Tuesday, 5:41 p.m.
Location: Ricci Pizza – Front Counter (Now Featuring Hidden Panic)
Rule #47 of surviving life as a secret mafia Beta:
Never underestimate a YouTuber with a ring light and a grudge.
Which is exactly what I told myself while rearranging a display of garlic knots at the front counter and trying very, very hard not to notice the vlogger outside pointing a camera straight at the neon Ricci Pizza sign.
I didn't even need to see his face.
I knew that posture.
That dramatic lean.
That "I'm here to uncover the truth using nothing but vibes and bad lighting" stance.
Midas Montgomery.
The older brother. The one with the conspiracy thumbnails and the smug voiceover edits.
And, naturally, standing next to him in head-to-toe faux leather with a foam latte and her phone held higher than her dignity—Emma.
I ducked behind the register.
"Bo," I hissed. "Tell me you locked the back door."
Bo, currently in the kitchen filming a TikTok about mozzarella stretching, looked up and blinked. "I… didn't know we had a back door."
I dragged my hands down my face.
Noah appeared out of nowhere, holding two boxes of pizza and looking wildly confused. "Are we being robbed?"
"No," I said. "Worse. We're being documented."
Outside, Midas panned across the windows with slow, sweeping drama, like he expected us to be cutting bricks of cocaine on the salad bar.
"I swear he's doing a voiceover in real time," I muttered.
"Can I wave at the camera?" Bo asked.
"No," Noah and I said in perfect unison.
Emma suddenly stopped mid-strut and turned her phone directly toward the front door. "Here we go," I whispered.
She opened it like she owned the place.
The bell dinged.
"Hi," she said, flipping her hair like a weapon. "Table for two. Oh—unless it's dangerous to sit near the kitchen."
Bo blinked. "Are you wearing sunglasses inside… at dusk?"
Emma ignored him.
Midas stepped forward, scanning the shop like it personally offended him.
"Hey there," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mind if we ask a few questions for a local documentary?"
Noah, standing next to me like a confused bodyguard, said, "You need a filming permit for that."
Midas turned. "Do I?"
Noah blinked. "...I don't know. But it sounded authoritative, right?"
I stepped out from behind the counter.
"We're actually booked for the next few hours," I said. "Big catering event. Community outreach. Voted third-best crust in Mafia Central."
Emma narrowed her eyes. "You're awfully chipper for someone being investigated on the internet."
I smiled with teeth. "You're awfully confident for someone with 18k followers and no real monetization."
Bo gasped. "She went there."
Emma blinked.
Midas, undeterred, pulled out his DSLR. "Just a few photos then. Public-facing business. Nothing illegal."
I turned to Noah. "Do it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Now?"
"Now."
Noah slowly—dramatically—unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a vintage Ricci Pizza tee clinging to his Alpha frame like it was made for this exact moment.
Then he struck a pose.
Head tilt. Jawline. Arms crossed. Flash of bicep.
All of it set perfectly in front of the glowing pizza oven behind him.
Bo started playing a remixed version of That's Amore on his phone.
I caught Emma's phone wobble as she reflexively angled it to frame Noah better.
Midas, distracted, actually lowered the camera a few inches.
I smiled, full Beta menace.
"Can I offer you a complimentary garlic knot while you recalibrate your journalistic integrity?"
Emma blinked, briefly caught off guard.
"No thanks," she said, sharp again. "I don't eat carbs when I'm focused."
"Pity," I said sweetly. "They're shaped like truth bombs."
She turned on her heel.
Midas followed, still filming.
They left in silence.
The bell dinged behind them.
I turned to Noah. "You are now officially our thirst trap decoy."
He looked proud. "Do I get a raise?"
Now with Sophia dropping a truth bomb about Izzy, and offering something much more valuable than a paycheck.
He looked proud. "Do I get a raise?"
I snorted. "No. But I'll help you try to get the girl."
Noah blinked, startled. "Wait. Really?"
"Sure," I said, brushing flour off my apron. "I mean, I owe you. That whole pose thing? Iconic. The internet will be thirsting over you by midnight."
He grinned. "So you'll help me with Izzy?"
I paused.
Then I sighed. "Noah… she likes someone else."
The grin faltered. "Wait. What?"
I didn't say anything at first.
He blinked. "Who?"
I gave him a look.
Realization dawned slowly, painfully.
"No," he said. "No-no-no. Not you."
I held up both hands. "Trust me—I didn't ask for it."
He stared at the garlic knots like they had betrayed him personally. "She's into you?"
"I said someone else. You said me. That's on you."
His shoulders slumped. "But… I'm an Alpha."
"And I'm a Beta. Welcome to the apocalypse."
He groaned and leaned dramatically on the counter. "This is worse than the time I got hit by a bike messenger carrying soup."
I patted his arm. "Don't worry. We'll spin it. We'll get you a glow-up arc. Girls love emotional devastation."
He peeked up at me. "You really think I have a shot?"
"No," I said. "But you'll look hot trying."
He laughed, a little too sadly.
I handed him a garlic knot.
"Eat your feelings, lover boy."
"Eat your feelings, lover boy."
Noah took the garlic knot like it was his final meal. "I will."
Then he paused. "Wait… how many of these do we have?"
Bo peeked out of the kitchen. "Just made a fresh tray."
Noah sat up straighter. "How many do you think I could eat in one sitting?"
I tilted my head. "Like… without dying?"
"Without dying or crying."
Bo leaned in. "Twelve."
"Fifteen," I said.
Noah puffed his chest. "Twenty. Easy."
That's when it hit me.The dumbest, most brilliant, possibly-questionably-legal idea I'd had all week.
I turned to the tip jar—a ridiculous ceramic pig we keep on the counter that says "LEAVE A TIP OR WE TELL NONNA" in glitter paint.
"Okay," I said. "New Ricci Pizza house challenge."
Bo gasped. "A what?"
I held up the knot basket dramatically. "Anyone who beats Noah's garlic knot record gets to rob the pig."
Bo clutched his phone. "For TikTok?"
"For everything. We'll film it. Post it. Hashtag it. Call it the Ricci Knotdown."
Noah's eyes lit up. "Wait—I'm the first contestant?"
"You're the standard everyone else has to beat."
Bo was already pulling up our business account. "Can we make a leaderboard? I want graphics. Flames. Maybe a song."
"If they lose," I added, "they have to leave a five-dollar tip and sing an apology to Nonna in front of the oven."
Noah held up two knots like boxing gloves. "Let's go."
I pulled out my phone, flipped it to camera mode, and said, "Okay, internet. Meet Noah Grant: heartbreak survivor, soft-hearted Alpha, and unofficial Garlic Knot King. If you can out-eat him, you win the tip piggy bank. If not, you go down in salty, buttery shame."
Bo cheered.
Noah popped the first knot in his mouth and nearly choked on victory.
It was chaotic. It was ridiculous. It was wildly off-brand.
Which meant it was exactly what we needed.