Page 127 of Summoned
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, asa 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 andsubtle 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—anoriginalchoice, 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’stoo 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.
It’s been barely half an hour since Gaetano and I parted ways, yet his absence feels like someone pulled a thread from deep inside me. He’s now in the castle, restoring his magic. He didn’t want to leave me alone, but at least he was reasonableandtrusted me when I said the Little Baroness would attract more guests if she arrived alone, without the threatening presence of the Black Joker. No one relaxes when standing next to a man who radiates such predatory energy.
The venue has been transformed. Silver netting drapes the chandeliers, with garlands cascading below. On the podium near the DJ booth, a violinist is playing. Digital screens cover the walls, looping images of club members, mostly from well-known media appearances. I recognize myself in one of the photos.
I scan the crowd, and suddenly everything slows down. A wave of déjà-vu hits me. But it’s not déjà-vu—it’s my past. Designer gowns—satin, tulle, sequins, feathers…on the same woman, over and over. Her cheekbones could cut glass. Her eyebrows are drawn on with marker precision. Her lips are frozen in a permanent pout. Have women always looked like this? Or am I only noticing now?
The men are carved from the same dull mold: designer shirts with gaudy prints, hair slicked back, cold eyes scanning everything around them with disdain before returning to their phone screens.
