Chapter 40 Nicole
Nicole
Gaetano teleports us to the cave. The raw emotion in him hits me like a physical blow.
A relief so sharp it crashes through me, leaving me wordless.
Then, in the next heartbeat, something shifts.
Longing pools in the air between us, dark and intense, stealing the breath from my lungs.
The way he looks at me makes me burn and want to hide all at once.
We’ve seen each other naked, but this feels much more intimate.
I lower my gaze, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Why do we always come to this cave?”
He gestures vaguely toward the space. “I found it during one of my earlier summonings in the region. Our bodies are safe here while our minds are inside the illusion.”
“So, it’s real?”
He nods. “And close enough that I can reach it. But only if I’m with a harvest. I can’t even move to the next section of the cave by myself.”
My attention shifts to the darker part of the cave, where the twilight thickens into a nearly impenetrable mass. It’s cold and shadowy, full of secrets. Still, it somehow makes me feel safe. Just like Gaetano. The thought brings a faint smile to my lips.
“Well, good thing you’ve got me, then,” I say.
Soft lines form around his eyes. “Unfortunately, even now I’m limited. I can take you short distances, not all the way to Sicily. That’s where I’ve hoped to bring you.”
“You’re from Sicily?! The mafia? I’ve always wanted to visit. I mean, ‘The Godfather’!”
He chuckles. “I don’t know what Sicily is today, but I can show you how I remember it. Are you ready, my baroness?”
I nod, my heart racing with anticipation. Smoke fills the cave as the illusion forms. The ground beneath our feet transforms into cobblestone, dusted with golden light. The air thickens with salt, and the scent of figs, olives, and fresh bread wafts past us.
Gaetano takes my hand and guides me down the street.
It’s narrow and bumpy, tucked between low, sand-colored buildings with weathered roof tiles.
I notice the distinctive features of Sicilian village architecture—rough stone walls, patches of whitewash, and hand-carved wooden shutters.
Small, arched windows that barely let in light.
“This is my home village. Somewhere in the fifteenth century,” Gaetano says. I catch the tremble in his voice. “Some details might be off, haven’t seen it in centuries…”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, passing a large Sicilian woman kneading dough right on her doorstep. Her hands are covered in flour; marks of a long life stain her apron. She glances over her shoulder and yells something in Italian toward the house.
“It was beautiful, messy, and loud.”
Gaetano pulls me closer, and I settle into the curve beneath his arm. My heart pounds as an unwelcome thought hits me: Whatever this is, whatever I’m feeling…it ends in three days.
Shoving it away, refusing to succumb to the dark abyss, I ask, “Where did you live?”
He gestures toward the end of the street, where a small house with a crumbling facade is tucked into the shadows. “I lived there with my parents and my two younger brothers. Back then, they hadn’t reached immortality yet.”
We walk along the dusty path. “What do you mean, reached immortality?” I ask.
“All of us, those you’d call ‘immortals’, we’re actually mortal until a certain age. For me, it was thirty-two. That’s when the aging stops. When one’s full potential begins.”
The realization dawns on me a beat later. “Does that mean your parents could still be alive?”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t know. From what I’ve gathered while working as the Black Joker…somewhere along the way, the immortals started to weaken. Age. Something broke them.”
“A disease?” I whisper.
“A plague. A curse. I’m not sure. And I don’t know if my parents were affected.
Or…” He finishes the silence with a grimace as we reach the end of the street.
The wooden door is dark from age and rain, its handle worn down.
Above the door frame hangs a crooked iron cross.
Gaetano gestures toward it. “Witches aren’t religious.
But we had to blend in with human society. Would you like to go in?”
I’m burning to learn more about his past. Still the choice is his. “Only if you want to.”
He grabs the handle. The wooden door creaks open, revealing a warm space filled with the smell of aged wood and spices.
At the back, a hearth glows. In front of it, a woman fusses around.
It doesn’t take long to recognize Gaetano’s mother in her features.
