Season 1 Chapter 6
It's All Heat
Estimated reading time:13m read
Emilia
Multi POV
Chapter text
Emilia
This time when I wake up, it’s to a painted-tin ceiling and deep Egyptian-cotton bedding.
All black.
So yeah — I moved in that night.
After the call. After the lie.
L’orso came for me.
I roll in the bed — into the solid form of Zero, L’orso’s Doberman.
His body heat grounds me.
I curl into him while Demone shifts at my feet, nails clicking once against the floor.
My room is a wall of glass.
Manhattan yawns out there — bridge to the left, Lady Liberty to the right.
It doesn’t seem real.
L’orso has been mostly absent.
Except for espresso each morning.
The Gala is this evening.
A dress box catches my eye — wrapped in that iconic brown monogram.
Black. Structured. A-line. Tulle skirt.
I’m annoyed he was right.
Size and style.
Stronzo.
Light makeup. Prada heels.
The life of a Boss’s wife.
My phone rings.
Shit.
NorStar.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Emilia. How are you?” Commander Harris’s smooth voice carries a thread of concern.
Already.
“I’m good, thanks. Enjoying some time with my family.”
Mob family. Still counts.
“I just wanted to check in. I saw a picture of you this week.”
“Oh.” Gulp. “Yes. Everything is fine.”
Oh God.
Can being a Mafia wife preclude you from spaceflight?
“Good. We’re listing jobs on Monday — and there have been many comments. It seems they’re looking at you for Captain.”
I swallow — dry.
Heart in my throat.
Captain.
“That’s amazing to hear. Please let me know when the positions are posted.”
“I will.”
The call ends.
I close my eyes — steady myself.
Then I put on my game face and head for the kitchen.
L’orso’s kitchen is massive, always attended by Renata, his housekeeper-cook.
She has the coffees ready when I arrive.
Three.
“He’s coming out now. Mr. Senna is just leaving.”
“Got it. Should I wait?”
“Yes. He asked for you.”
The office door clicks open.
A moment later, his voice carries down the hall —
“Clear it. Twice. Make sure there are resources. Pull more Alfonsi. The stakes are higher than anticipated.”
He rounds the corner, eyes locking on mine.
I can’t help but smile.
He enters with a tall, dark-haired man, but L’orso ignores him — comes straight to me.
“Good morning. You’re early.”
“Well — someone left me a couture wake-up call.”
“Like it?” An arched brow.
“God, yes.”
“Good. This is Vincenzo. Consigliere.”
“Good morning, Mr. Senna.”
“Mrs Alfonsi.”
My heart clenches.
First time I’ve heard it aloud.
Beats harder than it should.
“Eyes,” L’orso snaps.
Vincenzo diverts his gaze.
“When you finish up,” I say, “can you meet for ten minutes? I have something for you.”
He breathes — settles.
“Yes. Ten minutes.”
I nod and take my espresso back to the bedroom.
The small black box waits beneath the sink.
Heat creeps up my neck.
What if it’s stupid?
Emilia, it is stupid.
He’s going to infer something.
My phone pings.
L’ORSO: Now.
Too late.
The office door is closed.
This time, I knock.
“Come.”
Still sounds unfairly sexy.
The office is austere — except for the massive portrait of L’orso snarling behind the desk.
No tattoos.
Unsettling.
I perch on the edge of his desk.
He’s bent over a subpoena, tattooed forearms exposed.
I center myself.
“How did everything go this morning?”
“Fine. We’re ready.”
“Good. Should I pick out some outfits for court?” I gesture to the document.
He shakes his head, finally looking up.
“Well, can you take a minute, then?”
He nods. Rises. Steps between my knees.
“You have a gift?”
“Yes. But if you keep standing there, I might delay.”
“I have a gift for you as well.”
Ominous.
“Oh — maybe you should go first.” I smirk.
He shakes his head.
So I hand it over.
“Don’t read into it,” I say as he opens the box.
“I thought it might be… fitting. This ring — on that finger — covered in blood.”
I steady my breathing.
He notices.
The box drops onto the desktop.
He studies the ring.
Black band. Square edges. Lightweight.
“You’re not supposed to buy me jewelry.” His tone is even as he slides it on.
“I said not to read into it.” A wink.
“Fine.”
Then — quieter.
“But I want you to really read into this one.”
My heart accelerates.
From his pocket, he produces an engagement ring.
I don’t know why the thrill hits — I knew it was coming.
Thin band. Black diamonds.
Perched atop — a massive red stone.
