Page 91 of Hunted to the Altar

“This isn’t a suggestion, Father Marcello, this is an order from your Don.” Alessio’s tone grew cold.

“How long?”

Alessio shrugged. “I’m not privy to everything the Don is doing. Just know that she could be arriving any day now.”

“Should I prepare for a visit from the Don himself?” I sneered walking over to the bar that shouldn’t be here and pouring myself a strongnegroni,an Italian cocktail made with gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth, known for its bold and bitter flavor.

I tossed it back.

“That’s all I know at this time.”

I waived him away just as a Caputo foot soldier came in. “Sir?”

He waited for me to acknowledge him.

“What is it?” I asked finally.

“There’s a delivery at the gate for you.”

“Send it back.” I ordered.

Some of the women in the famiglia had started sending me gifts—perfumes, cufflinks, even home-cooked meals wrapped ingold foil. Pretty invitations laced with guilt, all meant to lure me back to the Caputo main estate.

But I refused.

I wouldn’t live with them. Not again. They were hypocrites—smiling in silk while sharpening knives behind closed doors. I remembered the words He once spoke, words that echoed in my chest like a warning: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You’re like whitewashed tombs—beautiful on the outside, but full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean inside.”

That was them. Painted in virtue, rotting in truth. They called it loyalty. I called it a lie.

The soldier shifted his weight, nervous now. “Sir… I think you’ll want to see this one.”

I turned, narrowing my eyes. “Why?”

“It’s… not like the others.”

A beat passed. My grip tightened around the glass.

“Show me.”

He nodded and disappeared down the corridor. I followed, past the warped pews and cracked stained glass of the old church we now called sanctuary. God hadn't lived here in decades, but sin had never missed a sermon.

The gates groaned as they opened. Fog clung to the ground like it was scared to breathe.

There it was.

A shipping crate. Industrial. Bolted shut. No return label. No markings—except one. Burned into the wood was a single emblem: the Caputo famiglia crest, blackened like a brand.

My jaw tensed. This wasn’t a gift. This was a message. “Who signed for it?” I asked without looking away.

“No one. It was dropped and abandoned. Unmarked van. No plates.”

I stepped closer. There was something inside. I could feel it. Still. Heavy. Waiting.

“Get the crowbar.”

The soldier moved fast, handing it to me like it might bite him. I wedged the metal under the lip and pried it open.

The smell hit first—salt, wood, sweat, and something faintly floral, like whatever perfume had once clung to her skin was losing its fight. Then the sound. Chains, subtle and shifting, like someone adjusting their weight.