Chapter 42 Nicole
Nicole
Gaetano wants me to see the stolen life behind the black shadows. I do.
What I also see is his stolen life, forever doomed to those very shadows.
“Gaetano,” I whisper, just as the sky outside brightens. “Did you ever make plans for what comes after?”
“I planned to find Madeline and kill her. And die in the process. Because no one survives a clash with her.” His answer comes without a second’s hesitation, like a fate already sealed in blood.
I hold my breath. “And now? Would you still go after her?”
“Now I’ll use every bit of magic I have to keep us hidden.”
The roughness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Yet, the fact that he’s talking about us makes my heart flip.
What would it be like to face life’s darkness with a partner.
Someone to support you, to hold your hand when everything falls apart?
I don’t want to imagine it now, not when our future feels so uncertain…
but how could I stop myself when he’s lying right next to me?
Silence stretches between us. I stare at the shadows, trying to see the faces of people I know within them. People I would sacrifice to save Gaetano. Invisible spiders crawl down my spine. “Have you ever thought…about saving them?”
He doesn’t need to ask who I mean. They’re all everywhere, like a mist wrapping us in its grip. “In the beginning, yes. Later, no.”
“Is there a way?”
His fingers brush against mine. “Magic is vast… but I’m not sure. Even if I could bring them back, some of those souls were taken centuries ago. I don’t know what would be left of them.”
“It’s still possible?” I press, hoping for a positive answer.
“Sorry, Nicole. Not likely.”
I wish I could say this shatters my resolve, makes me question my feelings, or awakens my conscience.
I doesn’t. All it brings are memories and images.
The girls who pushed me to the ground… Against Gaetano, who helps me back to my feet.
My father, who manipulated me into chasing foreign dreams and abandoning my passions…
Against Gaetano, who reignites my art. My so-called friends, who cling to me for my social status even though they despise me…
Against Gaetano, who burns that status down and offers me something steadier.
A society that forces me to wear a mask…
Against Gaetano, who takes it off and likes what he sees beneath it.
People have been bullying me all my life. I don’t owe them anything.
“Tonight is the annual Mocha event,” I say. “They hold it every year. There’ll be plenty of nouveau riche idiots there. Maybe I could whisper the tale about the Black Joker—”
“Nicole.” My name escapes his lips like a warning.
I don’t flinch. “I’ve made up my mind. If we don’t do it my way, I’ll fail the last trial… and you’ll be forced to take my soul.”
He shifts, just enough for the mattress to creak under his weight. My pulse hammers against the silence. “Are you blackmailing me?” His voice sends a chill down my spine. The air crackles with tension.
I don’t back down. “Yes.”
In one swift motion, he rolls and braces himself above me, sliding between my thighs with a kind of unspoken urgency. He pins my wrists above my head, and his eyes lock onto mine. In those dark irises, there’s as much threat as there is… reverence. My stomach flutters.
His mouth crashes into mine with hunger. My hands stay trapped while his kisses trail from my neck to my collarbone. Every touch brands me on the outside and burns deeper within.
He strips off my clothes and fills me with raw, aching need. My lips part in a soundless moan as my back arches, everything inside me unraveling.
His voice comes rough against my ear. “This is dangerous, Nicole…”
“I realize that.” My breath hitches.
“People will get hurt.”
“Someone always does.”
He growls something half-formed, then bites gently at the base of my throat. “You’ll be playing with dark magic.”
“Am I not already?”
Gaetano stills inside me for a beat, as though rooted in place by the weight of my words. Then he starts to move, his voice rough. “You’ll be risking your soul. If we fail, we both lose.”
“I know,” I whisper, clutching him closer. “But I don’t want to lose this.”
A ragged breath escapes him, and then kisses me, every doubt evaporating in a heartbeat.
We come together as if it’s the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.
Then, we make a plan.
* * *
Around noon, we walk into the Hyatt. The smell of leather, mixed with expensive perfumes, lingers in the hotel lobby. The name itself signifies opportunity and luxury; the five stars are essential if we want to impress the people from my society.
Soft light emanates from the massive crystal chandelier, casting gentle reflections over Gaetano.
