Sweet Resistance

Three weeks later, the morning sun poured through the wide front windows of Honey & Rye Bakery, casting a golden glow over the glass display cases filled with fresh croissants, brioche rolls, and dusting of powdered sugar.

Business had never been better. Word of the bakery’s fierce, gun-wielding owner had somehow leaked through the North Side grapevine, resulting in a fifty percent spike in foot traffic—though most customers were now extremely careful to pay exact change and never, ever complain about the temperature of their coffee.

The shop door chimed, and Lily walked in, carrying her school backpack over one shoulder, looking healthier, brighter, and entirely transformed from the guarded ghost who had walked into the shop a month ago.

“Morning, Clare!” she called out cheerfully, tossing her bag onto the corner bench.

“Morning, baker apprentice,” I replied from behind the counter, sliding a fresh tray of lemon tarts into position. “Wash your hands. The morning rush is about to hit.”

Ten minutes later, the bell chimed again.

Roman walked in, wearing a sleek, tailored charcoal suit—completely spotless, free of flour, and looking every bit the untouchable boss of Chicago. But the moment his eyes met mine across the counter, the terrifying mafia aura dissolved into something warm, intimate, and entirely devoted.

He walked up to the register, placed a single hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and ordered his usual black coffee.

“Keep the change,” he said smoothly.

“Mr. Duca,” I teased, raising an eyebrow, “you’re awfully generous today.”

“I’m paying for future services,” he replied, leaning against the counter and lowering his voice so Lily couldn't hear from the back prep area. “Aunt Sophia is hosting Sunday family dinner tonight. She formally invited my girlfriend.”

I stopped wiping the counter, looking at him with a feigned expression of skepticism. “Oh? And does this girlfriend happen to have a name, or is she still a fictional tax write-off?”

Roman reached across the glass, gently taking my flour-dusted hand in his, his thumb tracing the knuckles with deliberate tenderness.

“Her name is Clare Bennett,” he said softly, his dark eyes locked onto mine with absolute certainty. “She owns the best bakery in Chicago, she throws twenty-pound bags of flour like a professional pitcher, and she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

From the back kitchen, Lily poked her head out around the corner, holding a wooden spatula and grinning ear to ear.

“Tell him yes, Clare!” she shouted. “Otherwise he’ll make us eat Aunt Sophia’s burnt lasagna again!”

I laughed, looking from Lily’s smiling face back to Roman’s dark, hopeful eyes. The chaos, the danger, the flour dust, and the bullets—it all felt a million miles away.

“All right,” I whispered, squeezing Roman’s hand. “I’ll be your girlfriend. But only if I’m in charge of the dessert menu.”