Chapter 2 - The Taste of Peace
The corner booth of Honey & Rye was upholstered in warm honey-colored leather, positioned away from the front windows where the morning sunlight pooled across oak tables. Roman sat stiffly on one side, looking absurdly large for the cozy nook, while Lily slouched into the far corner, pulling her oversized sleeves down over her knuckles.
Clare arrived carrying a wooden tray loaded with two porcelain plates, a carafe of fresh coffee, a small pitcher of steamed milk, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She placed a warm cinnamon-cardamom bun in front of Lily, followed by a savory spinach-and-feta pastry for Roman.
“I didn't order this,” Roman noted, looking down at the gold-brown pastry.
“You don't order here anymore,” Clare said smoothly, leaning against the edge of the booth. “You get what you’re given until you learn how to apologize properly.”
Lily let out an actual laugh—a quick, bright sound that made Roman turn his head so fast he almost spilled his water. She quickly covered her mouth, her cheeks flushing slightly, but she reached for the warm bun.
“It smells good,” Lily mumbled, taking a tentative bite.
Clare watched as the girl’s eyes widened slightly. The combination of rich butter, crushed cardamom, and caramelized sugar was her pride and joy. Lily chewed slowly, then took another bite, slightly larger this time.
Roman watched his niece with an intensity that borders on reverence. For a man whose entire existence was predicated on total control over unions, docks, and underground markets, he looked utterly helpless in the presence of a sixteen-year-old girl enjoying a pastry.
“She lost her parents six months ago,” Roman said quietly after Lily had finished half the bun and wandered over to look at the vintage bread slicer near the back. He kept his eyes on the girl. “My brother Vincent. A car accident on the I-90. Since then, she hasn't spoken more than ten words a day. She doesn't eat. She doesn't fight. She just... exists.”
Clare felt a sharp ache in her chest. She had assumed Lily was just a rebellious teen dealing with an overbearing mob uncle. She hadn't realized the girl was carrying a grief too heavy for her young shoulders.
“And you took her in?” Clare asked.
“Of course,” Roman said, as if there were no other option in the universe. “She is my blood. But my house is... empty. It’s quiet. My staff knows how to follow orders, not how to talk to a teenager. My aunt tries, but Sophia treats her like a child who needs to be distracted with shopping trips.”
He looked up at Clare, his dark eyes searching her face with absolute candor.
“I don't need a fake girlfriend to impress my aunt, Clare,” Roman confessed, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble. “I told Sophia that because I was trying to leave her house without causing a scene. But when Lily saw you throw that flour at me... it was the first time in six months I saw a spark in her eyes.”
Clare crossed her arms over her aproned chest, feeling her initial irritation melting away into something far more dangerous: empathy.
“You brought her here to make her laugh,” Clare realized.
“I brought her here because you don't care who I am,” Roman corrected. “You don't look at me with fear, and you don't look at her with pity. Everyone in my circle treats her like fragile glass. You treated her like a person who deserves a good pastry.”
Lily walked back to the table, wiping a flake of pastry from her thumb. “Can we come back tomorrow?” she asked quietly, looking at Clare rather than her uncle.
Roman held his breath, his eyes turning to Clare, waiting for the verdict.
Clare looked at the girl, then at the mob boss who looked terrified of being rejected.
May you like
“Tomorrow at eight,” Clare said firmly. “But your uncle buys his coffee and stays behind the counter if he wants to talk.”
Lily gave a tiny nod, a faint hint of satisfaction on her face. “Deal.”
