Chapter 5 - The Duca Gala
The Duca family estate in Lake Forest was a towering stone mansion surrounded by wrought-iron gates, security patrols, and manicured gardens.
As Roman’s black sedan glided up the long cobblestone driveway, my hands began to shake in my lap.
Roman noticed. Without a word, he reached across the leather seat, wrapping his broad, warm hand over mine, lacing his fingers through mine with a steady, reassuring firmness.
“You’re safe with me, Clare,” he said, his voice absolute and unwavering. “Always.”
We stepped out into a grand ballroom filled with two hundred people—men in bespoke tuxedos, women dripped in diamonds, waiters gliding through the crowd with silver trays of champagne.
The moment Roman entered the room with me on his arm, a quiet hush rippled through the crowd. Whispers flared up like wildfire.
“Is that the baker?”
“Look at the emeralds... those are the Duca diamonds!”
“He brought her here? In front of the council?”
Roman ignored them all, keeping me pressed flush against his side, his arm resting possessively around my waist. He introduced me to elder businessmen, city officials, and family cousins. To my surprise, I held my own—using my sharp wit, cheerful humor, and genuine charm to disarm the intimidating crowd.
And then, Aunt Sophia appeared, holding a glass of vintage red wine, flanked by an older man with graying hair and sharp, predatory blue eyes.
“Roman,” Sophia announced, her eyes narrowing as she took in the emerald necklace sitting on my chest. “I see you opened the family vault for your guest.”
“Clare belongs in the Duca emeralds, Aunt Sophia,” Roman replied smoothly, his arm tightening around me.
The older man beside Sophia stepped forward. “So this is the girl from the bakery.”
Roman’s posture instantly turned to pure steel. “Clare, this is my uncle, Matteo Duca. Senior head of the family council.”
Matteo looked me up and down with a cold, condescending sneer. “She’s pretty enough, Roman. But a baker isn't a matriarch. She doesn't have the bloodline, the background, or the strength to handle our family’s life. You’re playing house to trick the council into giving you custody of Frank’s daughter.”
I felt Roman’s muscles tense, ready to blow the roof off the mansion, but I caught his hand beneath his jacket, stepping forward before he could unleash hell.
“Mr. Duca,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise of the ballroom like a polished blade. “I wake up at three-thirty every morning to knead three hundred pounds of dough, manage twelve employees, and run a profitable business in a city that eats small business owners alive. I’ve faced health inspectors, supply chain collapses, and your nephew hurling his arrogance across my counter.”
I smiled sweetly, taking a sip of my champagne.
“If you think managing a family council is harder than keeping a croissant from collapsing in seventy-percent humidity, you severely underestimate what it takes to run a bakery. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my boyfriend promised me a dance.”
Matteo’s mouth literally hung open. Aunt Sophia covered her mouth, stifling a genuine laugh.
Roman didn't wait. He pulled me away from his stunned family, leading me straight into the center of the grand marble dance floor as the orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.
He pulled me flush against his body, his hand resting firm on my bare back, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made the rest of the crowded room simply disappear.
“You are incredible,” Roman breathed, spinning me gracefully across the floor.
“I told you I had spine, Duca,” I teased, resting my head against his shoulder.
“You have far more than a spine, Clare Bennett,” Roman murmured, his lips brushing against my temple. “You have my entire heart.”
My heart stopped beating for a full second. I looked up into his eyes, searching for the lie, for the fake-dating strategy, for the calculation.
There was none.
He was looking at me like I was the only woman in the universe.
Before I could speak, a sudden, sharp commotion broke out near the grand entrance of the ballroom.
Shouts echoed across the room. The music slammed to a halt. Guests gasped and backed away as three men in dark tactical jackets burst through the doors, led by a man with a heavy scar running down his left cheek.
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Roman instantly shoved me behind his back, his body acting as a human shield as his guards drew their weapons in a flash of terrifying efficiency.
“Roman Duca!” the scarred man roared, raising a heavy black handgun directly toward us. “You thought you could bury my brother’s debt? Pay up, or the baker dies tonight!”
