Chapter 2 - THE COST OF A PROPOSAL
Roman Vale didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even blink.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand, brushing a light layer of white flour from his left lapel with his long, calloused fingers. A faint puff of white dust drifted into the morning sunlight dancing over the pastry case.
"Sophia," Roman said softly, his voice a deep, low baritone that carried a velvet, dangerous weight without ever rising above a conversational tone. "Go sit in the car."
"Nonsense," Aunt Sophia scoffed cheerfully, adjusting her cashmere wrap as she stepped closer to the pastry display, admiring a tray of chocolate pain au chocolat. "I already told the entire family at Sunday dinner that you were seeing the lovely woman who bakes the cardamom buns. The cousins are expecting her at the Lake Geneva estate for the anniversary gala next month."
Clare pointed a flour-dusted, wooden-spoon-holding finger directly at the front door.
"Find another fake girlfriend, Mr. Vale," Clare commanded, her voice ringing with absolute, non-negotiable authority. "Or better yet, tell your family the truth: that you made up a ridiculous story because your aunt wouldn't stop setting you up on blind dates with real estate heiresses!"
Roman looked at Clare. His pale gray eyes were entirely unreadable, but a microscopic twitch at the corner of his jaw signaled that he was unaccustomed to being ordered out of any establishment in Chicago.
"I would prefer you," Roman said flatly.
Clare stopped. She stared at him across the marble counter, her dark brows furrowed in genuine, incredulous bewilderment.
"Why?" Clare demanded.
Roman hesitated. For a fraction of a second, the impenetrable armor of the feared crime boss cracked, revealing a man who looked profoundly, deeply annoyed by his own domestic predicament.
"My aunt already believes it," Roman explained, as if the sheer bureaucratic convenience of the lie made it logical. "And she refuses to return to her estate in Italy until she sees us together."
"Wrong answer," Clare snapped.
She reached down into her waist apron pocket, pulled out a clean lint towel, and tossed it onto the marble counter in front of him.
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"You have ten seconds to get out of my bakery before I call the health inspector on you for introducing white powder to a food service environment," Clare added, her tone dry as desert sand.
Roman didn't touch the towel. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket—completely unbothered by the flour smudging his inner jacket lining—and pulled out a slender leather cardholder. He extracted a heavy, matte-black metal business card with gold embossed lettering and laid it flat on the marble counter between them.
