Page 30 of Hunted to the Altar (Caputo Crime Family #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

N ina

The soft hum of the wheels on the smooth penthouse floor was the only sound in the vast, suffocating silence.

I maneuvered myself toward the balcony, the glow of the city lights calling to me like a distant refuge.

The wheelchair creaked faintly as I stopped short of the glass doors, my breath catching as I realized I wasn’t alone.

Marcello sat in the shadowed corner of the room, his broad frame hunched and still.

He leaned heavily on his cane, the dim light catching the discolored scar that marked his forehead like a beacon.

The skin was taut, fresh scars that marred his once-pristine appearance were a brutal reminder of Samuel’s capacity for violence—and his twisted sense of justice.

He didn’t speak.

I stopped a few feet away, gripping the wheels of my chair tightly. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. My emotions had been bubbling all evening, and seeing him sitting there, a living reminder of Samuel’s cruelty, brought them dangerously close to spilling over.

Marcello didn’t answer, of course. He hasn’t been the same since he’d been punished.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

But the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers tightened around the handle of his cane, spoke volumes.

He wasn’t here for comfort. He was here because, like me, he had nowhere else to go.

Maybe all the screaming broke his vocal chords.

"You hate him, too, don’t you?" I demanded, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "Samuel…he’s destroyed both of us. And yet we’re still here. Why? Why do we stay?"

Marcello’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped his cane lightly against the floor.

The sound was soft but deliberate, like he was signaling something I couldn’t fully grasp.

I watched him, searching for answers in his scarred face, in the way he held himself.

There was a quiet strength to him, a resilience I envied and resented in equal measure.

"You think I’m weak," I said bitterly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "You think I should stop crying and start fighting, don’t you? Well, I can’t. I don’t know how."

His gaze softened slightly, and he leaned forward, his fingers curling and uncurling around the cane’s handle.

He pointed toward me, then toward himself, and finally toward the door.

The message was simple: We were both trapped here, both victims of Samuel’s obsession and control.

But while he had resigned himself to this reality, I wasn’t ready to do the same.

"You’ve accepted it," I accused, my voice rising. "You’ve let him win. But I can’t—I won’t."

Marcello’s lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

He tapped his cane again, more forcefully this time, and pointed to me, his eyes blazing with intensity.

Then he touched his chest, his hand clenching into a fist. The meaning hit me like a punch to the gut: Strength wasn’t about fighting Samuel. It was about surviving him.

I turned away, my chest heaving. The city lights blurred as tears filled my eyes. "Surviving isn’t enough," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "I want more than that. I want…freedom."

Marcello didn’t respond, but his presence remained heavy, grounding me even as my emotions threatened to spiral out of control. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

"Do you think he’ll ever let me go?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Marcello’s expression hardened, and he shook his head slowly, deliberately. The motion was a knife to my already bleeding heart. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to hold myself together. The truth was unbearable, but it was a truth I couldn’t ignore.

The tension between us hung like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive.

Marcello finally broke the silence with a slow, deliberate gesture—pointing at his cane, then the scar that marred his face.

His meaning was clear: Survival was all that mattered now.

Whether or not we wanted it, Samuel’s world was ours, too.

The following morning, the weight of Marcello’s silent wisdom lingered in my mind as I wheeled myself into the dining room. Samuel was already there, seated at the head of the table with a cup of coffee in hand. His eyes snapped to me the moment I entered, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

"You’re up early," he remarked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity.

I didn’t answer immediately, instead maneuvering myself to the opposite end of the table. The distance felt necessary, a shield against the storm that always seemed to accompany his presence.

"Couldn’t sleep," I said finally, my voice clipped.

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You should eat," he said, gesturing to the spread of food. "You need to keep your strength up."

I bristled at the command, but Marcello’s unspoken advice echoed in my mind. Strength wasn’t about defiance—not always. Sometimes, it was about survival. I reached for a piece of toast, my movements deliberate as I met Samuel’s gaze head-on.

"Do you care about my strength?" I asked, my voice deceptively soft. "Or do you just care about keeping me alive? Some kind of sick fantasy for a breeding machine?" I scoffed.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he leaned back in his chair, his eyes dark and calculating. "They’re the same thing," he said finally. “I mean, no.”

I scoffed, tearing a bite off the toast without looking at him. "Convenient answer."