He’s dressed in sleek, dark blue tailored trousers.
His dark blue designer shirt is unbuttoned at the top, with sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows, revealing his muscular forearms and black runes.
He’s the kind of man even the Little Baroness would admire.
From afar, he exudes elegance, wealth, and power— precisely the effect we’re going for.
He draws every eye in the lobby with ease as we walk up to the reception desk.
A thick carpet muffles the click of my simple black heels.
I’m wearing a fitted charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt.
I pulled my hair into a tight low bun, with lipstick in a deep burgundy that matches the frames of my prescription glasses.
My nose feels larger now, and my cheeks are fuller.
And to think my friends are spending thousands of euros on surgery, while Gaetano reshaped my face with a single flick of his hand.
“Relax. Smile. Like they owe us something,” Gaetano whispers in my ear.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins. Being here with Gaetano—as a couple, as a team—is comforting. He’s an artist in every sense of the word. The scheme he came up with is just further proof of that.
I straighten my shoulders, the tension in my step easing, and greet the woman behind the desk. “Good afternoon.” She exudes cool elegance with her perfectly styled hair and subtle nude-toned makeup. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of an immediate booking.”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Signor Neri is an Italian artist. He’s organizing a private event with a conceptual component.
I represent him here in Bulgaria. We had a reservation elsewhere, but at the last minute, we were informed that the venue was unusable due to water damage.
We’re hoping your hotel will live up to its reputation and provide us with a space for tomorrow night. ”
Next to me, Gaetano bursts into expressive Italian, gesturing with the dramatic grace of a true European whose patience has worn thin. I don’t understand a word, but it looks sexy as hell.
The receptionist’s eyes scan his figure—his slightly tousled black hair, sharp features, and open shirt—and pause on the runes peeking from his sleeves.
I catch the moment her interest sparks to life.
“I completely understand,” she says. “May I suggest an alternative? Let me just check…” She types on her keyboard.
“We do have a presidential suite available, with panoramic views of Vitosha. It has a private elevator and a separate entrance. No neighbors.”
“Perfetto!” Gaetano winks at her.
A flush breaks through her foundation.
“He has Bulgarian grandparents, so he speaks the language a bit,” I add quickly. “We’ll take the suite, before Signor Neri decides I’m a complete failure as his coordinator.”
“Wonderful.” The woman smiles at Gaetano, then focuses on her monitor.
“The rental price for the suite for a private event is 2,400 euros. We’ll need a fifty percent deposit to hold it.
Please also provide me with the company details or Signor Neri’s personal information so that I can draft a contract for the event.
You can sign it tomorrow when you check in. ” Her gaze flicks to Gaetano.
“Use my information.” I hand her my fake ID.
She takes it and starts copying my name onto a blank form. Desislava Dimitrova Daskalova. Born in Burgas. It wasn’t hard for Gaetano to create the illusion. He says it won’t last long—but neither will we.
I lean on the reception desk and speak in an icy tone, “And I insist on discretion. I don’t want a crowd of paparazzi when the guests start arriving tomorrow night.”
The woman glances at Gaetano once more. “I assure you, no one will bother you. We value privacy here.”
“Grazie!” he says, pulling me into a possessive embrace under his arm.
The warmth of his body wipes away both my irritation at the receptionist’s wandering eyes and the anxiety bubbling within me.
Right now, nothing is more important than seeing this plan through.
* * *
That evening, I step out of the taxi in front of Mocha.
It’s a private club for young entrepreneurs, influencers, and heirs to large fortunes.
For the occasion, I chose a black dress with thin straps and a high side slit.
My hair is loose, framing lips the color of dark wine.
The red soles of my heels stand out against the green carpet—an original choice, no doubt meant to symbolize the spirit of the event, held under the banner “young, rich, and beautiful.” They host it every year on this date, celebrating the pseudo-divine status of the young elite.
The real purpose, of course, is to gather advertisers’ money.
At least I’m certain my father won’t be attending. He’s too old for the event.
A flash goes off. “Nicole!” A paparazzo, maybe from some gossip site, or just an amateur with a camera. I give a faint smile and keep walking.