Page 37 of Hunted to the Altar (Caputo Crime Family #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY

S amuel

She still doesn’t know how dangerous it is—what it does to me—when she walks into the room and smiles like that. Like she doesn’t carry the weight of every scar I put on her. Like she forgives me in small ways every time her eyes find mine and she doesn’t look away.

We’re back in Italy.

Caputo land. Olive groves and hills that stretch wide like open arms. Dr. Mya said she needed Nina here. Said Nina needed roots somewhere softer than marble and memory. I agreed without hesitation. I’d agree to anything that gave her peace. That gave me more time to prove I’d changed.

And I have. God help me, I have.

The villa we live in now is quieter than the penthouse.

Warm. Earthy. No cameras. No locks. The front door stays open most days.

Nina leaves her chair by the sunroom in the afternoon when the light spills across the mosaic tile and she reads for hours.

She’s carved from smoke and shadow, beauty too bold for daylight and softness no one sees coming.

When she forgets to be guarded, when she lets herself melt into the light instead of resisting it, she doesn’t just glow.

She blazes. And I live for those moments.

When she forgets to be guarded, when she lets herself melt into the light instead of resisting it, she doesn’t just glow.

She blazes. And I live for those moments.

I worship them.

I worship her.

I follow her like a shadow that learned how to love.

I bring her fruit in the mornings. I massage her calves until she falls asleep.

I carry her to the garden when she wants to feel the grass beneath her feet.

I braid her hair whenever she wants it done.

I read her poetry with my terrible accent until she laughs.

I love her like it’s a religion and she’s my church. And I am devout.

Today she’s wearing one of those dresses that swish when she turns, a deep crimson thing that makes her look like the goddess she is. Her hair’s pinned up. Her mouth is soft from wine. Her voice is even softer. Her skin glows from the sun and olive oil and laughter I haven't heard in years.

And she lets me kiss her shoulder when I pass behind her in the kitchen. Lets me brush my lips to the slope of her neck when she leans forward. She pretends she’s indifferent, but her breath hitches every time.

I live for that too.

I live for her sass, her moods, the narrowed eyes when I over-salt her pasta, the way she presses her lips together to keep from laughing when I try to fold laundry and fail.

“Nina,” I murmur. “You’ve been glaring at that bread dough like it insulted your mother.”

She doesn’t look up. “You talk too much, Samuel.”

I grin. My queen in her castle. “You like it when I talk.”

“I like it better when you listen. ”

I go quiet immediately. Step back. Press a hand to my chest in mock injury.

“Yes, my love.”

She glances over her shoulder, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”

I walk to her and drop to my knees. Wrap my arms around her waist and press my face into her stomach, into the folds of that crimson dress, inhaling everything she is.

“Then marry me again,” I whisper. “In this kitchen. With flour in your hair. In front of these tomatoes and this busted rolling pin. Say yes again, Nina. Every day.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re lucky I’m too in love with you to throw this bowl.”

I catch her hand and kiss her knuckles. Then the inside of her wrist. Then her shoulder. Slowly. Reverently. Like I’m memorizing the map of the life I almost lost.

“Say yes,” I murmur again, my voice a prayer.

She doesn’t answer. She turns, and she lets me kiss her mouth instead. But it isn’t just a kiss—it’s permission. Her lips press back with just enough force to make my chest ache, like she’s still holding back but doesn’t want to.

I lift her hand, press it to my cheek. "You don’t owe me anything, Nina. But I’ll earn it anyway."

She doesn’t answer, but when I help her back into her chair, she doesn’t resist. And when I drape the shawl across her shoulders, she lets me.

She doesn’t answer me right away. Just stares. Her eyes roam over me like she’s remembering all the ways I failed and weighing whether I’ve truly changed. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just wait.

Then she moves closer, turns her palm upward, and offers me her hand.

"Then do it," she says, her voice low. "Say your vows."

I take her hand like it’s sacred. I press a kiss to her knuckles. “ I vow to be your shield, not your shackle.” Another kiss, to the inside of her wrist. “To love you with open hands, not closed fists.” I move to her elbow. “To listen before I lead.”

She blinks, and I swear her lips twitch.

“I vow,” I continue, kissing her collarbone, “to see you clearly, especially when you can’t see yourself.”

I lower myself again, hands on her waist now. “To serve this love like it’s holy.”

I drop to both knees. “To worship you, even when you think you’re unworthy.” I look up. “Especially then.”

Nina’s breathing changes. I see it in her chest, the rise and fall. The tremble she hates showing.

I reach for her waist, kiss the fabric of her dress over her stomach. “To ask before I take.” Another kiss. “To build you a world where you never have to raise your voice to be heard.”

