Chapter 10 - Sunday Dinner and Sweet Beginnings
The sun had just dipped below the Chicago skyline, casting long, amber shadows across the manicured lawns of the Duca family estate in Barrington. The sprawling stone mansion usually echoed with solemn business discussions, hushed telephone calls, and the lingering weight of old-world obligations.
Tonight, however, it smelled faintly of roasted garlic, red wine, and—much to everyone's relief—an apple galette that had not been scorched by Aunt Sophia.
I stood in front of the grand mahogany-framed mirror in the entryway, smoothing down the emerald-green wrap dress I had worn for the occasion. My fingers were slightly fidgety, despite the fact that I had faced down armed cartel enforcers with a hunting rifle just three weeks prior. Meeting a mob boss’s eccentric family over formal Sunday dinner was apparently an entirely different kind of battlefield.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around my waist from behind, pulling me flush against a chest clad in a sharp black suit. Roman rested his chin softly on my shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine in the reflection.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, a low, teasing vibration against my spine.
“I am not shaking,” I retorted, leaning back into his embrace. “I’m merely vibrating with anticipation to see if your aunt Sophia tries to set me up with a rival pastry chef.”
Roman chuckled, pressing a warm kiss to the side of my neck. “Sophia knows better. After she heard how you cleared out Victor Vance’s warehouse with a thirty-thirty rifle and a twenty-pound sack of flour, she told me you were the only woman in Illinois with enough spine to run this family.”
“That is terrifyingly high praise coming from her,” I whispered.
Just then, the double doors of the dining room swung open, and Aunt Sophia poked her head out, her pearl necklace gleaming under the chandelier light.
“Are you two lovebirds coming in, or are you going to stand in the hallway making eyes at each other all night? The osso buco is getting cold, and Lily has already tried to steal the dessert crust twice!”
Roman and I exchanged a grin. Hand in hand, we walked through the double doors into the brightly lit dining hall.
At the head of the long oak table sat Lily, looking radiant in a casual blue sweater, her dark hair no longer hidden behind an oversized sweatshirt, but left loose over her shoulders. She caught my eye and gave a subtle, conspiratorial thumbs-up.
Around the table sat several senior members of the Duca syndicate—men with scarred knuckles and tailored suits who usually commanded absolute fear wherever they went. But the moment Roman pulled out my chair and seated me beside him at the center of the table, every single pair of eyes turned toward us with a new, unmistakable brand of respect.
Sophia clinked her silver spoon against her crystal wine glass, demanding attention.
“To family,” Sophia announced, lifting her goblet with a triumphant smile that swept around the room. “To unexpected alliances, fierce new management... and to the woman who finally taught my nephew that the word no actually means something.”
Laughter erupted around the table, warm and booming, shaking off the dark shadows that had haunted the estate for months. Roman lifted his glass, his hand covering mine on the tablecloth, his fingers lacing tightly through my own.
He didn't say a word out loud, but as he turned his head to look at me—his gaze filled with an anchoring, unshakeable devotion—I knew exactly what he was telling me.
We had survived the turf wars, the threats, and the chaos. We had built a bridge between two entirely different worlds, anchored by yeast, sugar, and a whole lot of stubborn pride.
May you like
I raised my glass right along with them, smiling as I leaned my shoulder against Roman’s.
Some love stories begin with quiet glances and gentle whispers. Ours had started with a bag of flour to the chest and a very angry baker. And sitting here now, surrounded by warmth, laughter, and a family that had finally found its light again, I knew for certain it was the only beginning that ever could have mattered.
