Chapter 30 - Gaetano #2
“Please,” she murmurs, cutting through the silence. “Stop looking at me like that.” There’s a flicker in her expression. I interpret it as uncertainty, yes, but also curiosity, maybe even longing.
I swallow. “Like what?”
She glances away, then back, steadier now. Almost defiant. “Like you understand me. And you actually… like me.”
My lips curl before I can stop them. “I thought that was clear back in the cave.”
A blush rises to her cheeks, warming me more than the wine ever could. It’s not the kind of warmth I’m used to. It has nothing to do with power or control, nothing to do with the deals I’ve made. “No,” she says, softer now. “That’s not what I meant.”
I lean forward, pulse quickening, already suspecting what’s coming. And if she’s noticed, then I’m in real trouble. “What, then?”
“You often look at me like you see beneath the surface. And what you find there… doesn’t repulse you. On the contrary.”
Invisible chains tighten around my throat. She’s right. I do see her. The cracks, the ache, the hunger to prove herself. And I want her—her body, and that feral spark inside her that would never fully submit, but might reveal itself to the right man.
I could have been that man.
But I can’t tell her that, because there’s no future for us. No world where we both survive.
I take another sip of wine to keep the truth locked inside and let the silence fill the space between us, confirming nothing. Not denying it, either.
“I’m the Black Joker, Nicole,” I say at last. “I don’t exist beyond these walls.”
Her steady gaze remains on me. As if she, too, sees past my mask and through every layer of the role I’ve played for centuries. And knows there’s nowhere left for me to hide.
“Tell me how you became the Black Joker,” she says. Her voice holds that human softness that disarms me more than any sharp question I’ve ever been asked. “I suppose you weren’t born that way?”
A reluctant smile touches my lips. “That’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world. Or at least a full day before my father sets the police loose. Unless you’re already tired of guests…”
My fingers curl beneath the table. You don’t have all the time in the world. The thought pierces through me and lodges deep. I refuse to go there. Not yet.
“If you really want to know…” I lean back and press my fingertips together in front of my chest. “Before I became the Black Joker, I was born a witcher—a human capable of wielding magic. And magic, like money in your world, is power. The kind that’s never enough.
To rise to greatness, a witcher needs more than raw talent.
He needs enough arrogance to bargain with darkness, and a mentor ruthless enough to shape him.
Madeline was mine. The most powerful witch of our time.
She ruled our coven. Imagine a queen presiding over a castle of witches and witchers.
And I quickly became her most loyal weapon.
My talent for illusions didn’t just serve for entertainment.
It was used for manipulation, control, and seduction.
Especially for minds she couldn’t dominate otherwise. ”
My voice remains calm, but inside, the memories claw at me, stirring anger, shame, and grief that never fully faded. “The truth is, she controlled me, too, by making me feel I was never enough. Never strong enough, or gifted enough…”
Nicole’s lips part, her eyes softening. She understands now. We’re much more alike than she ever imagined.
“Yes, my Little Baroness. I, too, was forced to outdo myself constantly. To prove my worth. To earn a place in someone else’s world.”
“How did you know… when it was time to stop?” she asks.
“When the woman I was doing it for cursed me into this prison,” I say. “That was when I realized that for years, I’d fought for the approval of someone who, in a heartbeat, chose to destroy me. Without giving it a second thought.”
The lie claws at me. The truth is, I’d sensed Madeline’s manipulations long before that, but I was too afraid to stand up to her.
Nicole bites her lower lip. “Did you love her?”
“I loved her magic. As I told you, in our world, magic is the equivalent of money in yours. People will sell their hearts for more. Then something happens, and it shows you, none of it matters if you don’t have freedom.”
She grows silent, her gaze fixed on her full plate.
I don’t want to think of Madeline in Nicole’s presence. It would tarnish her purity if I let the ghost of that witch slip between us, whether through memory or otherwise. Nicole deserves more than my shadows.
I push back my chair and walk around the table, offering my hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
The invisible orchestra swells. Its melody is dark and haunting, yet beautiful. It flows through the air, beckoning us to get lost in its rhythm. Nicole’s fingers tighten in her lap, then loosen. Time seems to stretch between us until her palm lands on mine, sending a jolt through me.
I lead her toward the open space between the table and the window, where the illusion of the Persian garden glimmers in the silver light, and begin to move us to the beat of the music.
Smooth, controlled. The first steps are cautious.
As my hand glides along the curve of her waist and I feel her body beneath my touch, my blood pulses faster.
I draw her closer, inch by inch, until our bodies meet. Breathing her in, I step forward and turn her, running my fingers down her spine. She tenses, and I wonder whether it’s resistance or desire. I shift her again, letting the motion hide the hunger rising in me.
When the last note fades, my hands stay at her sides.
She steps back just enough to meet my gaze. “I want to see the real you. Without the illusions.”
My hands pause. I’m not ready for this. “Nicole…”
She gestures with her hand toward the space around us. “All of this is beautiful, but I know it isn’t real. This is the Black Joker. I want to see you, Gaetano, as you are beneath all of this. And without it.”
Her words inflict a deeper pain than any enchantment. She seeks a truth I’m unsure I can reveal. I let go of her waist as if her touch burned me, stepping back to breathe. Dark emotion swells in my chest. Fear that if I strip it all away, there will be nothing left worth seeing.
That she’ll leave.
“Please…” she whispers, waiting.
My hands curl into fists, so tight it hurts. I try to hold the facade together, about to tell her the illusion is me. It’s what I am. Without it, I have nothing to offer.
But I don’t. Because I can’t say no to her.
I inhale sharply. Magic trembles inside me, then begins to unravel, thread by thread.
Around us, the illusions falter. Color drains from the walls.
The polished surface of the table cracks into rough, worn wood.
Music cuts off mid-note. Bare walls appear, lit only by a few flickering, weary candles.
The window to the Persian garden disappears into black, and the shadow of the dead world I live in creeps in through it.
I pray she won’t look outside—to the real horror.
She doesn’t. Her attention is drawn to the opposite wall, where the illusion collapsed, exposing the slashed harvests. Deep, jagged lines are carved into the gray stone. The silence thickens as her eyes slowly trace the numbers.
And then, I tear away the final layer of my magic. For the first time in centuries, not a single illusion shields me. Nothing stands between me and the shadows. The moment the last veil falls, they begin to stir, drawn to me.
Nicole remains focused on the list, unaware of the figures converging behind me. They see all of me now. Every wound exposed, every fracture in my soul gaping open. They smell it. The fear I’ve hidden for centuries. The vulnerability I’ve buried under layers of power and deception.
I stand in the center of the room, just as Madeline left me—naked, except for the black runes inked all over my body. Marks of the spells we once cast together. Permanent reminders of the nights I spent with her.
This is me. And there’s nothing beautiful about the real me.
Nicole finally turns. At first, she freezes, as though unable to reconcile what she sees with what she thought she knew. Her gaze drifts over my face, then my chest, tracing the runes that cover my skin…
Then it lands on the shadows behind me.
Well, now she’s seen the harvests.