Chapter 3 - Sugar and Secrets
“That,” I said, stepping closer to the glass and ignoring Roman completely for the moment, “is a blackberry lemon brioche roll. It takes me about four hours to proof the dough, and if you don't eat it while it’s slightly warm, you’re committing a minor culinary crime.”
Lily blinked, her defenses wavering just a fraction. “Is it very sweet?”
“It’s tart enough to keep you awake and sweet enough to ruin your diet before nine in the morning,” I replied evenly. “Do you want one?”
She glanced sideways at her uncle, as if waiting for permission, but Roman simply nodded once, keeping his distance so as not to crowd her space.
“Two,” Lily decided, her voice gaining a little firmness. “One for me, and... one for him. Though he probably doesn't eat carbs.”
“Oh, he eats carbs,” I said, sliding two brioche rolls onto a small white bakery sheet with a pair of silver tongs. “Especially when he’s being stubborn.”
A tiny, genuine sound escaped Lily’s lips—half a snort, half a laugh—before she quickly covered her mouth with her oversized sleeve.
Roman watched the interaction, his dark eyes gleaming with a quiet gratitude that he didn't try to hide. When I handed over the white bakery box, he paid for the pastries, plus a generous tip that I didn't argue against this time, and guided Lily toward one of the small wooden corner tables near the frosted window.
For the next twenty minutes, I pretended to clean espresso filters and organize spice jars, but I watched them out of the corner of my eye.
Lily hadn’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in weeks, according to what I would later piece together. Ever since her parents—Roman’s estranged younger brother and sister-in-law—had passed away in a tragic accident six months ago, she had retreated into an impenetrable shell of grief and silence, refusing counseling, skipping school, and pushing away every member of the Duca family who tried to reach her.
Roman had tried everything—therapies, private tutors, expensive gifts, grand gestures. Nothing had worked. Until, by sheer coincidence, he had stumbled into a flour-dusted bakery on the North Side where a sleep-deprived owner had lost her temper and thrown twenty pounds of baking supplies at him.
To Lily, that moment hadn't represented a terrifying mob boss; it had represented a man who was utterly, hilariously vulnerable. And for a teenager drowning in heavy, suffocating adult grief, laughter was the first lifeline she had grabbed onto in months.
When they finally stood up to leave, Lily walked right back to the counter.
“Thanks, Clare,” she murmured, adjusting the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “The brioche was good.”
“Come back tomorrow morning before school, and I’ll teach you how to make the glaze,” I offered on impulse before my logical brain could stop me.
Lily’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened. She looked at her uncle, then back at me. “Really?”
“Really. Just don't tell the health inspector.”
A real, undeniable smile touched the corners of Lily’s mouth. “Deal.”
As the bell chimed and the door swung shut behind them, Roman lingered for just a second longer than his niece. He turned back, meeting my gaze across the empty bakery floor.
He didn't mention the fake relationship. He didn't bring up the business proposal. He simply gave a slow, respectful nod of his head—a silent acknowledgment between two battle-tested adults who recognized a truce when they saw one.
May you like
Then he walked out into the Chicago chill.
I let out a long breath, leaning against the counter. My peaceful, predictable life was officially over. But as I looked down at the empty pastry tray, I realized I didn't entirely mind.
