Chapter 6 - The Trap at the Docks
The dinner was supposed to be a quiet respite from the chaos—a rare evening where Roman wore a simple black cashmere sweater instead of a bulletproof vest, and where we actually laughed over a candlelit table in a secluded Italian bistro downtown.
But in the world of the Duca syndicate, peace was always a prelude to a storm.
It happened three nights later. I was in the back kitchen of Honey & Rye, prepping the sourdough starters for the morning bake, when my cell phone buzzed violently against the metal prep table.
An unknown number flashing on the screen.
I swiped to answer. “Honey & Rye, if this is another flour supplier—”
“Clare Bennett?” A harsh, unfamiliar voice cut me off.
My blood ran cold. “Who is this?”
“Your boyfriend sends his regards. If you ever want to see Roman Duca draw another breath, you’ll walk out the back door of your bakery right now and get into the black van idling in the alley.”
Before I could process the threat, before my brain could scream run, the line clicked dead.
Panic surged through my veins like liquid nitrogen. I dropped the dough scraper, ripped off my apron, and sprinted toward the front of the shop. As I reached the front windows, I saw the headlights of a heavy van cutting through the alleyway behind the building.
They hadn't captured Roman at the bistro. They had lured him out.
My phone buzzed again—this time, a text message containing a single GPS coordinate and a photo: Roman, bound to a chair in a dimly lit industrial warehouse, blood tracking down the side of his temple, surrounded by Victor Vance’s armed enforcers.
My hands shook, but the paralyzing fear was quickly replaced by a sharp, blinding fury. Nobody threatened my bakery. And nobody touched the man who had brought light back into Lily’s eyes.
I didn't call the police. The police in Chicago didn't operate in Victor Vance’s waterfront zone.
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Instead, I opened the heavy bottom cabinet beneath my baking counter, reached past the industrial cleaning supplies, and pulled out a heavy wooden case. Inside sat my grandfather’s old Marlin .30-30 rifle, along with a box of heavy brass cartridges—a relic from my upbringing in rural Wisconsin before I moved to the city to study pastry arts.
Ten minutes later, I was driving my battered delivery van straight toward the abandoned shipping yards on the South Side, the GPS glowing ominously on the dashboard.
