Page 32 of The Slug Crystal

"In a manner of speaking," Marco concedes with a small smile. "If the Sistine Chapel could be called an app of the old times."

Jake laughs, actually guffaws, the sound startling me almost as much as Marco's hand on my knee.

I turn to find Jake's posture looser, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes bright with genuine amusement.

The Tuscan wine has painted a slight flush across his cheekbones, and he's rolled up his sleeves to reveal forearms that have always been one of his most underrated features.

"I think I'd prefer the Renaissance patronage system," Jake says, swirling wine in his glass. "Seems more straightforward than venture capital. Paint something beautiful, get paid, repeat."

"You forget the part where you live or die by the whims of powerful families," Luca counters, gesturing with his fork. "One wrong move and—" He draws a finger across his throat dramatically.

"So exactly like modern capitalism," Ben interjects, which draws another laugh from Jake.

I watch them all. The candlelight plays across their faces, highlighting what draws me to each of them in ways I'm finding increasingly hard to deny.

I catch myself smiling, genuinely smiling, for what feels like the first time in days. The food is incredible, the wine is flowing, and the company—the company is something I never knew I needed until now.

The guilt hits like a sudden cold draft.

Alex. Alex is still a snail, trapped in glass beneath this table, while I'm enjoying fine wine and flirtation.

What kind of person does that make me? I discreetly check beneath the tablecloth for a third time.

The blue snail is at the edge of his terrarium, methodically consuming a piece of lettuce I'd placed there before we left the hotel.

He seems content enough, but that's hardly the point.

"More wine, signora?" The waiter materializes at my elbow, bottle poised, drawing my attention away from Alex.

"Oh, I shouldn't—" I begin, but Luca is already nodding.

"Of course she will," he says in English before adding something in Italian that makes the waiter smile knowingly.

Ruby liquid cascades into my glass, and I wonder when it was last refilled. I've lost count. I think I’ve had two glasses? Three? The warmth in my cheeks and the pleasant haziness at the edges of my vision suggest the latter.

"To new adventures," Luca proposes, raising his glass.

His eyes hold mine across the table, dark and knowing.

I remember with sudden clarity how he looked in the cockpit of his plane, his confident hands on the controls, his gray eyes flashing with competence, and I feel a flare of attraction well up, low in my belly.

We toast, and I take another sip. The wine is rich and velvety on my tongue.

Marco's hand remains steady on my knee, his thumb now making small, exploratory movements along the inner seam of my jeans.

The contact is innocent enough that I could easily ignore it, but electric enough that I can think of little else.

"The main course approaches," our waiter announces, appearing with a massive platter of pappardelle, the wide ribbons of pasta gleaming with rich ragu. "And then, for the brave, the bistecca—" He makes a chef's kiss gesture. "Perfection."

As he serves each of us, I become aware of a shift in the energy around the table.

All four men are watching me with varying degrees of intensity.

Ben's gaze is playful yet heated, Marco's is scholarly yet intimate, Jake's look is familiar yet yearning, and Luca appears confident yet questioning.

The attention should make me uncomfortable, but the wine has softened my edges, made me languid and receptive.

"You have sauce—" Jake says, gesturing to the corner of my mouth.

Before I can reach for my napkin, he leans over, his thumb gently brushing the spot away.

The gesture is tender, intimate in its casualness.

His touch lingers a fraction longer than necessary, and I see his pupils dilate slightly as our eyes meet.

"Grazie," I say, the Italian word slipping out unexpectedly. Luca smiles approvingly across the table.

"She's becoming Italian already," he teases. "Next she'll be arguing about the proper way to cook pasta and driving like a Formula One racer. "

"I'd pay to see that," Ben says, his foot bumping mine beneath the table—on the opposite side from Marco's hand, which hasn't moved. The dual contact makes my breath catch.

The waiter returns with dessert menus just as I'm wondering if my flushed cheeks are visible in the candlelight.

The menus are smaller, handwritten on thick paper.

As I try to focus on the Italian words, I realize I'm definitely more intoxicated than I should be.

The letters swim slightly, and I find myself smiling at nothing in particular.

"Perhaps the tiramisu to share?" Marco suggests, his academic tone belied by the way his fingers have now found the sensitive spot behind my knee. "It's traditional."

I look up from the menu to find all four of them watching me.

They’re waiting for my reaction, my decision, my lead.

The power of that attention, multiplied by four, hits me with unexpected force.

In this moment, with wine in my blood and their eyes on my face, I feel both vulnerable and strangely powerful, caught in a web of my own unintended making.

"Tiramisu sounds perfect," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "To share."

Friday, 8:02PM. The night air hits me like a splash of cool water as we step out of the trattoria, though it does little to clear the pleasant haze of wine from my head.

Florence at night is a different creature than Florence by day, softer around the edges, mysterious in its shadows, intimate in its ancient, narrow streets.

I clutch Alex's terrarium with both hands, my knuckles white with effort.

I'm determined not to drop him, even as the cobblestones seem to tilt slightly beneath my feet.

The others surround me in a loose formation that feels protective without being suffocating.

Jake to my left, his steady presence a constant anchor; Marco behind me, his scholarly observations about Renaissance architecture floating over my shoulder; Ben ahead, walking backward to face us as he argues with Luca about the best late-night bars in Florence.

"This way," Luca says, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides us around a corner. "There's something you should see."

The narrow street suddenly opens into a small cobblestone square, a hidden gem tucked away from the main tourist thoroughfares.

String lanterns crisscross overhead, casting a constellation of warm light across the ancient stones.

A fountain bubbles in the center, its marble edges worn smooth by centuries of hands and hips.

A collection of musicians has set up near one corner; a violinist, an accordion player, and a guitarist, their melodies spilling into the night air like liquid gold.

