Chapter 8 - The Price of Silence
After Lily left, I sat alone in the dark bakery for two hours, staring at the cashier’s check sitting on the wooden counter.
He stepped down.
The most powerful, feared man in Chicago had given up his empire, his authority, and his family title—not because he had to, but because he realized that his world was hurting the people he cared about most.
He had protected Lily. He had protected me.
And I had walked away from him when he needed me most.
At 7:00 p.m., I grabbed my coat, locked the bakery doors, and walked out to the curb. I flagged down a taxi, sliding into the back seat.
“Where to, lady?” the driver asked.
“The Duca estate in Lake Forest,” I said, my voice steady and resolute.
Thirty minutes later, the taxi dropped me off outside the massive wrought-iron gates. The heavy security guards at the booth recognized me immediately, hitting the electronic release to swing the gates open without asking a single question.
I walked up the long, moonlit driveway, my heels clicking against the stone, my heart hammering a furious, frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I reached the grand front oak doors and knocked loudly.
A minute passed. Then, the heavy door swung open.
Roman stood in the entryway.
He was wearing a dark blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black trousers, and no shoes. His dark hair was messy, his jaw covered in two days of dark stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot and hollow with sheer, unadulterated exhaustion.
When he saw me standing on his doorstep in my oversized winter coat, he froze, as if convinced his mind was playing a cruel trick on him.
“Clare?” he rasped, his voice raw and raspy. “What... what are you doing here? Is Lily alright?”
“Lily is fine,” I said, taking a bold step forward into the warm marble foyer. “She gave me the check.”
Roman looked down at his bare feet, letting out a tired, self-deprecating breath. “You don't have to keep it if it makes you uncomfortable. I just... I promised to clear your mortgage, Clare. I wanted to keep my word.”
“I don't care about the mortgage, Roman,” I snapped, taking another step toward him.
He looked up, frowning in confusion. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m here because your niece told me that you gave up your seat on the family council,” I said, my hazel eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. “I’m here because you stood in front of a loaded gun to keep a bullet from hitting me. And I’m here because I’m furious at you.”
Roman blinked, entirely disarmed. “Furious?”
“Yes!” I shouted, stepping right into his personal space, poking my index finger hard against his broad chest. “You let me walk out of that ballroom thinking you were just a ruthless, cold-blooded Mafia Don! You didn't tell me you were planning to walk away from it all to protect Lily and me!”
Roman grabbed my finger, wrapping his warm, broad hand around my hand, pulling me half an inch closer.
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“I didn't tell you because I was ashamed, Clare,” he whispered, his dark eyes filled with unbearable emotion. “I brought violence into your life. I saw the look in your eyes when I shot Marco. You looked at me like I was a monster.”
“I was scared of the gun, Roman!” I yelled softly, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “I wasn't scared of you!”
