Wednesday, 9:52 p.m.
Location: The Ricci Compound, Driveway — Spotlight Zone
Marco reached me first, face red, fists clenched like he'd just sprinted off a football field instead of the front porch.
"What the hell was that, Soph?" he barked. "You roll up on a Connolly's bike like it's Uber Moto?!"
I lifted my hands, palms out. "Relax. It was just a ride home. Not a drive-by wedding proposal."
Frankie brushed past him, her TikTok-queen energy dimmed under the porch light. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, her jaw locked. And under all that Alpha tension, I noticed something softer—tiredness. Maybe from the fertility treatments. Maybe from carrying too many secrets at once.
"Do you even realize how this looks?" Frankie's voice was low, sharp. "To the neighbors. To the FBI, who already have cameras in half the street. To our enemies."
Marco jabbed a finger toward the road Liam disappeared down. "He's a Connolly! Declan's little brother! The same Declan who'd skin us alive if he thought we breathed wrong!"
"Technically," I said, crossing my arms, "Declan would probably have someone else skin us alive. Delegation's important in leadership."
"Don't get smart with me," Marco snapped.
"Then stop making it too easy."
Frankie pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sophia, why? Why him?"
I threw my head back and groaned. "It wasn't him, okay? It was a motorbike. And me not wanting to walk home in the dark while Emma Dante livestreamed outside the laundromat about how 'sketchy' we are."
Frankie froze. "Emma was there?"
"Ring light, smoothie, the whole influencer starter pack."
Marco swore, loud enough that Greta probably heard from her motel. "She's dangerous. Not Connolly dangerous, but… viral dangerous."
Frankie turned back to me, her Alpha calm settling in again. "Soph, you can't keep slipping into things like this. A Connolly bike ride, Emma filming outside a front… one wrong clip, one wrong angle, and we're cooked."
I chewed my lip. For once, I didn't have a snarky comeback.
Because she was right.
They weren't just mad. They were scared.
And the worst part?
So was I.
Wednesday, 10:06 p.m.
Location: Ricci Compound — Front Hall
The yelling carried inside. Frankie stormed past me, heels clicking like gunfire, Marco right behind her still muttering curses.
I barely got the door shut before Vince appeared at the bottom of the stairs, tie half-loosened, looking like he'd just stepped out of a law textbook.
"Noise travels, you know," he said dryly. "Half the block probably thinks we're rehearsing Goodfellas in surround sound."
"Tell that to them," I grumbled, jerking a thumb toward Frankie and Marco.
Frankie shot me a look over her shoulder, then disappeared into the kitchen. Marco threw his hands up. "Ask her who just dropped her off on a motorbike!"
Vince's brows rose a millimeter. That's how you knew he was really judging you.
"Connolly," Marco added. "As in Declan's bloodline Connolly."
Vince sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose the exact same way Frankie had. Classic Ricci stress tic. "Sophia…"
"Don't 'Sophia' me," I cut in. "I wasn't running guns across state lines. I was literally hitching a ride so Emma Dante didn't catch me on livestream."
"Emma?" Vince's voice sharpened.
"Outside the laundromat. With her Omega sidekicks. Filming like she's auditioning for Netflix."
Vince muttered something that sounded like idiot Omegas and their ring lights under his breath. Then he glanced at Marco and lowered his voice.
"Forget Emma for a second. We've got bigger problems."
Marco folded his arms. "What now?"
"The FBI," Vince said flatly. "They're circling the gun shop. Wiretaps, surveillance, the works. It's only a matter of time before they get bold."
My stomach clenched.
Frankie reappeared with a glass of water, her face pale. "How long?"
"Could be days," Vince said. "Could be hours. We can't afford a single slip. Every front has to be airtight."
He looked at me then, not angry, just heavy-eyed. "That means no more joyrides, Sophia. No more being seen with the Connollys. And no more giving Emma Dante free promo material."
Something in me snapped.
I slammed my hands down on the entryway table so hard the cheap wood cracked, a vase wobbling before toppling over and shattering across the tiles. Everyone froze.
"You think this is my fault?" I shouted, voice louder than I meant. My throat burned but I couldn't stop. "Emma Dante's out there vlogging our laundry fronts like it's free content, the FBI is crawling over us with drones, Marco can't keep his fists to himself, Frankie practically live-streams her ovulation cycle, and I'm the problem because I took a ride home on a motorbike?!"
Marco flinched like I'd hit him. Frankie's mouth tightened. Vince blinked, startled, but his jaw clenched.
I jabbed a finger at the broken vase pieces scattered across the floor. "I am sick of being the easy scapegoat because I'm the Beta. Invisible until you all decide I'm the convenient one to blame. Newsflash—my spreadsheets aren't what's gonna get us killed. It's your egos, your TikToks, your temper tantrums."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
My chest heaved. My palms stung from the crack of splintering wood. The table leaned sideways now, broken clean down the middle.
I forced myself to swallow, voice shaking but still sharp. "Don't you dare tell me to stay invisible when I'm the only one holding this circus together."
No one moved.
Vince just sat down, slow and deliberate, like his knees weighed a hundred pounds. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. His eyes didn't leave me.
Not angry. Not calm. Just… calculating.
Marco shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed tight across his chest. Frankie looked away, glass of water trembling in her hand.
But Vince—he didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just sat there like he was trying to solve an equation that kept spitting out the wrong answer.
Finally, he exhaled. "You're right."
The words landed heavier than the broken table between us.
"I…" He dragged a hand over his face. "I keep running numbers, trying to keep us two steps ahead. And I didn't stop to think what it costs you to be… invisible. Or worse, the family's fallback blame."
Marco started to protest, but Vince silenced him with a raised hand. "She's not wrong. We've all been reckless. Loud. Sloppy. And she's been cleaning up after us without complaint."
His gaze locked on mine again. "You're not invisible, Soph. You never were. We just—chose not to see it."
My throat tightened. I didn't know if I wanted to punch him or hug him.