Page 121 of Summoned
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 beordinary? 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, herthick accentwashing 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?”