One moment she’s stirring a clay pot, swiping her dark hair out of the way, and the next, she’s snapping her head to the side and shouting in Italian.
Two small, barefoot children, about five or six years old, dart across the floor, circling the table.
In the far corner of the room, a broad-shouldered man in a worn tunic paints on a wooden panel, dipping his brush into a clay bowl. His face is gentler than Gaetano’s, but his presence is just as commanding. I’m tempted to edge closer and examine his work.
“That’s a typical day in our household,” Gaetano says. “Mama bustling around the kitchen, wrangling the boys. And Dad lost in his painting.”
“Where are you?”
“Probably out getting into trouble. I wasn’t exactly the quiet one. And honestly? That kind of home life, its simplicity, bored me. Even then, I was chasing something… more.”
I say nothing, but I understand him with every part of me. I’ve always viewed the family routine as mundane—a ritual people go through for the sake of reproduction. The big things in life seemed to lie elsewhere.
Now I wonder…if I had the chance to start a family with a man like him, would the ordinary still be ordinary? Those tiny Gaetanos are pretty cute, I suppose.
The woman yells at them again.
“My mother is a temperamental woman,” Gaetano says, a smile tugging at his lips—one that holds more bitterness than joy.
“Is she angry?” My eyes flick back to the woman.
Gaetano frowns, then his expression shifts with understanding. “Why didn’t you tell me I left them speaking Italian? I’m so used to it, I didn’t even realize. I can change it so you can understand. It’s an illusion, after all…”
“No, please.” I place my palm on his shoulder. The heat of his skin grounds me. “I’d rather witness it the way it was.”
He leans in and pecks me on the lips. I tense, because we’re not alone. Then I remember his words. They can’t see us.
And yet, as if on cue, his mother’s voice pierces the room again, clearer this time, wrapped in that unmistakable Italian drama.
I glance over, and she’s looking straight at me.
She strides toward me with the confident, deliberate steps of a woman who fears nothing.
She speaks, her thick accent washing over me.
I don’t understand the words, but they sound…
warm. Almost affectionate. She reaches out and catches a strand of my hair, twisting it between her fingers with unfiltered curiosity.
“Gaetano…” I whisper, unable to tear my attention away from her. “She sees me?”
The woman laughs, then changes languages. “I always knew you had taste, Gaetano! You’ve outdone yourself!”
I stop breathing.
Gaetano’s chuckle echoes through the room. “Forgive me, my baroness. I couldn’t help myself. Besides, would my mother have said anything different if she had truly seen you?”
She steps away, pulls out a piece of bread and a slice of cheese, and starts speaking in Italian again, this time to the man in the corner.
I exhale. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Gaetano!”
A smug, boyish mischief spreads across his face. Seeing him like this unsettles me in a way I hadn’t expected. It disarms my defenses not through fear or seduction, but through charm and playfulness. And that, somehow, makes him even harder to resist.
He shrugs. “Sorry. I have a weakness for harmless pranks. I’m sure you’ll get used to me.”
I raise an eyebrow at his fake-innocent expression, on the verge of laughing.
A thought creeps in, swirling through me and reminding me: You won’t get used to him. Because soon, he won’t be here.
The shadow in his eyes tells me he’s thinking the same thing. “Come.” He takes my hand and leads me back to the door.
We pass through the doorway, but instead of stepping outside, we walk into the same space. Only time has shifted. The light is softer, and the air is thick with the scent of pigments and wood. The room is quiet, with only the faint creak of a brush breaking the silence.
Gaetano’s father sits in front of an icon still being painted. Already, there’s a spark of life in the saint’s eyes.
“Trying to change the world, are you?” His voice is steady and deep. “Black magic doesn’t grant power—it grants illusion. Then comes the price. And it’s not paid in gold. It’s paid with your soul.”
“He’s talking to me, if you haven’t figured it out,” Gaetano whispers, his lips pressed into a thin line.