The tension crackled between us, a live wire that neither of us dared touch but couldn’t ignore. I forced myself to keep eating, the mundane action grounding me even as my thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm.

"Why do you care so much, Samuel?" I demanded, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Is it guilt? Obsession? Or something else entirely?"

His eyes darkened further, a flicker of something raw and unguarded flashing across his face before he masked it with his usual composure. "Does it matter?" he countered.

"It does to me," I said firmly, setting the toast down. "If I’m going to survive this—if I’m going to survive you—then I need to understand."

The air between us grew heavier, the silence stretching into something almost unbearable. Samuel’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table, a subtle but telling sign of his irritation. Finally, he leaned forward, his gaze boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"I care," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "because I do."

The simplicity of his answer caught me off guard, leaving me momentarily speechless. It wasn’t the declaration I had expected, nor was it the explanation I craved. But it was honest, and that made it even more disarming.

I nodded slowly, the gears in my mind turning as I processed his words. Marcello was right. Samuel’s obsession wasn’t just a weakness; it was a weapon. And for the first time, I felt like I might wield it.

Later that day, I wheeled back to the balcony, the city skyline stretching endlessly before me.

Marcello was there again, his cane resting across his lap as he stared into the distance.

His silence was oppressive, but it wasn’t empty.

It was a reminder of what I had lost—what Samuel had taken from both of us.

I rolled closer, hesitating before speaking. "Do you ever think about what life would’ve been like if he hadn’t…?"

Marcello didn’t look at me, but he tapped his cane lightly against the floor—a single, sharp sound that cut through the quiet. No. There was no point in thinking about what could have been. We were here now, and this was all that mattered.

I exhaled shakily, my hands tightening on the wheels of my chair. "I hate him," I said, my voice trembling. "I hate him for what he’s done to me. To you. To everyone."

Marcello’s eyes flicked toward me, and for the first time, I saw a glimmer of something like pity. He tapped his chest, then pointed toward me, his message clear: Hatred wouldn’t save me. Only strength would.

Strength. I wasn’t sure I had it in me, but as I looked out at the city lights, a spark of determination ignited within me. Samuel might have broken me, but I wasn’t finished yet. I would survive this. And maybe, just maybe, I would find a way to turn his obsession against him.

For now, though, I would play the part. I would bide my time. And I would remember Marcello’s silent advice: Survival wasn’t about escaping the lion’s den. It was about learning to live among the lions.

The next morning felt like a haze. As I moved into the dining room once again, Samuel’s presence loomed heavier than the day before.

He sat there, the dark silhouette of him as sharp as the edge of a blade.

My chest felt tight, the mixture of hatred, confusion, and something else I couldn’t name weighing me down.

"Good morning," he said, his voice smooth but laced with that familiar dominance. He didn’t rise or move, but his eyes followed me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"Morning," I replied curtly, wheeling myself to the table. The distance between us was deliberate. Yet, I could feel his gaze burning into me, making me wish I could melt into the floor.

As we sat there in silence, I studied him from the corner of my eye. His hands moved methodically as he adjusted the cup of coffee in front of him. Everything about Samuel was measured—even the way he carried himself spoke of control. But that control seemed to fray when his gaze met mine.

"You’re quieter than usual," he commented, his voice casual, almost teasing. "Thinking about something important?"

I let out a bitter laugh, my hands clenching on the edge of the table. "Thinking about how surreal it is to be having breakfast with my captor, if you must know."

Samuel’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Captivity is a matter of perspective, Nina."

"Spoken like a man who’s never lost his freedom," I shot back.

His eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement fading from his expression, "I’ve lost more than you could ever imagine,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

I wanted to scoff, to dismiss his words as another manipulative ploy. But the weight in his voice gave me pause. It wasn’t the boast of a man trying to win an argument. It was something darker, something raw.

"Then why do this to me?" I asked, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "Why trap me here?"

Samuel leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he clasped his hands together. "Because I refuse to lose you, too."

The intensity of his words sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. There it was again—that mix of compulsion and something that almost felt like narcissistic love, twisting together in a way that made my head spin.

And against all logic, a small, traitorous part of me wondered: Could I bear this? Could I endure Samuel’s darkness if it meant never feeling that depth of devotion from anyone else? The thought terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.