Tuesday, 9:27 p.m.
Location: Ricci Compound – Upstairs Office (a.k.a. Sibling Fight Club)
Here's the thing about Alpha siblings:
They don't argue. They declare war in waves of passive-aggressive subtweets and real-aggressive property damage.
And tonight was no exception.
I walked into the upstairs office to find Marco yelling at Frankie while Vince stood between them like a mediator in a court case no one asked for.
"I said stay the hell off TikTok with our business!" Marco shouted, pacing like a linebacker with a vendetta.
Frankie, seated behind the desk in her influencer-pink blazer and perfectly highlighted rage, calmly sipped from her pregnancy-safe protein shake.
"You're welcome, by the way," she said. "We were getting slaughtered in the algorithm before my garlic knot content dropped. Now we're trending."
"We're trending because you're filming laundered money in the background!"
Frankie waved a hand. "Allegedly laundered. The internet doesn't care. It thinks we're a family-run, mafia-themed bakery. It's adorable."
"It's reckless." Marco turned to Vince. "Back me up."
Vince sighed, rubbing his temples. "She's not wrong, Marco. Public perception gives us cover. If people are laughing, they're not snitching."
I cleared my throat.
They all turned to look at me like I was the guidance counselor in charge of their emotional damage.
"Hi," I said. "Just dropping off some ledgers, a garlic knot leaderboard, and the news that our tip jar promo made it to local foodie TikTok. You're welcome."
Frankie lit up. "Wait, for real?"
"Front page of #BreadTok. Noah's officially a micro-celebrity."
Marco groaned.
Frankie fist-pumped.
Vince pinched the bridge of his nose harder.
I dropped the notebook on the desk and crossed my arms. "Look, this works. People are obsessed with mob aesthetics. They think we're characters, not criminals. Let's use that."
Marco muttered something that sounded like "you're all insane," and stormed out.
Frankie smirked. "Is it bad that I kind of like him angry?"
"Only if you're trying to conceive out of spite."
Her smirk faded for a second—just a flicker—and I regretted the joke.
She tapped her protein shake. "This stuff tastes like regret and baby powder."
Vince handed her a file. "Your fertility specialist called. Appointment moved to Thursday."
She didn't respond. Just nodded and scrolled her phone like none of it mattered.
But I saw the tightness in her jaw.
Alphas don't admit when something scares them. They weaponize it, glamorize it, or bury it in a TikTok.
Frankie did all three.
I opened the garlic knot spreadsheet to distract myself.
"We're up thirty-two percent in foot traffic," I said. "Bo says we had three customers try the challenge just today."
"And no one's won?" Vince asked.
"Not even close. One guy tapped out at four knots and cried into the marinara."
Frankie smiled weakly. "At least we're good at something."
Frankie smiled weakly. "At least we're good at something."
"Some of us more than others," I said, sliding into the chair across from Vince and flipping open my ledger. "Speaking of: we're running a day behind on the dry goods shipment from the motel, and someone at the pawn shop mislabeled the cash drop again—this time as a 'charity donation box.'"
Vince looked up sharply. "Which location?"
"North Jefferson. Greta's shift. I think she's just tired. Or giving up."
He leaned back, jaw tight. "We need to rotate her out. She's clean, but sloppiness gets noticed."
"Already logged a sub in the rotation spreadsheet," I said, tapping my pen. "Also, the supply truck to the pizza shop is carrying too much product for what we're actually reporting in sales. If we don't adjust soon, it'll flag someone's algorithm."
Frankie raised an eyebrow. "What kind of algorithm?"
"The kind run by the IRS. And the kind run by the other families."
Vince looked mildly impressed. "How fast did you pull all this?"
I shrugged. "Started reconciling after lunch. Finished during garlic knot challenge prep. Adrenaline helps."
Frankie let out a low whistle. "I know you didn't ask to be part of this, Soph, but damn. You're really built for it."
I snorted. "Yeah, if by 'built' you mean emotionally stunted and spreadsheet fluent."
Vince didn't laugh. He never does. He just glanced at the clock and slid a slim folder toward me across the desk.
"I've got a 10:30 I need to close," he said. "You free to walk me through these numbers before I go?"
I took the folder, flipped it open, and scanned the first sheet.
Not labeled, of course. Just a clean grid of units, weights, payment terms, and three-letter location codes only we understood. A Ricci classic.
"How many crates?" I asked.
"Eight total. Half marked for inbound to the docks, the rest ride out east through Joliet."
"Buyers confirmed?"
He nodded. "One of them's recurring. The other's new—got looped in through Frankie's wedding planner circuit, believe it or not."
I raised an eyebrow. "That florist connection finally paid off?"
"Apparently, peonies and private firepower go together now."
I flipped to the second page. "You're light by three points on the Joliet markup."
"Intentional. First-timer. I want him to like us before he knows what we cost."
I scribbled a quick adjustment in the margin. "You're still cutting it close on margin. Gas isn't cheap."
"I'm not losing money," he said. "I'm buying loyalty."
I closed the folder and handed it back. "You always say that."
"Because it works."
Vince stood, smoothing out his shirt sleeves. Sharp. Quiet. The only Alpha I know who can look like he's heading to a legal deposition when he's actually moving enough heat to start a civil war.
"I'll text you if the new guy wants to renegotiate. You'll handle the numbers?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'll mask it under catering contracts."
His mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"Stay sharp, Soph."
"Always."
He left without another word, and I was alone in the office.
Just me, the ledger, and the creeping knowledge that I was now helping my brother move literal weapons to people who ordered them like Uber Eats.