Chapter 1 - The Dating Lessons That Were Never Supposed to Become RealThe first time Clare Bennett told Roman DeLuca to stop practicing his dating tricks on her, she had six straight pins between her lips, one hand pressed against his chest, and absolutely no idea that the most dangerous man in Chicago was about to become jealous of a photographer carrying two cups of coffee.
“Hold still,” she muttered.
“I am holding still.”
“No, you’re looming.”
Roman looked down at her.
At six-foot-three, broad-shouldered beneath an unfinished charcoal jacket, Roman DeLuca had the irritating habit of turning ordinary rooms into places where everyone became suddenly aware of where the exits were.
He ran DeLuca Holdings, a legitimate chain of freight yards, private clubs, and redevelopment companies.
He also controlled a quieter organization people in certain neighborhoods simply called the North Harbor Circle.
Clare knew enough not to ask questions.
She also knew enough not to care when those questions had nothing to do with her.
Her shop, Bennett & Thread, occupied the first floor of a narrow brick building in Lincoln Park. The front windows displayed hand-finished gowns, custom suits, and vintage sewing machines Clare had collected over the years. The back room smelled of steam, cotton, coffee, and occasionally desperation during wedding season.
Roman had first walked through her door because his regular tailor had suffered a family emergency three hours before an important charity dinner.
That should have been the beginning and end of their acquaintance.
Instead, Clare had accidentally laughed at his failed love life.
And Roman DeLuca, apparently, had considered that a challenge.
“Relax your shoulders,” she ordered.
“They are relaxed.”
“They look prepared to invade a small country.”
His dark eyes narrowed.
Clare pulled the pins from her mouth.
“Better.”
Roman’s gaze dropped toward her face.
“You changed your hair.”
She paused.
That was new.
Two months ago, Roman would have noticed only whether his jacket sleeves were one-quarter inch too long.
Now his eyes lingered on the loose waves Clare had cut to her shoulders that morning.
“I did.”
“It looks good.”
Her hand stopped against his lapel.
Roman seemed almost pleased with himself.
Clare slowly looked up.
“That sounded dangerously normal.”
“I have been practicing.”
“You said something nice without making me feel like I passed a quarterly performance review.”
“I’m improving.”
“You are.”
His expression changed.
It was small.
Almost invisible.
But Clare had learned Roman’s face the way she knew fabric grain.
That almost-smile was pride.
And somehow that made the next thing worse.
He said quietly, “The color you’re wearing makes your eyes look warmer.”
Clare’s fingers froze.
Roman did not look away.
There was nothing mechanical in his voice this time.
Nothing rehearsed.
Her heartbeat changed.
“Stop.”
His brow creased.
“Stop what?”
“Using me.”
“For what?”
She stepped backward.
“For practice.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.”
“Clare.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
Her body was soft and full, something she had spent half her twenties apologizing for before finally deciding that everyone else could carry the burden of their own opinions.
She designed clothes for women who wanted to look beautiful now, not after losing twenty pounds, shrinking themselves, or earning permission.
Roman had never once made her feel too large for the room.
That fact had become inconvenient.
“You asked me to teach you how to talk to women,” she said.
“Fine.”
“I agreed.”
“I remember.”
“But stop testing every new trick on me.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You think that was a trick?”
“I think I’m supposed to be teaching you how to charm other women.”
“And?”
“And not me.”
The bell above the front door rang.
Clare turned.
Daniel Hayes entered carrying two coffees and wearing the kind of smile that had never frightened anyone into confessing childhood sins.
Daniel owned a photography studio two blocks away.
He was handsome in an easy way—brown hair, rolled sleeves, warm eyes.
He photographed families, weddings, dogs, graduations, and occasionally Clare’s new designs.
More importantly, he knew how to ask a woman to dinner without creating an agenda beforehand.
“Am I interrupting?” Daniel asked.
“No,” Clare said.
“Yes,” Roman said.
Clare’s head turned.
Roman looked at Daniel.
Daniel looked at Roman.
Clare sighed.
“You do not get a vote.”
“I wasn’t voting.”
“You answered for me.”
“I answered his question.”
Daniel handed Clare a coffee.
“I’m starting to understand why he needs dating lessons.”
Roman’s face changed by perhaps half a degree.
Daniel’s smile faltered.
Clare pointed at Roman.
“And we have discussed that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that makes innocent people reconsider every decision they’ve made since middle school.”
“I looked at him.”
“You threatened his bloodline with your eyebrows.”
Daniel laughed.
Roman did not.
Clare did.