Four carats, at least.
A blood sacrifice.
“I can’t wear that,” I blurt. “I’ll be robbed the moment I leave.”
He chuckles, dark.
“The public will not eat their Queen.”
He holds out his hand.
I give him mine — eyes locked on his face.
I’ve never been this close.
His attention is on our hands, but he looks up just in time to seat the ring.
I can’t breathe.
It’s getting harder to remember it isn’t real.
“Do you like it?”
I look down.
Inside the red diamond — an Alfonsi crest.
My heart stops.
I’ve seen this before.
The ring of a Capo.
Of an Underboss.
He didn’t just give me a ring.
He made me a crown.
“I love it,” I whisper.
Neither of us knew —
this crown would draw blood.
L’orso texts me at five.
I meet him in the main room near the elevator.
He’s wearing a completely black LV tuxedo — the same embossed pattern as my bodice.
“Oh no, L’orso. This is unfair.” I motion to his tux.
“You’re going to have to let me touch.”
He flashes a smile.
“Maybe.”
His eyes drag over me — deliberate.
“Is it everything you imagined?” I turn slowly.
“More. Let’s go.”
In the Cullinan, he types for a few minutes — then sets the phone down.
Face up. Between us.
Trust?
“Two things,” he says. “First — your gun.”
He holds out his hand.
“I didn’t bring one.”
“Emilia. There are metal detectors. Give it to me.”
“I didn’t bring it,” I insist.
“You asked me to trust you. Remember?”
He doesn’t need to know about the modified ice pick tucked into my cleavage.
If we need it — we’ll have it.
“I do,” he says, thoughtful.
“What’s the next thing?”
“The gala is neutral territory.”
“No—”
“He won’t be there. Banned from the MET. The rest of them — yes. He’ll be represented.”
“How could you?” I ask quietly.
“What?”
“A gala. Neutral territory. Ragossi.”
I swallow. “That’s my nightmare.”
“That’s why I’m telling you now,” he says simply. “Better than worry.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
Too distracted by the tux.
By him.
“You’re with me,” he says. “Not Michael. He won’t take what’s mine.”
Yeah.
Except for Hell’s Kitchen.
“I’ll trust you,” I say. “But I’m staying vigilant.”
I press my bodice — checking for the pick.
“What’s in your gown?”
“L’orso, please.”
“Give it.”
He checks his phone with one hand — twenty messages — then stills.
Waits.
I huff, pull the pick free, hand it over.
He shakes his head. “Stop doing this. I don’t want to frisk you every time I take you out.”
“I can act in my own defense.”
“The Alfonsi queen doesn’t need to bring heat to dinner.”
A glance.
“You’re with me. It’s all heat — all the time.”
“I’m acutely aware.”
The Cullinan stops.
“Wait.”
He nods to Raul, who steps out.
“They’ll ask why,” L’orso says. “I don’t care what we say — but we need to be aligned.”
“What do you suggest?”
He meets my eyes.
Pauses.
“Love.”
The word lands like a match in gasoline.
Slow burn.
Hot.
For half a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
He doesn’t look away.
“Lotta work,” I say finally.
“I’m committed to success.”
“Me too, babe.” I squeeze his hand.
His lip curls.
He runs his thumb over my engagement ring once —
—and slides us seamlessly out of the dark car.
The MET looms ahead — colossal, red, regal.
Dangerous.
He adjusts his tie.
I readjust the space left by my missing weapon.
“There will be more touching than usual,” he says, bored.
I nod, scanning the darkness to our right.
Already anticipating Ciro.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Same.”
The grand staircase is red-carpeted, swarming with photographers, models, politicians, gangsters.
L’orso guides us up the far right — avoiding the spotlight.
Until he doesn’t.
At the top, he pulls me into the most crowded section.
The mayhem swallows us.
It takes a moment — then they notice.
“L’orso Alfonsi! Is this your new bride?”
“Show us the ring!”
“Miss Monte — a photo!”
He looks down at me.
“The city wants you, Emilia.”
I roll my eyes — but he wraps an arm around my waist.
Low.
Spins me into him.
He glances at my hand.
Inclines his head.
Show them.
So I lift my hand and press it to his chest.
My blood sacrifice gleams — for the city.
And for him.
Inside, the décor is dramatic.
Paintings. Statues. Artifacts.
Terrible sight lines.
I’d never see Ciro coming.
We enter arm in arm.
Matching.
Alfonsi and Astronaut.
Ready for war.
A revolving door of people clamors for him —
Commissioner. Capo. District Attorney.
