Page 120 of Summoned
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 aharvest. 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 canshow 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 façade 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 theaging 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, itssimplicity, bored me.Even then, I was chasing something… more.”
