Page 90 of Hunted to the Altar
And I will spend every day of my life proving it’s one I deserve.
EPILOGUE
One year later
Marcello
The seaoutside the Caputo villa roared with relentless fury, its waves crashing against the jagged cliffs of Sicily. I sat in the cold confines of my study, staring out at the tempestuous horizon as the storm mirrored the chaos within me. The golden glow of the Italian sun was a distant memory, replaced by dark clouds and a biting wind. Just like the man I had become—disfigured and silenced.
The ghost of trauma from Samuel’s “punishment” still lingered. My mutilated face had long since healed, but it was a constant reminder of my failure. I ran my fingers over the jagged edges of the scar, the ultimate symbol of my disobedience. Samuel had been right, of course; I had crossed a line when I helped Nina try to escape. But knowing that didn’t make the bitterness easier to swallow.
Yet, despite the punishment, I hadn’t been cast aside completely. Samuel had sent me back to Italy deciding the newchurch didn’t need me at the helm. Banished basically, but I felt the sense of a new purpose. A new mold shaping me into something darker. Something different. An abomination to my faith was what they thought. An unholy priest, a fractured man serving a fractured purpose. My mutilation was a mark of shame, but it also served as a reminder to those who dared look too closely. I had become something of a spiritual advisor to thefamiglia, not in the traditional sense but in a way that matched the Caputo ethos: brutal, dark, and unyielding.
Samuel got a slap on the wrist for his punishment. Don Caputo thought my branding was fitting for the crime I’d done. To be fair, after everything Samuel put his woman through, maybe the Don thought that was punishment enough. I wanted to relish that I was right, but all I felt was sadness for Nina. I thought I was saving her from a more terrible fate. And look where that got me.
My faith wavered, its expression had become as twisted as my reflection in the mirror. I turned to the Bible for guidance, finding in its verses a justification for every morally grey decision I made. When I absolved men drenched in blood, I thought of Romans 3:23:For all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God.When I rationalized the violence I inflicted in the name of thefamiglia, I whispered Proverbs 13:24:He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.These scriptures didn’t absolve me, but they gave me a foundation on which to balance my fractured morality.
I hadn’t been given a church or a congregation. No, my pulpit was this villa, my sermons delivered in whispers and glares, in gestures and notes scrawled on scraps of paper. Men came to me for absolution, their confessions reeking of blood and betrayal, and I gave them the only salvation I had left to offer—silence. I couldn’t absolve their sins, but I could sit with their guilt and mirror it back to them.
It was ironic, really. Once, I had been a man of words, offiery speeches and carefully crafted plans. Now, I was a man of silence, of gestures and glances that carried the weight of my anger and despair. And yet, in this role, I found a twisted sort of power. They couldn’t ignore me, no matter how much they wanted to.
But my anger had become a double-edged sword. Since Samuel’s punishment, it had festered into something I barely recognized. The smallest inconveniences felt like slights against my very existence, igniting a rage that threatened to consume me. My once-measured demeanor had shattered, replaced by a volatile edge I struggled to contain. It wasn’t just Samuel who had done this to me—it was my failure, my inability to protect Nina, my misjudgment that had led me here.
I often meditated on the story of Job, a man stripped of everything yet commanded to remain faithful. I was no Job—I lacked his patience and righteousness—but his tale resonated deeply. I clung to verses like Job 5:17:Blessed is the one whom God corrects; so do not despise the discipline of the Almighty.It was discipline, after all, that had shaped me into the scarred figure I was now. It had turned me into the unholy priest of the Caputos, a man both feared and pitied.
My fingers drummed against the mahogany desk as I stared at the untouched glass of whiskey before me. Once, I would have sought solace in the burn of alcohol, but now, even that felt like a hollow comfort. Instead, I brooded over the past, the present, and the uncertain future that loomed before me. My anger simmered beneath the surface, barely contained. There was a time when I could rein it in, but that time had passed. Samuel had taken too much from me, and now every slight, every inconvenience, was a match to the gasoline of my temper.
The sound of footsteps interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to see my younger cousin, Alessio, standing hesitantly in the doorway. Alessio’s expression was careful, almost pitying, and I hated it.
“Marcello,” Alessio began, his voice measured, “there’s news from the family in America.”
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. My silence, once an annoyance to others, had become my weapon. Alessio sighed, stepping farther into the room and placing a letter on the desk before me.
“Samuel sends word that the Picone faction has been dismantled. The feud is over,” Alessio continued. “And Nina…she’s…safe. She’s expecting.”
My jaw tightened, my eyes narrowing as I regarded the letter like it was venomous. I had no right to feel anything about Nina, yet the news twisted something in my chest. She was alive, thriving even, under protection by the man who’d maimed me. The same man who had clarified that I would never again have a say in the family’s dealings.
The one the Don fined for maiming me. That was all Samuel got within that same breath, Don Caputo gave him The Southeast Coast of the United States territory. He got a fucking promotion for his savagery.
But my resentment wasn’t just about my punishment. It was about the way Samuel had discarded me, like I was nothing more than a broken chess piece. I had been loyal—misguided, perhaps, but loyal—and I had paid for it in blood. Sent back to our motherland, deep in the bowels of our territory, hidden like the famiglia’s hidden shame.
Was this how Silas felt when he was banished?
Alessio hesitated, as if realizing I was on the edge not really listening to him speak. “Don Caputo wants you to open this church again. It’s time. The men are too unruly without your guidance.”
Surprised, I couldn’t help wanting to decline immediately. I was an awful priest who would lead my flock down a dark and destructive path. It was best for me to keep guiding the men through my travels.
Alessio kept talking. “There was a recent trafficking ring and a complication…” He trailed off.
“What kind of complication?” My gaze finally snapped to his, my interest piqued despite myself.
“Samuel just needs you to take a survivor and hide her within your flock. She knows things about the Picone operation and could destabilize it.”
“Why do I have to be the one? Can’t he keep her there in the States?”
Alessio shook his head. “She’s seen too much and can become a liability to the famiglia.”
“Then just kill her!” I rose to my feet sick of being at the famiglia’s beck and call.
