Before I had known Roman Duca for an hour, I threw a bag of flour at him hard enough to explode across his charcoal suit.

“You are insane,” I hissed the second the glass door clicked shut behind Aunt Sophia and her security detail.

I shoved Roman’s hand off my waist and backed away, my chest heaving.

“You just invited me to a Mafia gala! I don't go to galas, Roman! I wear flour-stained aprons and orthopedic sneakers! I go to sleep at nine p.m.!”

Roman didn't look angry. He looked entirely overwhelmed, his dark eyes locked onto mine with a fierce, burning light I hadn't seen before.

“You saved us,” he murmured, stepping closer until I was backed against the edge of the pastry counter. “Back there... when Sophia pressed you... you protected Lily.”

“I protected a sixteen-year-old girl who deserves a home,” I snapped, leaning away from his overpowering physical presence. “That doesn't mean I want to be paraded around in front of Chicago’s organized crime syndicate as your trophy baker!”

“It isn't a crime syndicate, Clare,” Roman said quietly, a faint smile touching his mouth. “It’s an executive family council. Mostly older men who drink too much scotch and argue about real estate holdings.”

“That doesn't make it sound better!”

“Clare,” Roman’s tone softened completely. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching a stray strand of hair that had fallen from my messy bun, tucking it behind my ear. His thumb lightly grazed my cheekbone, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. “I won't let anyone insult you. I won't let anyone touch you. You play the part for three hours on Sunday night, and on Monday morning, the legal petition will be signed, Lily stays with me permanently, and I will write a check to pay off your bakery’s mortgage in full.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly bone-dry. “My mortgage?”

“Two hundred and forty thousand dollars,” Roman stated smoothly. “I know your business financials, Clare. I know how hard you work. Let me pay you for saving my family.”

I stared at him. Settling the mortgage meant Honey & Rye would be completely mine. No more sleep-deprived panics over monthly bank payments. No more fearing that one bad winter would wipe out my life’s work.

“Two hundred and forty thousand?” I whispered.

“Plus an unlimited tab on dark roast coffee for the rest of my life,” Roman added, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.

From the kitchen doorway, Lily cleared her throat. “If you don't take the deal, Clare, I’m going to roll this croissant dough into a ball and throw it at his head myself.”

I let out a ragged laugh, rubbing my temples. “Fine. Fine. But I don't own a dress for a gala.”

“That,” Roman said, pulling his phone from his inner jacket pocket, “will be handled by three p.m. today.”

At three o'clock sharp, a sleek black town car pulled up outside Honey & Rye, accompanied by a high-end personal stylist named Julian, who marched into my shop carrying four garment bags that cost more than my entire annual flour budget.

By six p.m. on Sunday, I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in my tiny apartment bedroom, staring at a total stranger.

The dress was a deep, liquid emerald silk—backless, with a fitted bodice that hugged every curve of my waist before cascading down to the floor in a sleek, elegant line. My hair was styled into a soft, sophisticated updo, leaving my neck bare, and my skin glowed under subtle makeup.

A heavy knock sounded at my front door.

I took a deep, shaking breath, grabbed my small clutch, and opened the door.

Roman was standing in the hallway wearing a tailored black tuxedo that made him look impossibly tall, broad, and lethal.

When he saw me, the man who held Chicago’s underbelly in a velvet fist literally stopped dead in his tracks.

His dark eyes swept down the length of the emerald dress, taking in every curve, every bare inch of my back, before snapping back up to my face. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his breath catching audibly.

“Clare,” he rasped, his voice raw and thick with an emotion he couldn't hide. “You look... unbelievable.”

I felt a sudden, thumping heat bloom in my chest. “You don't look too bad yourself, Duca.”

Roman stepped closer, reaching into his inner pocket to pull out a velvet jewelry box. He opened it, revealing a breathtaking teardrop emerald necklace surrounded by brilliant diamonds.

“This belonged to my mother,” Roman said softly, stepping behind me. “May I?”

My breath hitched as his warm hands brushed against my bare neck and collarbone. He gently clasped the heavy cold gold around my throat, his lips hovering an inch above my exposed shoulder.

“Remember the rules tonight,” Roman murmured against my skin, his voice sending a wave of delicious electricity straight down my spine. “You’re madly in love with me.”

I turned around in his arms, resting my hands against the crisp white front of his tuxedo shirt, feeling the fast, heavy thud of his heart beneath my palms.