Someone who pretends to be a plumber.
And that actor from the new movie.
The hot one.
No matter who it is, L’orso stays in control.
And he’s always touching me.
He turns toward me.
I meet his eyes.
Nothing but a thug.
Bound for a violent end.
All blood and guns and terror.
Why does that make my heart flutter?
His hand finds my lower back.
We start for the bar — intercepted.
“Father,” he says, bored.
“L’orso.”
Lanzo’s eyes drop to my hand.
The ring gleams — a provocation.
“So you went through with it, Emilia. Even after our talk.”
I square my shoulders.
“We did.”
“There were better options for you, stellina.”
“I couldn’t live with any of your options.”
“And you think you’ll live through this?”
He sips his drink.
“I think this option gives me the most choice.”
I tilt my chin.
“Funny — it wasn’t on your list.”
His smile thins.
“You won’t lead from here. Take my offer or be crushed beneath it.”
“I don’t need power,” I say. “I need vengeance.”
“And she’ll have it,” L’orso cuts in.
“I’ll make sure of that.”
His hand tightens on my hip — promise and warning.
Lanzo scoffs. “A bear for your husband. Congratulations.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re making a mistake,” he tells L’orso.
L’orso tilts his head — first to his father, then to me.
“You done?”
Lanzo drains his glass.
“Yes.”
Pressure at my back.
We move on.
Soldiers everywhere.
Alfonsi. Ragossi.
Neutral territory.
Disarmed. Seething.
A powder keg.
Whispers trail us —
Wife. Ring. Ciro.
I swallow.
L’orso pulls me closer.
Instinctive. Protective.
Predatory.
“Come on, Mr. Alfonsi.”
I lead him through the crowd.
He lets me.
At the bar, he orders.
Then scans the room — calculating every threat.
A Ragossi defense attorney studies me like prey.
L’orso locks onto him.
The man smirks.
“Miss Monte cleans up well for Alfonsi.”
A beat.
“But I prefer her drenched in blood.”
L’orso stills.
Rises to full height.
The air turns sharp. Metallic.
“Consentino,” he growls — reaching for his gun.
Movement ripples — Alfonsi soldiers mirroring him.
I step between them.
Press my hand to his chest.
“Not here, husband,” I murmur.
“I’d hate blood on my dress.”
His eyes go black.
For a moment, I think he might kill me instead.
Then he blinks.
Breathes.
Downs his drink.
His hand returns to my waist — tighter.
He murmurs to a lieutenant.
And then we’re gone.
My drink forgotten.
His touch stays gentle.
His voice, razor-sharp.
“We need to talk.”
Straight line.
Outdoors.
The balcony is washed in perfume and night.
Only three stars in that ink-black sky.
Another reason to hate New York.
He steps to the railing — then turns on me.
“You shouldn’t have given me this ring.”
The words cut.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“They see how we are.”
His hand slices the air.
“I’m weaker with you.”
“You don’t know me.”
My voice shakes — but I don’t move.
“How can you assume you understand my strength?”
He grinds his teeth.
Looks up — asking heaven for patience.
He should be looking down.
“What is it, L’orso?”
Two steps close the distance.
Controlled. Deadly.
“They’ve been shaping your life in the dark, Emilia.”
His voice drops.
“But the way you are — with me — it’s meant for something else.”
He takes my hands.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have given me this ring,” he says quietly,
“because now I want to keep you.”
His fingers brush a strand of hair from my neck.
I search his eyes.
Hunger.
Ruin.
My heart slams.
He leans in — waiting.
I can’t think.
Can’t breathe.
I want this.
God help me.
Our lips meet — slow, deliberate.
An explosion disguised as grace.
His arms wrap around me, anchoring.
My hands slide up his chest.
He growls against my mouth.
Heat.
Chaos.
Clarity.
When he pulls back, it’s only by a breath.
“I want to offer you another deal.”
I nod. Can’t speak.
“Stay with me, Emmy.”
“Don’t go.”
“Rule beside me.”
My pulse thrums — warning and want.
I close my eyes —
breathe flowers, silk, smoke.
I’m not giving up NorStar.
But I’m not walking away from him either.
Not yet.
I meet his gaze.
“Will there be more of that?”
He licks an incisor — feral, amused.
“From what I understand — yes.”
I laugh softly.
“In that case, I’ll consider it.”
He straightens his jacket.
“We should head back in before someone comes looking.”
I can’t tell if he’s satisfied with my answer, but he slides an arm around me and leads us inside.
