Season 1 Chapter 4
Occam's Razor
Estimated reading time:6m read
Emilia
Chapter text
Emilia
I hear Mason’s heavy steps pounding up the stairs.
Two at a time.
I finish stenciling my lip liner and start the fill.
A fight with Mason is exactly the warm-up I need before facing his Boss.
The bedroom door slams open — ricochets off the wall.
A beat later, he’s in the closet doorway.
“Is this a fucking prank?” he spits.
I cap the liner.
Then look at him.
“What are you talking about?”
He crosses his arms.
“Where are you going in a Gucci dress and Fendi heels?”
He’s trying to look composed.
Fails.
“On a date.” I smile. “Do I look okay?”
He looks like he’s about to rupture something.
“NO.”
“Ew. Rude. Get out.”
“EMILIA.” He grinds the word. “You’re not going out with L’orso.”
Poor Mason.
The whole point is for him to believe it’s real.
Still — the worry.
The protectiveness.
It hits anyway.
“It’s just dinner. It’s not like I’m marrying him.”
…oh.
Shit.
“You do realize he’s going to kill you, right?” He starts pacing, rubbing his cropped hair.
“Really? At your restaurant? With witnesses and press? Be serious.”
I sigh.
“He’s not going to kill me tonight.”
I meet his eyes.
“I think he likes me.”
“Not possible. Is this a Mars thing? You need to get laid before launch?”
“We are distinctly different species, Mason. Gross.”
He groans.
“Why did I even come in here?”
“Don’t know. Can I get ready?”
“Fine. Just don’t eat anything he gives you. And don’t flirt. We both know that’s what got us here.”
“Look, Mace — if you still want that Capo promotion, maybe don’t publicly challenge the guy you want to work for.”
“Oh, Emilia with the sage advice. Incredible. Brilliant. Revolutionary.”
“Let me know when he gets here.”
“He’s here.”
“What?” I freeze. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“You’re ready. Who cares?”
I glare.
“Dammit. Tell him I’ll be down in two minutes. Apologize for me.”
“Nope.”
He’s already walking out.
“I swear if this ends up in the news…”
I am ready.
But I am not showing up early to my first fake date with Mr. Alfonsi.
So I scroll through spaceship operating procedures until ten minutes pass.
Then —
Shit.
I bolt for the stairs.
Breathe.
Kill the nerves.
Descend.
At the bottom, L’orso stands — phone in hand, jaw locked.
Thumb moving fast.
Expression like violence barely leashed.
Black Louis Vuitton suit.
Black jewelry.
All edges and empire.
My heart kicks.
I shove it down.
He looks up —
pockets the phone,
meets me at the last stair.
Mason watches from the sitting room like a nosy gargoyle.
L’orso offers his hand to help me step down.
Old-world.
Ridiculous.
Effective.
When our fingers touch —
my chest tightens.
He drops my hand immediately.
He felt it too.
I reset my face.
“You look stunning,” he says.
Tone sharp.
A blade compliment.
So yes — brute. Always.
“What about you?” I ask softly.
“I love how Louis cuts a suit.”
I brush a hand along his lapel.
His eyes widen — the faintest shake of his head.
Warning.
Received.
He hovers a hand near the small of my back.
Claiming without contact.
And leads me outside.
The SUV interior is luxury.
And weapons.
Of course.
“Miss Monte, this is Raul,” he says, already scrolling again. “Guard and driver.”
“Miss Monte.”
“Nice to meet you, Raul.”
Silence wraps the drive.
Taut.
Intentional.
Basil appears — beautiful, massive, circular.
Mason’s empire.
Pride blooms sharp in my chest.
We bypass the line.
Inside, staff scramble.
“Good evening, Mr. Alfonsi. Upper balcony.”
He says nothing.
He doesn’t need to.
The elevator ride is silent.
Heavy.
But the balcony view — sweeping over the restaurant and kitchen —
is pure power play.
He pulls my chair.
Stiff.
Careful.
The effort makes something inside me ache.
“It’s so nice,” I whisper.
A Manhattan arrives.
Perfect.
I look at him.
His phone is back in his hand.
“Are you planning on putting that away, or…?”
