Wednesday, 9:02 a.m.
Location: Ricci Laundromat – Front Counter
The cops showed up before I'd even had my coffee.
Not just any cops—local ones. Which, in Mafia Central, is somehow worse than the FBI. At least the Bureau wears suits and pretends to be professional. Local uniforms just stroll in like they own the place, noses wrinkling at the bleach smell and the hum of thirty dryers running at once.
Bo froze behind the counter, clutching a receipt like it was going to protect him. Greta, our manager, didn't even blink. She sat in her stool, filing her nails, like two armed officers demanding entry was just another boring Wednesday.
I was halfway to the back office when one of them spotted me.
"You. Stop right there."
My stomach dropped. Beta invisibility usually works. Not today.
"Yes, officer?" I asked, trying to sound like I worked at a library and not a Ricci front.
He gestured at the back. "We got a tip you're running illegal operations out of this location. We're searching the premises."
Greta let out the longest sigh I've ever heard. "You got a warrant, honey?"
The second cop smirked and slapped a folded paper onto the counter. "Signed this morning."
Bo leaned over, squinting. "That font looks fake—"
I kicked him under the counter. Hard.
"Of course," I said quickly. "Feel free to look around."
The first cop narrowed his eyes. "What's your name?"
"Roach," I said without blinking. "Sophina Roach."
Greta snorted. "That's my niece," she added lazily, filing another nail. "Comes in sometimes to help with the restock and cleaning."
They didn't look convinced. One officer motioned for the other to start searching.
Greta shot me a look, sharp under her mascara. Go.
I slipped into the back office as quietly as possible, heart pounding. The "books" were spread across the desk: a stack of clean ledgers, one decoy binder full of fake expenses, and the actual log—a leather journal with coded shipments that would absolutely ruin us if they found it.
I shoved the real log into the false-bottom drawer and pulled out the decoy just as the first cop shoved the door open.
"What're you doing?"
I looked up, eyes wide. "Homework?"
He squinted at me. "Funny."
He stepped further in, glancing around. His gaze lingered on the dryers, the extra soap drums, the stack of neatly folded towels. Nothing illegal. Nothing suspicious. Just a laundromat.
Then—bang. Something metal clattered in the hallway. Bo yelped.
The cop stormed out to check. I exhaled shakily and sank into the chair.
Greta was right. This wasn't random.
Someone tipped them.
The metallic clatter echoed again, followed by Bo's panicked voice:
"I swear it was just a bucket! Please don't arrest me for gravity!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. He was many things—loyal, loud, occasionally useful—but subtle was not one of them.
Through the cracked door, I saw the first cop storm into the hallway while his partner yanked open machines at random. Socks, towels, and one sad-looking bra hit the floor. No contraband. No hidden compartments. Just laundry.
Greta hadn't moved from her stool. She filed another nail, blowing dust off like this was a manicure appointment and not a shakedown.
"You done?" she asked coolly.
The younger cop slammed a dryer shut, muttering, "Someone tipped us. Said this place was more than a laundromat."
Greta's smirk could've sliced steel. "Well, someone's got a vivid imagination. Maybe you should spend less time on YouTube."
The cop's jaw tightened. He looked at me through the doorway. "What about her? She looks nervous."
I forced a laugh, holding up my bag. "Homework. Finals can be Terrifying."
He stepped closer, eyes scanning the desk. For a second, I thought he could smell the real ledger hidden in the false-bottom drawer.
"Mm-hm," he said finally, not buying it but not finding anything either.
Then his radio crackled. A sharp, garbled voice:
"Unit 12, you're clear. Wrap it up."
Clear?
He exchanged a look with his partner. No arrests. No citations. Just like that, they holstered their bravado and turned toward the door.
"Apologies for the inconvenience," the older one said flatly. "Routine inspection."
Routine inspection my ass.
They left without another word, boots echoing against the tile. The bell above the laundromat door jingled like this was just another customer, not a staged raid.
Bo peeked around the hallway corner, pale and sweaty. "Do… do I still have a job?"
Greta snapped her nail file shut and finally looked at me, her painted smile gone. "They weren't looking for evidence," she said quietly. "They were sending a message."
My throat went dry. "From who?"
Greta shrugged. "Could be rivals. Could be the cops themselves. Either way—" her gaze cut sharp at me "—this family's got a leak."
Her words lodged in my chest like a splinter. A leak.
I didn't answer. Just nodded like I understood, even though my brain was sprinting through suspects at Olympic speed. Employees? Associates? One of my own siblings?
Or worse—me, somehow, without even knowing it?
I stepped outside for air, the city heat sticking to my skin, the faint smell of detergent clinging to my clothes. My head was buzzing with numbers, names, the ledger I'd hidden seconds before.
Then I froze.
Across the street, perched on the hood of a car with a ring light clamped to her phone like a halo from hell—Emma Dante.
Platinum blonde, oversized sunglasses, perfect waves, holding a smoothie she probably bought just for the aesthetic. And next to her? Two of her giggling Omega sidekicks, acting like unpaid production assistants.
She tilted the camera dramatically toward the laundromat sign.
"Today's vlog," she said loudly enough for the sidewalk to hear, "exposing the weirdest laundromat in Mafia Central. Like, who even goes here? Stay tuned."
Her friend squealed and waved behind her.
I groaned so hard I think my soul left my body.
A leak? Please. Who needed traitors when I had Emma freaking Dante live-streaming my front door for clout?
Emma's laugh carried across the street, high and plastic, the kind of sound that only existed for the microphone. She waved her smoothie around like it was a microphone too, and one of her friends whispered loudly,
"Say the line, Emma!"
Emma flipped her hair, struck a pose, and chirped:
"Mafia Central is full of dirty secrets, and I'm here to clean them out—no spin cycle required."
Her friend lost it.
I wanted to scream. Or throw a detergent bottle at her. Or both.
But instead, I slipped quietly toward the back door. Let her have her footage. The more attention she dragged onto herself, the less anyone looked at me.
The alley was quiet, just the hum of dumpsters and the faint buzz of a cicada choir.
And then—whirr.
A bike wheel spun into my peripheral.
Liam Connolly leaned casually against the brick wall, one hand on the handlebars of a matte-black motor bike like this was his normal commute route and not the back exit of a Ricci front business.
"Need a ride?" he asked.
I blinked. "What—are you stalking me now?"
He grinned. "Don't flatter yourself. I was just… passing by."
"On a school night? In Mafia Central?"
He tilted his head, lips twitching like he was hiding some private joke. "It beats walking, Ricci."
I should've said no. Should've turned around, marched back inside, dealt with Emma's ring-light circus instead of climbing onto the back of a rival Alpha's bike.
But then I thought about the long walk home. About Emma's camera maybe catching me if I circled back to the street. About how my brain was already fried from cops, ledgers, and Greta whispering the word leak.