Season 2 Chapter 1
A Crown or A Cell
Estimated reading time:3m read
Emilia
Chapter text
Shock steals my breath.
A momentary loss of feeling.
Leaves me choking.
Scrambling to catch up.
“What?!” I manage.
Don Marchi sighs.
Still the same thorn.
“Your father. Gino Monte.”
So I did hear right.
My blood flashes to ice.
I grit my teeth.
“Alfonsi’s don’t sell Alfonsi’s.”
What I mean is—
Fathers don’t barter their daughters.
Husbands don’t—
“You’re right. They shouldn’t.”
He lets it sit.
“Emilia, the Ragossi need a leader. Without one, the family will be ravaged by Alfonsi—”
“Good. I’ll wait.”
He scoffs.
Leans back.
“Yes. Let’s wait.”
A glance at his watch.
“Nineteen more hours of lockdown. Perfect time to send the Ragossi in armed.”
“A leaderless horde? L’orso’s got it.”
“Hmm.”
Papers shuffle.
“I wonder if Miss Octavia Alfonsi—and her son—will be as prepared. You recently purchased them a home, didn’t you? Is this a five or a three?”
He turns the check toward me.
Note section: 69th Street.
The air drains.
Like vacuum testing.
Every second, less.
Shit.
He sees it.
Smiles.
He opens his mouth—
But I’ve been calculating since the check.
I see it now.
The only way out—
is through.
“I’ll do it.”
The grin sharpens.
Almost cracks me.
Almost.
Instead—
A crown or a cell.
I can’t tell which.
And L’orso as my enemy.
A man enters.
And that moment—
Not a second before—
is when it all goes to hell.
***
I’m bleeding all over the white couch.
One hour into a ten-hour flight.
Private jet.
Just me, a flight attendant—
and him.
The collar.
When I land in New York, I have an hour to reach Hell’s Kitchen before the Alfonsi are free.
Before my home becomes occupied territory.
I press fresh gauze into the brand across my chest.
It holds.
My arms don’t.
Blood runs unchecked.
Yeah. I didn’t take a Ragossi oath quietly.
Every attempt to manage it—
worse.
“Let me help.”
He steps closer.
Pain flares as I turn on him.
“Back.”
Too sharp.
He smiles anyway.
“I only want to serve you, Donessa.”
My vision blurs.
But I see him clearly.
“I know a tool when I see one.”
He shrugs.
Signals for a drink.
The attendant returns with towels.
He sits.
“I’m here to help you transition. When you’re ready, I leave.”
“Did Ciro’s handler leave?”
Our eyes lock.
My lip curls.
“I will,” he says. “Until then—you lean on me. Your Marito.”
He puffs his chest.
I laugh.
Reach for my phone.
“Not my marito, Senio.”
The screen is cracked.
Dead.
I gasp.
Ciro.
A bolt down my spine.
The fall of his head.
Ice floods my veins.
I can’t do this.
I can’t stand against L’orso.
I can’t breathe—
“You call me Marito,” he says quietly.
“Condition of your deal.”
He leans forward.
Drink dangling.
“If you risk my reward—
you know what happens.”
I raise my eyes.
Blink.
He thinks I’m rattled.
Good.
I’ll call him Marito.
Until my husband ends it.
***
Landing in New York feels wrong.
The airport is empty.
“Cleared for the Donessa,” Marito says.
It is.
Not a soul.
Ciro’s town car waits at the curb.
It still smells like him.
I swallow hard.
As the city shifts—
Broadway lights
to ash-black tenements—
it hits me.
I’ve never been to Hell’s Kitchen.
Not once.
The scent of Ciro’s skin closes in.
My hell—
is my home.
