Chapter 7 - Sweet Infiltration
Over the next two weeks, Roman didn't push. He didn't demand an answer about where they stood. Instead, he simply integrated himself into her life with the slow, relentless precision of a master strategist.
He stopped bringing four security cars to Taylor Street, reducing his escort to just Frankie, who sat quietly in a black SUV down the block. Roman would arrive at the bakery at 5:00 AM—three hours before opening—wearing jeans and a dark wool sweater instead of his usual three-piece suits.
“What are you doing?” Clare asked the first morning he walked into the kitchen carrying two heavy sacks of high-gluten flour.
“Working,” Roman said simply, setting the fifty-pound bags down by the mixer without breaking a sweat. “You wake up too early. You lift heavy things. You need help.”
“I’ve lifted those bags for eight years!”
“And now you don't have to,” Roman replied, grabbing a clean apron from the shelf and tying it around his thick waist. He looked utterly ridiculous—a six-foot-two mob chief in a pink linen apron—but he didn't care in the slightest.
Under Clare’s strict instructions, Roman learned how to knead dough, scale portions, and operate the commercial deck ovens. He was surprisingly good at it. His large, powerful hands were remarkably precise, mastering the delicate twisting motion required for braided challah within three days.
Lily joined them after school every day, sitting at the prep table to do her homework while the bakery smelled of roasting nuts and warm butter.
One afternoon, while Roman was out back unloading a crate of apples, Lily looked up from her history textbook.
“He smiles now,” Lily said out of nowhere.
Clare paused, her hands covered in pie crust dough. “Who?”
“Uncle Roman,” Lily said, leaning her chin on her hand. “He used to come home at nine PM, sit in his study with the lights off, and drink whiskey until twelve. Now he comes home covered in cinnamon and reads bakery trade magazines on his iPad.”
Clare felt a warmth spread through her chest. “He’s trying to be a good guardian to you, Lily.”
“He’s trying to be a good husband to you,” Lily countered instantly, her tone dry and matter-of-fact.
Clare almost dropped her rolling pin. “Lily! We are not—”
May you like
“You are,” Lily interrupted calmly. “He looks at you the way my dad used to look at my mom. Like he’s really glad he woke up today.”
Lily picked up her pencil and went back to her algebra, leaving Clare standing in the middle of the kitchen, her heart hammering against her ribs as she realized the teenager was completely right.
