Season 1 Chapter 2
No Oath, No Blood
Estimated reading time:4m read
Emilia
Chapter text
Emilia
Light glints off his black pistol grips.
I adapt. Reset.
If L’orso means to intimidate me —
he’ll have to try much harder.
He’s deadly hot.
But I didn’t come here to break.
He leans back, buttons his jacket, flips open the thick red file.
My file.
On top: me in a NorStar flight suit, chin tipped toward the stars.
My entire life, in his hands.
“Name.”
Not a question. A command.
“Monte. Emilia. S.”
He skims the pages.
“Your file is thick for someone I don’t know.”
I flash him a smile.
“Guess you missed me in my prime.”
His gaze lifts — sharp annoyance.
“This reads unfinished.”
He flips to a section I know too well.
I look away.
“Oh no,” I say evenly. “Maybe you missed something. I’m finished with New York.”
He doesn’t bite.
Steeples his fingers.
Shouldn’t be hot.
Totally is.
“On to Mars,” he mocks. “If I believe the NorStar records.”
I clamp my jaw.
Mafia men and their views of women are eternal.
It irritates me enough that I forget not to poke the bear.
“I’d believe them if I were you — wouldn’t want to be caught off guard by her.”
His jaw flexes. Twice.
“Miss Monte, I am never off guard.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I whisper, adjusting my heel.
His eyes track the movement.
I shift in my chair — a fraction.
“The point is — my NorStar records are accurate.”
“Mhm.” He flips another page. “And Ciro?”
Just the name jolts my spine.
“What about him?” I manage.
“You had an interlude.”
“That what you call it?”
A smirk — quick, cruel, devastating.
“Incident.”
“Check the reports,” I mutter. “They’re thorough.”
He studies me.
“Why you? Of all Alfonsis.”
I lock on his gaze.
His eyebrows tighten.
“I am special,” I say slowly.
His breathing changes.
“At least that’s what he said. It’s in the file.”
I break eye contact.
Feel the dead man’s chair under me.
“You met at a gala?”
“Yes. Neutral territory. He approached me. I showed my phone case — an Alfonsi crest. He got mad. Wanted to see my scar.”
Blood rushes.
The office tilts.
Lanzo’s voice claws up from memory — stone and unyielding.
For now, Stellina… I will hold your oaths.
I blink.
“What?” L’orso asks, watching me.
“He wanted to see my mark.”
“Right. But you don’t have one.”
A pause.
“You aren’t actually an Alfonsi.”
Air drains from my lungs.
“What? No. I’m Alfonsi. I was born Alfonsi. I’ve bled—”
“No oath, no blood.”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious.
Lanzo cut his own palm and pressed it to mine — marking himself and binding my promise.
He holds my oaths in his fist.
That’s why I bear no mark.
L’orso doesn’t know about his father’s vow.
Doesn’t know my loyalty is hidden under Lanzo’s thumb.
“You don’t know what oaths I’ve taken,” I say quietly.
He tilts his head — testing me.
Pen poised.
“One to Ciro then?”
The fire in me roars.
“Mr. Alfonsi, I’ve trained for years to kill Ciro in any situation. Do not confuse me with Ragossi trash.”
He watches too long.
I don’t flinch.
He opens the file to a blank page.
Pen ready.
“What oaths have you taken?”
“Three. All Alfonsi — ages six, eighteen, twenty-one.”
“Scar?”
“My Boss took them for me.”
His head jerks; eyes narrow.
Something cracks between us — something big.
“Why are you here?”
“Six-month shore leave. My family dragged me back.”
“Lanzo or Gino?”
“Gino.”
His chair creaks as he leans back.
Throat tattoo — a small eye — half visible.
My stomach flutters.
“I think it’s time for you to take the oath yourself.”
“If I do,” I say, “Ciro will come.”
The chair cracks as he snaps forward.
“Let him. I’ll flay him alive.”
The image hits my bloodstream.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Say it slower.”
Shit.
He heard me.
He definitely heard me.
He’s staring now — like he sees everything.
I center myself.
Calm. Don’t drop your gaze.
His jaw tics.
“Take the oath,” he says, voice low, hoarse.
I stand.
So does he.
It’s gentlemanly.
Wrong.
Throws me off balance.
“I’ll take your stupid oath — but not today. Not like this.”
I turn to leave.
Bold. Stupid. Alive.
“What makes you think I’ll let you go?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” I say over my shoulder.
“But I suspect you’re not him.”
He exhales — dangerous.
Frustrated.
Turned on.
“I’m holding you to it, Miss Monte. I’ll be at the brownstone tomorrow.”
I pause at the door.
He’s still standing — arms crossed, eyes like fire.
“I’ll be ready,” I say.
He nods once — a quiet, terrible claim.
The room is still turning as I leave.