The first course is already being served.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“It won’t be nearly as good as what you’re accustomed to.”
“I’m sure — especially since you’re keeping to that Michelin-star diet.”
His hand moves slowly up and down my arm.
“This won’t be similar.”
“Then have her cook at home.” I look up at him.
“Sitting still is dangerous for us.”
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Already whispering to the Don.”
His breath warms my ear as he pulls out my chair.
As L’orso sits, I scan the room.
No Ciro.
Mason’s across from us with his latest —
Isadora Beatriz Carvalho Monteiro.
He calls her Izzie B., with that smug tone that makes me want to stab something.
To Mason’s right sits Vincenzo.
An empty seat beside him.
“He’s not here, Emilia,” L’orso says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
“Let’s hope.”
I wave. “Hey, Mace. Iz.”
“What’s up, Em? Having a good time?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful.”
“Won’t get this in space,” he jokes.
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes.
He’s aligned with L’orso.
Even unknowingly.
“I forgot you have obligations to NASA, Mrs. Alfonsi,” Vincenzo says, eyes lowered.
“Call the office if you want it scrubbed.”
I turn to L’orso.
“Are you trying to convince me?”
He shakes his head. “Later.”
A waiter serves the next course.
While everyone tastes, I keep scanning.
“Are you serious?” L’orso murmurs beside me.
Busted.
I smile —
but my comeback dies in my throat.
The room explodes.
Gunfire.
A flash.
A roar.
Smoke curling through perfume and panic.
A full second of silence.
Then screaming.
And over it —
that voice from my nightmares.
“EMILIA!”
My spine locks.
Breath fractures.
I reach for my gun —
It’s gone.
Fucking L’orso.
He’s calm — of course he is —
directing Alfonsis, steering me toward the far doors.
Away from Ciro’s voice.
“Face it, you fucked up. Give me a gun.”
He ignores me.
“Raul — truck. Now.”
Then, softer:
“I have it under control.”
Mars will throw worse.
I’m not running from this either.
He signals again — one hand firm on my back.
He doesn’t see it coming.
I grab the gun from his right-side holster —
and run.
Back toward the nightmare.
“EMILIA!” L’orso shouts, lunging.
I slip away.
Ciro disappears into a side room.
I follow — heart hammering, heels biting marble.
He’s waiting.
“Oh, baby girl,” he purrs. “Look at you.”
A feral grin.
“You look delicious.”
He steps closer.
I raise the gun.
“Stay where you are.”
He laughs.
“Oh, please. I should be pointing that at you.
I can’t believe you married him.”
He lunges.
The blast deafens.
His shoulder snaps back — blood blooming through his jacket.
He stumbles.
Doesn’t stop.
He closes the distance —
grabs my face, fingers digging into my cheek.
His ring scrapes bone.
I cock the gun again, but his good hand clamps my wrist.
“Fuck you, Ciro.”
He chuckles — too close.
“I’m going to kill you slow, Emmy.”
His breath mixes with mine.
I slam my knee into his groin.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars.
He releases my face —
then his fingers close around my throat.
Pressure.
Stars burst behind my eyes.
My finger spasms.
The recoil tears through us both.
Heat sears across my side.
The gun drops.
Smoke curls between us.
Blood spills —
his.
mine.
both.
My knees give out.
I can barely breathe.
“He’s going to kill you.”
The words leak out — barely sound.
Before the dark takes me, I spit in his horrified face.
Then everything goes black.
L’orso
She hits the floor —
and I feel it in my ribs.
At the doorway, Ciro’s bent over her, trying to lift her.
His shoulder is ruined.
He drops her.
Good.
I aim.
The shot cracks bone.
His other shoulder bursts red.
He screams, spinning, crashing into a display case.
Five strides and I’m on him.
A kick to the ribs.
Another.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Then do it,” he spits — blood on his teeth.
My oldest enemy.
Begging.
I reach for my right-side gun —
Gone.
Emilia.
I drive my shoe into his chest once more.
Leave him gasping.
Then I’m on my knees beside her.
Hands hovering.
Blood soaks the gown I bought her —
a red crescent blooming at her side.
“Come on,” I whisper, pressing into the wound.
I tear off my coat and hold it there.
Hard.
“Stay with me, Emmy.”
She stirs — barely.
Eyes flutter.
That’s enough.
If she moves, she lives.
I lift her.
She’s too light.
Her head falls against my chest.
Outside, Raul has a Ragossi cousin at gunpoint.
I don’t care.
One focus.
Emilia.
