “He’s a good man.”

“He is,” Roman agreed. “He protected my family when I couldn’t.”

Roman stepped closer. He reached out, gently taking the damp rag out of my hands and tossing it onto the counter. He took my hands in his, his thumbs lightly brushing across my flour-dusted knuckles.

“My three weeks are up, Clare,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver down my spine.

I looked up into his dark eyes. “Three weeks?”

“The fake girlfriend proposal,” he reminded me, a faint, devastatingly handsome smile playing on his lips. “The contract expires today.”

“I never agreed to that contract,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I threw flour at you.”

“I remember.” His hands tightened slightly around mine. “Which is why I’m here to negotiate new terms.”

“Oh?” I breathed, unable to look away. “And what are the new terms?”

“No fake relationship,” Roman said, stepping completely into my space, his chest brushing against mine. “No acting for my family. No business proposals.”

He reached up, gently tucking a stray curl behind my ear.

“I want a real date, Clare Bennett,” he said softly. “Tonight. No guards. No drama. Just me and the woman who saved my family.”

I looked at him. The most feared man in Chicago. The man who had torn apart a building to save the people he loved. The man who ordered black coffee just to watch a teenage girl eat a piece of bread.

I smiled, rising slightly on my tiptoes.

“Only if you pay for your own coffee,” I whispered.