Page 34 of Hunted to the Altar (Caputo Crime Family #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

S amuel

The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving behind only the charred remains of wood and memory. The ash curled against the stone like a final breath.

I sat alone in the center of it all—my empire of silence, my kingdom of ruin.

The glass of whiskey in my hand trembled faintly. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. Time had lost all meaning.

Only one truth remained:

I had broken the only thing that had ever truly belonged to me.

And no matter how much money I threw at it, no matter how many gifts I laid at her feet, no matter how many enemies I buried for her?—

She would never be whole again.

Because of me.

The first attempt had been jewelry.

Custom pieces, crafted by the most expensive hands in Europe. Diamonds that could blind the gods themselves.

Nina barely glanced at them as she wheeled past, her hands steady on the rims of her chair, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond me.

The second attempt had been the house itself.

Renovations. Wings torn down and rebuilt. I ordered the installation of elevators, ramps, anything that might make this prison seem less like a cage.

When she returned from therapy and found the dust in the air, the men hammering and sawing?—

She turned her chair and left without a word.

I stood in the wreckage, the sounds of construction filling the hollow spaces of my chest, and knew it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

I watched her in stolen moments.

At dinner, when she picked at her food, barely tasting it.

In the gardens, when she sat motionless beneath the skeletal winter trees, the blanket tucked around her legs more armor than warmth.

She smiled sometimes, small and soft.

But never at me.

Never because of me.

I brought her a stack of contracts next. Divorce papers. Trust funds. Properties in her name.

She glanced at the stack once.

A slow blink.

Then turned away, her fingers tightening on her lap.

The rejection wasn’t cruel.

It was worse.

It was indifferent.

I had become a ghost to her.

The realization hit like a blade to the gut, splitting me open.

I couldn’t fix this .

I couldn’t rebuild what I had shattered.

But there was one thing left I could offer.

The only thing that had any real weight anymore.

My life.

The dagger was an artifact of another lifetime.

Polished steel.

Black leather hilt.

A symbol of power once handed to me by men whose names were spoken only in whispers. Now, it would become a symbol of surrender.

I found her in the conservatory.

The moonlight poured through the vaulted glass ceiling, drenching her in cold, silver light.

She looked like a statue—carved from grief and silence.

I approached slowly, every step an admission of guilt.

The dagger was heavy in my palm, dragging at my arm.

When I knelt before her, it wasn’t performance.It was penance.

She turned her head slightly, the movement slow, mechanical. Her dark eyes met mine—bottomless and unreadable.

I placed the dagger across her lap, my hands open, empty, helpless.

"If there’s anything left in you that still burns," I said, my voice scraping raw against my throat, "then take it."

I forced myself to meet her gaze.

Forced myself not to flinch."If ending me brings you peace, if it stitches even a shred of your soul back together—" I swallowed hard."—then do it. I won't stop you."

She stared at the blade for a long moment. Long enough that the ache in my knees became a distant scream.

Then her fingers moved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

She lifted the dagger .

The silver caught the moonlight, flashing against the dark velvet of the night.

She tested its weight in her hand, her face unreadable.

My pulse thudded painfully at my throat. I didn’t move.

Whatever she chose?—

It would be right.

It would be justice.

The tip of the blade hovered near my throat. One small push. One breath of hesitation surrendered?—

And it would be done.

I closed my eyes and waited for it.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, I felt the cold kiss of steel against my wrist.

Her hands were steady as she tilted the blade sideways and pressed it into the flesh over my pulse. Not hard enough to sever. Just enough to scar.

A line of blood bloomed against my skin, slow and deliberate.

When I opened my eyes, Nina was already setting the dagger down beside her. The cut on my wrist stung, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. It wasn’t death.

It wasn’t mercy.

It was a mark. A permanent reminder: I had hurt her.

And now, I would carry the proof of it until the day I died.

I stayed kneeling, my head bowed, my blood dripping to the floor. I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. I let her watch me bleed. Let her decide what came next.

Minutes passed—or maybe lifetimes.

The world narrowed to the shallow sounds of her breathing and the hot slickness of blood against my palm.

Finally, I felt her hand brush against my hair.

Not a caress.Not forgiveness. Just contact.

A silent command .

Get up.

I pushed to my feet, dizzy from more than just the blood loss. I stood before her, broken and stripped bare.

She didn’t look away. "You can’t fix it," she said softly.

Each word carved into me like a blade.

"You can't undo it."

I nodded once. No arguments left in me. No defenses.

"I know," I said.

Her gaze drifted to my wrist, to the slow trickle of blood soaking into the cuff of my shirt.

"Good," she whispered.

She wheeled past me without another glance.

The sound of her departure—the soft whir of her chair against the marble floor—echoed louder than any scream.

I stayed there, alone in the moonlight, feeling every drop of blood that slid down my skin. Feeling, for the first time, the weight of what it truly meant to lose everything.

And somehow, in that moment of complete devastation?—

I found the first fragile thread of redemption. Not because she forgave me.

Not because she came back.

But because I was finally willing to bleed for.