His dad dips the paintbrush and drags it across the wood with exquisite calm.
“You think you don’t need yours? That power is better than peace?
” The brush glides again, leaving a pale streak along the darkened background.
He adds a gleam of white in the eye. “The heart seeks happiness. The Higher Powers seek bargains.”
He pauses and lifts his eyes. Facing Gaetano, I suppose. The sorrow in his expression sends a shiver down my spine. Despite his controlled tone and restrained gestures, this man radiates nothing but pure, fatherly love.
“You don’t need a world that bows to you,” he says. “I wish for you to find one that holds everything your heart longs for.”
The scene pauses on that final moment of painful honesty. Gaetano’s eyes are glued on the memory of his father. “I never listened to him. I just hope he never finds out what I’ve become.”
His voice doesn’t waver, but his fingers tighten around mine. I stay silent for a few seconds, knowing that whatever I say won’t ease the burden he bears.
“If you could go back to that moment,” I ask softly, “would you choose differently?”
He holds my gaze for a long while before answering, “No. Because I don’t know if, under different circumstances, I ever would’ve met you.”
My pulse races, but no words escape my lips.
The scene before us dissolves into shadows. They clear, revealing a new image. We’re standing on a doorstep. Gaetano’s mother is crouching over a wooden basin filled with soapy water. Her hands move with practiced rhythm as she scrubs the fabric.
“Gaetano! Still quiet, like your father. Listen carefully, because your mother won’t be around forever. No, I’m not dying! I just know that one day I’ll get fed up with you stubborn men, and pack my bags.”
His lips twitch into a faint smile.
“You’re my firstborn, so I’ll be honest. Your ambition outweighs your wisdom, and I worry it’ll lead you into trouble.” She plunges her arms into the basin, shaking her head. “So get this through that thick skull of yours: only a soulmate will settle you down. Some good-hearted girl…”
I gasp when I hear the term “soulmate.” And immediately flinch, because… well, ‘good-hearted girl.’
She shoots us a look and frowns. “Don’t you dare smirk!
These things are real, and we witchers believe in them.
Don’t let all my yelling at your father fool you.
Finding your soulmate is a blessing. A true soulmate sees you beneath the power and the mistakes.
That’s what anchors us, in case we ever stray too far—even into dark magic.
Not that I believe you’d lose yourself like that… I just want you happy, amore mio.”
The sharpness fades from her face, replaced by warmth. “It’s obvious your magic is powerful. You’re my son, after all. Just make sure you grow your heart, too. For there’s nothing more dangerous than strong magic paired with an empty heart.”
She flicks her hand, scattering droplets into the air. “Not that it’s a concern for you. You were born with a good heart. Let the neighbor worry. Her boy’s had something wicked in his eyes since he was a child…”
With her final word, the space around us shimmers. The sun dims like a blown-out candle. Colors fade, and the scent of soap and clean laundry vanishes into nothing.
We’re alone again, standing inside the cave.
“I didn’t listen to my mother either,” Gaetano whispers in the dark. “That’s the story of my life. I had a family that supported me in everything, but the hunger for power blinded me. I left them behind to chase greatness.”
He abandoned his family. How could this be worse than me, conforming to mine, just to gain the means to reach heights I never truly desired?
“Was it worth it?” I ask.
“It was,” he says, eyes piercing mine. “Until now.”
Our fingers are still intertwined, and my heart pounds in my chest, as if counting down the moments we have left. The image of the Black Joker fades from my mind, leaving only Gaetano in front of me. An entire universe of experience and feeling I long to discover.
“I want more time with you,” I say. “I want to know more about your past, what you like, why they summon you with sweets and blood, why that woman cursed you, and what this whole soulmate thing is all about…”
His hands twitch faintly. “I’ll tell you and show you everything you want to know. Every moment I have left is yours.” His smile doesn’t quite take away the sadness in his eyes.
My chest swells with a surge of resolve. “I don’t want three days. I want you to stay.”