Chapter 4 - The Duca Table
The Duca estate in River Forest was a sprawling stone mansion surrounded by wrought-iron gates and ancient oak trees. It looked less like a residential home and more like a private fortress designed by someone who expected modern artillery.
As Roman led Clare into the grand foyer, the heavy oak doors closing behind them with a decisive thud, the noise of a massive family gathering washed over them. Laughter, shouting, the clinking of wine glasses, and the heavy aroma of slow-cooked garlic and red sauce filled the air.
“Remember the rules,” Roman whispered, his hand resting firmly at the small of Clare’s back. His palm was warm, solid, and reassuring through the fabric of her dress. “You don't have to answer anything you don't want to. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell me, and I will have them removed.”
“Roman, it’s your aunt’s house,” Clare murmured back.
“It’s my family,” he said flatly. “I set the rules.”
Before Clare could process that, Sophia Duca appeared at the top of the marble staircase, wearing a scarlet silk dress and enough diamonds to light up a runway.
“She actually came!” Sophia announced loudly, descending the stairs with arms open. “The baker from Taylor Street!”
Within minutes, Clare was surrounded. Uncles with thick grey hair and expensive pinky rings, cousins who looked like security guards in tailored suits, and stylish matriarchs who evaluated Clare’s dress, posture, and jewelry with hawk-like precision.
“So, Clare,” asked Marco, one of Roman’s elder cousins, leaning against the fireplace with a glass of scotch. “A bakery? Is that a hobby, or do you actually make a profit?”
“It’s a commercial enterprise, Marco,” Clare said coolly, taking a small sip of sparkling water. “We turned a twenty-two percent profit margin last quarter despite the rise in butter costs. What’s your firm’s current return on equity?”
Marco blinked, caught off guard. Across the room, Roman’s lips twitched into a faint, hidden smile.
At the center of the room sat Lily, tucked into an armchair near the corner, watching Clare handle the family with quiet awe. Whenever one of the aunts tried to approach Lily with a sad, sympathetic smile, Clare would seamlessly interject, asking the aunt a complicated question about their pasta sauce recipes or calling them over to look at a photograph on her phone.
By the time dinner was served at a mahogany table long enough to host a summit, Clare had completely dominated the room. She didn't bow to the family’s wealth, nor did she flinch when discussions turned to 'business dealings' in the eastern district.
When Sophia passed a bowl of imported gnocchi down the table, she looked at Clare with a shrewd, calculating expression. “You’re very quiet about your family, Clare. What does your father do?”
“He was a mechanic in Joliet,” Clare said without hesitation. “He passed away five years ago. My mother runs a community garden.”
A few of the older women exchanged subtle glances.
Roman’s hand immediately found Clare’s under the tablecloth, his fingers lacing tightly through hers. The gesture was instant, protective, and unmistakably real.
“Clare’s father built three small businesses from scratch,” Roman declared loudly, his voice cutting through the dinner chatter with absolute authority. “And Clare built the finest bakery in the city without a single dime from anyone else. She is more capable than half the men sitting at this table.”
May you like
Silence descended on the dining room. No one dared disagree with the boss.
Under the table, Clare felt Roman’s thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. She looked over at him, finding him staring at her with an expression so fierce, so intensely protective, that her heart skipped a beat.
