Chapter 8 - The Gala Gambit
The annual Chicago Merchant Gala was held at the Drake Hotel—a glittering, high-society event where politicians, business moguls, and city elites gathered to pretend the city wasn't run by men like Roman Duca.
Roman had been invited every year for a decade, and every year he had sent a polite decline along with a massive charitable donation. But this year was different.
“Moretti will be there,” Roman explained to Clare as they stood in the bakery’s back office on Thursday evening. “He’s trying to secure the city port leases by bribing three aldermen. I need to be seen in that room to remind those aldermen who actually controls the waterfront.”
“And why do you need me?” Clare asked, checking the timer on a batch of sourdough.
“Because Moretti thinks he scared you,” Roman said, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “He thinks he made me look weak by coming into your shop. I want him to see you standing beside me in front of every politician in Chicago. I want him to know that touching a single hair on your head means war with the entire Duca organization.”
Clare looked at him for a long moment. “Is this about business, Roman, or is this about showing off?”
Roman stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she was pressed gently against the edge of her desk. He reached out, his thumb lightly tracing her lower lip.
“It’s about showing every man in that room that the most incredible woman in Chicago belongs with me,” Roman admitted softly, his voice thick with unvarnished honesty. “If you say no, I won't go. I’ll handle Moretti another way. But I want you there, Clare. By my side. For real.”
Clare’s heart slammed against her ribs. The word 'real' hung in the air between them, heavy and sweet.
“I don't have a gown for the Drake Hotel, Roman,” Clare whispered.
May you like
Roman smiled—a genuine, dazzling smile that made him look ten years younger.
“That,” Roman said, pulling a silk-wrapped box from his coat pocket, “has already been taken care of.”
