Chapter 5 - Shadows on Taylor Street
The success of the Sunday dinner didn't stop the quiet storm brewing on the edges of Roman’s world.
Two weeks after the dinner, Clare was closing Honey & Rye at seven in the evening. The autumn wind was picking up, rattling the vintage glass sign hanging above the door. Lily was upstairs in the small office, finishing her algebra homework while waiting for Roman’s car to arrive.
Clare was wiping down the espresso machine when the front bell chimed.
She turned, expecting to see Roman’s head of security, Frankie. Instead, three men in dark leather jackets stepped into the shop. They didn't look like Roman’s polished associates. They smelled of cheap cigarettes and stale beer, their eyes scanning the bakery with casual malice.
“We’re closed,” Clare said firmly, keeping her tone even as she reached under the counter where her heavy brass rolling pin rested.
The leader of the group, a man with a jagged scar across his chin, smiled slowly. “We’re looking for Duca’s new girl.”
Clare didn't move. “You’re in the wrong shop.”
“I don't think so,” Scarface said, stepping closer to the glass case. He reached out and casually knocked a decorative cake stand off the counter. It shattered against the tile floor in a shower of porcelain. “Roman Duca’s been spending a lot of time on Taylor Street lately. Word is, he cares about what happens here.”
Upstairs, Clare heard the floorboards squeak. Lily was moving toward the top of the stairs.
Clare felt a surge of pure, icy adrenaline. She didn't care about the cake stand. She didn't care about the bakery. She cared about the girl sitting fifty feet above them.
“I’m going to count to three,” Clare said, her voice turning as cold as iron. She slid her right hand under the counter and pulled out the solid brass rolling pin, holding it with the practiced ease of a woman who handled heavy kitchen iron ten hours a day. “If you aren't out of my shop by three, I’m going to break your kneecaps, and then I’m going to let Roman Duca decide what to do with the rest of you.”
Scarface chuckled, taking another step forward. “You think a fat baker with a wooden pin scares—”
The back door smashed open with a terrifying, violent crack.
Roman Duca stepped through the doorway. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark tattoos along his forearms. Behind him were four armed men, their weapons drawn and leveled with terrifying precision.
Roman didn't look at the three intruders. He looked directly at Clare.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice deathly quiet.
“I’m fine,” Clare said, not lowering the rolling pin. “They broke my aunt’s cake stand.”
Roman finally turned his eyes toward Scarface. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The sheer, overwhelming aura of dangerous authority that Roman usually kept suppressed around Clare exploded into the room like a physical force.
Scarface took a involuntary step back, his face draining of color. “Duca... we were just sending a message from Moretti—”
Roman didn't let him finish. He moved with frightening speed, grabbing Scarface by the throat and slamming him violently against the brick pillar near the display case. The other two intruders were instantly pinned against the wall by Roman’s men.
“You came into her house,” Roman whispered into Scarface’s ear, his voice so dark it sent shivers down Clare’s spine. “You threatened my family.”
“Roman!” Clare’s voice cut through the violence like a bell.
Roman froze. He held Scarface suspended against the brick for another long second, his knuckles white, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at Clare.
“Lily is upstairs,” Clare said softly, her eyes holding his. “Don't do this here.”
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Roman looked at her for three agonizing seconds. Then he threw Scarface to the floor like a sack of trash.
“Take them out back,” Roman ordered his men calmly. “Make sure Moretti understands that if any of his people step foot on Taylor Street again, I will personally burn his docks to the water.”