Couples dance in the space between the fountain and the musicians, their movements unhurried and natural.

The scent of night-blooming jasmine mingles with espresso from a tiny café at the edge of the square.

An old man sits outside it, smoking a pipe that adds sweet notes of tobacco to the olfactory symphony.

"It's beautiful," I breathe, momentarily forgetting the weight of the terrarium in my hands, the mission that brought us here, and the growing complications between us all.

"Dance with me," Luca says suddenly, his accent thicker than usual, his eyes reflecting the lantern light above. He gestures to Alex's terrarium. "Let me take this."

I hesitate, my protective instincts flaring. "I don't know if?—"

"Trust me," he says, gently taking the glass box from my hands. "I'll keep him safe."

He moves to a stone bench at the edge of the square, carefully placing the terrarium in a recessed alcove where it can't possibly fall.

I watch as he takes extra care to ensure it's stable, arranging his scarf around it as a cushion.

The gesture is unexpectedly tender from someone so effortlessly confident.

When he returns, he extends his hand with a slight bow that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. "Now, dance with me."

The wine makes my movements loose and free as I let him lead me into the swirl of dancers.

His hand is warm at my waist, his other clasping mine with just the right amount of pressure.

He moves with the natural grace of someone comfortable in their own skin, guiding me through the steps of what might be a traditional Italian folk dance or might be something he's inventing on the spot.

Either way, I follow, laughing when I misstep, relaxing into the simple joy of movement and music.

Ben cuts in after one song, spinning me away from Luca with a theatrical flourish.

"My turn," he announces, his hands finding my hips with casual familiarity.

His style is completely different—playful, unpredictable, full of improvisations that make me laugh.

He dips me unexpectedly, and I shriek, clutching his shoulders.

"I've got you," he says, his face close to mine as he holds me suspended. "Always."

Then it's Marco's turn. His approach is more measured and precise.

He holds me like I'm made of something precious, his steps following the music's rhythm with mathematical precision.

But there's nothing cold in his preciseness; his eyes remain warm, attentive to my every reaction, quick to react when I might miss a step, twirling us into an effortless dance.

Jake is the last to dance with me, and I feel the hesitation in his hands as they settle at my waist. We haven't been this close since our kiss in Venice, and the memory of it hums between us like electricity.

His movements are less practiced than the others, but there's an honesty in them, a straightforwardness that's purely Jake.

When he accidentally steps on my toe, his mortified expression makes me laugh, breaking the tension.

"Sorry," he mutters, color rising to his cheeks.

"It's okay," I say, squeezing his hand. "I prefer enthusiasm to perfection anyway."

His smile in response makes my heart skip a beat.

The musicians shift to a slower melody, with the violin taking center stage and playing a wistful tune that seems to capture all the bittersweet beauty of the night. Luca appears at my side, smoothly reclaiming me from Jake with a nod that's both respectful and unyielding.

"One more," he says, and it's not really a question.

This time, he pulls me closer, his hand at the small of my back pressing me against him until I can feel the steady beat of his heart.

We move less like dancers now, more like two parts of a single entity swaying to the music's pulse.

His cheek brushes against my temple, his breath warm against my ear.

"You're beautiful when you're happy," he murmurs, the words vibrating against my skin. "Your whole face changes, like a flower opening to the sun."

The poetry of his words catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he shifts, drawing back just enough to look into my eyes. The lantern light catches in his gaze, turning it molten. His intent is clear, his head dipping slowly toward mine, giving me every chance to pull away.

I don't.

His lips find mine in the moonlight, gentle at first, a question rather than a demand.

I answer by leaning into him, my hands sliding up to his shoulders.

He tastes of wine and confidence, of adventure and possibility.

The kiss deepens, his hand cradling the back of my head with surprising tenderness from someone so boldly self-assured.

My body responds with a flood of warmth, a quickening pulse, a surrender to the moment that surprises me with its completeness .

When we finally break apart, breathless and slightly dazed, I become aware of our audience.

The other three men stand at various points around the square, each watching with a different expression.

Jake's face is complicated—not angry, exactly, but intense, conflicted, his jaw tight with something he's holding back.

Ben raises his eyebrows, a half-smile playing on his lips that could be amusement or challenge or both.

Marco observes with quiet intensity, his scholarly detachment momentarily absent, replaced by something more raw, more human.

The weight of their gazes makes me suddenly self-conscious, aware of how public this moment has been. I step back from Luca, my lips still tender from his kiss, my mind spinning with wine and moonlight and the impossible tangle of feelings I've developed for not one but four very different men.

"I should check on Alex," I say, the first coherent thought I can grasp.

Luca nods, releasing me with obvious reluctance. I cross to the stone bench where the terrarium sits, secure in its alcove. The blue snail is active, exploring the far corner of his glass home, apparently untroubled by his surroundings or his caretaker's romantic entanglements.

The others join me, our strange quintet reforming as we prepare to walk back to our hotel.

Luca's arm slides around my waist, a casual claim that feels both thrilling and complicated.

Jake walks slightly ahead, his posture betraying tension despite his attempts at nonchalance.

Ben falls in beside Marco, their conversation a low murmur punctuated by occasional laughter.

Florence surrounds us, ancient and knowing, its streets having witnessed countless romantic entanglements over the centuries.

My lips still tingle from Luca's kiss as we wind our way through the medieval streets.

Alex's terrarium is clutched against my chest, and my heart is a confused jumble of guilt and happiness and anticipation for whatever comes next.

Tomorrow, we search for Sarah. Tomorrow, we face the possibility of undoing the spell, and returning Alex to human form. But tonight, beneath the Italian moon, I let myself exist in this impossible moment, the girl who cast a spell and found herself enchanted in return.