That seemed to annoy him more.
Daniel leaned against the counter.
“So, Friday?”
Clare remembered the invitation he had mentioned earlier that week.
“Friday works.”
“Seven?”
“Perfect.”
Roman’s gaze moved to her.
“Seven is late.”
Silence.
Clare slowly turned toward him.
Daniel raised one eyebrow.
Roman appeared to realize his mistake only after both of them were staring.
“For dinner?” Roman added.
“Dinner frequently occurs at seven,” Clare said.
“Sometimes.”
“Are you objecting to the existence of seven o’clock?”
“I’m making an observation.”
Daniel took a sip of coffee.
Clare smiled sweetly.
“You’re jealous.”
“No.”
Daniel glanced at her.
“You taught him to deny things like that?”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
Daniel laughed.
Clare went back to adjusting the sleeve.
“Roman, you have to understand something.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
“I do.”
“You have no idea how exhausting it is to teach a grown man how to flirt.”
“I haven't complained.”
“Because you're convinced everything is a negotiation.”
“Most things are.”
“Not affection.”
He became silent.
Clare glanced up.
For a second, something passed between them.
Something neither of them named.
Daniel cleared his throat.
“I'll see you Friday.”
Clare smiled.
“Friday.”
Daniel left.
The bell rang softly behind him.
Clare turned back toward Roman.
He was staring at the door.
“You're doing it again.”
“What?”
“The looming.”
“I am standing.”
“You're standing aggressively.”
He looked at her.
“Do you like him?”
Clare blinked.
“That is none of your business.”
“It was a question.”
“And I choose not to answer.”
Roman studied her.
Then he said, “Good.”
Her brows lifted.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't like the answer.”
She stared at him.
For perhaps three seconds, neither moved.
Then Roman's phone rang.
His entire demeanor changed.
The warmth vanished.
The man standing in her shop became someone else.
“Yes.”
He listened.
His jaw tightened.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Who else knows?”
Clare watched him walk toward the front window.
His voice dropped.
“Lock the north gate.”
She stopped sewing.
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She laughed.
“That sounded like the exact opposite of nothing.”
“It's business.”
“Then take your business outside my shop.”
Roman looked at her.
“I need to leave.”
“Wonderful.”
He began walking toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Don't go to dinner Friday.”
Clare stared.
“Excuse me?”
“I don't think it's safe.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Are you seriously trying to cancel my date?”
“I’m asking you not to go.”
“You don't get to ask.”
Roman walked closer.
“Clare.”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
She looked at him.
“You hired me to teach you dating skills.”
“Yes.”
“I'm not one of the women you interview.”
His expression hardened.
“You think that's what this is?”
“I don't know what this is.”
“Neither do I.”
That answer silenced her.
Roman walked out.
Clare watched his car disappear down the street.
She told herself she was relieved.
She told herself she was angry.
She told herself she didn't care.
Then she noticed something.
He had left his phone charger.
She smiled despite herself.
“Idiot.”
But two blocks away, Roman DeLuca sat inside the back of a black SUV with three armed men around him.
His lieutenant, Marco Bellini, sat opposite.
“Tell me.”
Marco handed him a photograph.
A man leaving a warehouse.
Roman stared.
“Who?”
“Anthony Rizzo.”
Roman's expression changed.
Rizzo had once worked for Roman's father.
Then he had disappeared after a betrayal that nearly started a war.
“What is he doing back?”
“He's been meeting with the Calderon people.”
Roman looked at the photograph again.
Then at a second image.
Clare's shop.
Taken from across the street.
His blood went cold.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Roman looked up.
“Who took it?”
“We don't know.”
Marco's voice dropped.
“But they were watching her.”
Roman stared through the window.
His mind went immediately to Daniel.
To Friday night.
To Clare laughing.
To another man standing beside her.
And for the first time in years, jealousy was competing with something much worse.
Fear.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.
“Cancel every meeting I have Friday.”
Marco blinked.
“All of them?”
“All.”
“You have the mayor's fundraiser.”
“I said all.”
Marco hesitated.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“You're doing something stupid.”
Roman looked at him.
“Probably.”
Marco sighed.
“You care about her.”
Roman said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Back at Bennett & Thread, Clare was closing the shop when she noticed a black envelope under her door.
No name.
No address.
Just one sentence.
Tell DeLuca you never stopped looking.
Clare stared.
She had no idea what it meant.
May you like
But somewhere across Chicago, Roman DeLuca already knew.
And suddenly the dating lessons were the least dangerous thing between them.
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