His jaw flexes —
then he turns the screen face-down.
“I heard you weren’t any good at talking to women.”
“That’s a lie. I’m exceptional. When they’re bleeding.”
“So you are a woman killer.”
“I kill to match the need.”
“Ever killed an astronaut?”
I smile.
His eyes slit.
“Not yet. Though I’ve recently had the opportunity.”
“And?”
“It’s been a masterclass in restraint.”
“It really has.” I tilt my head. “Wonder how the Old Bosses would feel about a dead wife.”
“I’ll let you know once you make it to Mars.”
“They’ll make you marry again.”
He stills.
Voice low.
“I need the sacrament. I will have it.”
“So marry someone else and kill her. Simple.”
“Exactly. But you’re killing yourself. Occam’s Razor.”
Heat.
All heat.
Then —
Business.
“We need to look convincing,” he says. “Details.”
“Sure.”
“Aside from Ciro — any intimate relationships?”
Heat spikes.
“I didn’t date Ciro.”
“But he was in love with you.”
“So is my guard. Who cares?”
A flick in his eyes.
Barely — but there.
“Nico Rossi,” he says.
Too quick.
Too sharp.
“Stop. He’s a teenager with a crush. Irrelevant.”
“And Michael?”
The name is a knife.
Tears flash hot —
I crush them down.
“That was intimate, yes.”
“Lasting feelings?”
“He was shot in the face in front of me. So horror — yes. Love — no.”
A beat.
Then I strike back.
“And you? Should I expect an Italian heiress crawling out of the shadows?”
“Women are distractions.”
“And your focus — power? Revenge?”
His gaze pins mine.
Unblinking.
“You.”
Heat.
So sharp it’s nauseating.
“Don’t worry,” I say lightly. “It’s probably just a crush. They dissolve.”
He inhales to respond —
but the waitress arrives.
Food.
God.
Prosciutto figs.
Heaven in a bite.
“Should I be worried this is poisoned?” I ask.
“Why would I poison you, Emilia? I need you.”
I swallow.
Wrong meaning.
Correct effect.
“Tell me about NorStar,” he says once the plates clear.
“It’s confidential.”
“I’m your husband. There are laws.”
“Oh? Weird. My left hand feels very light.”
A ghost of a smile.
Gone fast.
We move through courses —
pasta, wine, warmth.
I let myself soften for one second.
Then —
“Hand me your gun.”
My heart kicks.
“I’m not armed.”
“You are. Left thigh holster.”
Of course he knows.
I slide my dress up beneath the table.
Slow.
Controlled.
Sensual only because we both understand it.
His eyes go dark.
I hand him the weapon.
He thumbs it once —
then tucks it into his waistband.
Dessert arrives.
Every dessert is my favorite.
He knows too much.
“I think it’s your turn,” I say, biting into a zeppole.
His eyes devour.
But his voice stays flat.
“Lanzo has plans for you.”
Cold runs through me.
“You disagree?”
“One hundred fucking percent.”
“What plans?”
He goes still — like a wire pulled too tight.
“You haven’t been told?”
“No. And it’s my life. I deserve to know.”
“What — you want me to stop them?”
“I want to know what I’m walking into.”
“You’re marrying me. Step one. Play the role.”
“We’ve established I don’t trust you.”
“Yes.” He exhales. “Deep cut.”
“How?”
“Act like it’s real.”
I laugh.
“Dangerous game. Will you be playing?”
“Definitely.”
The intensity strangles.
Then his phone buzzes.
Reality fractures the moment.
He stands.
“Shall we?”
The elevator ride down is suffocating.
Outside —
he puts his hand on my waist.
Adjusting.
Positioning.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting it just right.”
He leans closer.
Flash.
A photographer.
Of course.
“You did this!” I shove him.
“Mhmm.”
He doesn’t look at me.
He looks at the camera.
Image.
Claim.
War.
And then my blood turns to ice.
“Oh — fuck.”
Because Ciro is going to see this.
Not rumor.
Not gossip.
Proof.
My breath stutters.
L’orso’s hand tightens at my waist.
Guiding me toward the SUV.
Unbothered.
But I know better.
Ciro is already on his way.
And I am already dead.
