Chapter 2 - The Persistent Shadow
The next morning, exactly at 8:15 AM, the familiar rumble of a heavy black sedan idling outside my shop signaled the start of my shift.
Before Roman even stepped foot across the threshold, I was standing at the counter with my arms crossed tightly over my apron.
“No,” I said loudly before he could open his mouth.
Roman paused, looking remarkably composed despite the morning chill. He was wearing a fresh charcoal suit—thankfully flour-free—and his dark hair was neatly combed back.
“I only want coffee,” he said smoothly, stepping inside.
He walked up to the register, placed the exact amount of cash required for a black drip coffee on the counter—not a penny more, not a penny less—took the paper cup, and walked out without another word.
He repeated the exact same routine the following morning.
And the morning after that.
By the third day, the psychological warfare was driving me insane. I was ready to vault over the pastry case and shove a stale baguette down his throat just to break the maddening monotony of his polite, silent persistence.
Then came Thursday.
The morning rush was winding down. I was wiping down the counter, muttering curses under my breath, when the shop door chimed. I looked up, preparing to launch into my rehearsed speech about trespassing and restraining orders—until I noticed the teenage girl standing quietly beside him.
She looked to be about sixteen, with dark hair twisted into a messy, careless knot and an oversized gray champion sweatshirt hanging loosely from her frame. Her posture was stiff, defensive, and her expression carried that unmistakable, practiced emptiness that teenagers wore when they desperately wanted the world to stop asking them painful questions.
Roman opened the door wider for her, his movements uncharacteristically gentle.
And right before my eyes, something inside the terrifying, untouchable Mafia boss shifted completely.
His broad shoulders relaxed. The severe lines around his mouth softened. Even his voice, when he spoke to her, lost its sharp, commanding edge.
“Clare,” Roman said, gesturing softly toward the girl. “This is my niece, Lily.”
Lily looked up from beneath her fringe, her dark eyes scanning the cozy interior of the bakery before landing on me.
“So,” she said, her voice dry and laced with teenage skepticism. “You’re the famous girlfriend.”
I opened my mouth to issue my standard, furious denial, but stopped short.
For one fleeting second, a tiny, genuine smirk broke through Lily’s guarded expression.
Roman saw it.
And more importantly, I saw him see it.
The expression that flickered across Roman Duca’s face in that moment wasn't power, or calculated amusement, or cold authority.
It was profound, overwhelming relief.
Suddenly, everything clicked into place. The persistence, the fake relationship, the absurd financial offers—it had nothing to do with dodging Aunt Sophia’s matchmaking schemes, and it had everything to do with this troubled teenage girl standing in my shop.
I slowly lowered the bag of flour I had instinctively gripped under the counter.
May you like
Lily stepped tentatively toward the glass display case, peering past the rows of scones and muffins until her finger pointed at a frosted specialty pastry in the corner.
“What’s that?” she asked quietly.