She swallows. Her eyes shimmer, but the tears don’t fall. Not yet.

“I vow,” I whisper, “to love you every day like I’m still earning the right to say your name.”

My hands tremble as I kiss the inside of her palm again. “So say yes, Nina. Say yes again. I know I don’t deserve it. But I want to spend every day proving I might someday.”

She pulls my face to hers.

And she kisses me.

Not softly. Not gently. But with heat. With choice.

"I hate how good you are at this now," she mutters against my lips.

"It’s your fault," I breathe. "You taught me how."

That night, I carry her to bed—not as a man proving a point, but as a man grateful to be allowed to. She rests her forehead against mine before I lay her down.

"Don’t disappear in the dark," she whispers.

"Never again," I vow.

We move through the night like we’re rediscovering each other from scratch. My hands never leave her skin—trailing down her spine, circling her wrists, tracing every scar like it’s scripture. I kiss her like prayer: softly, slowly, reverently. She breathes my name into my mouth like forgiveness.

"You’re not a monster anymore," she murmurs, chest to chest.

"Only yours," I whisper back.

I undress her like I’m unwrapping something holy. I whisper compliments against her shoulder, her belly, the bend of her knee—places no one else knows to worship. She watches me through half-lidded eyes, letting me love her like I was made to. Letting me earn it, again and again.

I press a kiss to her ankle, then to the inside of her thigh. "You are everything I never knew how to deserve."

"Then be worthy now," she breathes.

So I do. I make love to her like it’s the first and last time I’ll ever get the chance. Like the world has narrowed down to the hitch in her breath, the tremble in her legs, the quiet whimper she makes when I whisper, "Mine."

I don’t rush. I don’t dominate. I follow her lead.

"Tell me what you want," I murmured.

"You," she says.

And that one word unravels me.

I move inside her slowly, gripping the headboard above her, trying to hold back, to stretch this out forever. She threads her fingers through mine and pulls me down until there’s no space between us, only breath, heat and heartbeats.

"I love you," I say between each kiss to her jaw, her throat, her mouth.

"I love you," I say again when she arches into me.

And again when she falls apart under my hands.

We lie together, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts pounding in sync .

Later, when she’s draped over me, skin to skin, I stroke her back with my fingertips.

"You make me gentle," I murmur into her hair. "You make me soft."

"You weren’t. Not at first," she says. Her voice doesn’t carry judgment—just memory.

"You broke my body, Samuel. I still wake up remembering how it felt when my knee shattered, when I thought the pain would swallow me whole.

But you changed. You crawled your way back from the monster I used to know.

That softness? You bled for it. And I see it now. "

"Then I’ll never be anything else again."

We fall asleep like that—her pressed into me, my arms around her like armor I never want to take off.

And in the morning, I’ll kiss her awake.

I’ll make her tea.

I’ll dance with her barefoot in the hall until her laughter fills the air.

Because loving Nina isn’t a task—it’s a privilege.

And I will spend every day of my life proving it’s one I deserve.. Not because she can’t wheel herself—she’s stronger than ever—but because she lets me. Because she allows it. Because I begged once to be the kind of man who could hold her without hurting her. And now she reaches for me in the dark.

She lets me undress her slowly, kissing every scar. Every memory. She lets me worship her body like it’s the altar I was reborn on. She lets me whisper her name like gospel until we both forget where I end and she begins.

We’re not ready for a child. She told me that two weeks ago. Said she still wakes up sometimes wondering if she made a mistake trusting me again.

I didn’t try to fix it. I didn’t argue. I nodded.

Then I told her I’d get a vasectomy tomorrow. Hell, today. That I’d burn down every plan I ever made for legacy, power, lineage—if it meant she could breathe easier. That I didn’t need her body to carry anything except her own peace.

She cried then.

And when she crumbled into my chest, sobbing with the kind of grief only safety allows, I held her tighter than I ever had.

Because I knew?—

It took losing our child, watching her bleed in that hospital bed, watching the light fade from her eyes, to realize the cost of my love. The cost of my control. I thought I could protect her by owning her. I thought obsession looked like loyalty.

I had to lose everything to see the thing in front of me was the only thing that ever mattered.

Now she sleeps with her head on my chest, fingers curled into my shirt, breathing steady like she finally believes I won’t disappear in the night.

And I don’t.

I stay. Every night. Every hour. I sleep light in case she whimpers in her sleep. I wake early in case she wants help brushing her teeth. I memorize the sound of her wheels on the stone floors, just so I can tell when she’s getting closer.

I stare at the ceiling and thank whatever force gave me a second chance. And whatever devil didn’t let me die before I earned it.

And I will spend every day of my life proving it’s one I deserve.