Thursday, 8:27 p.m.
Location: Ricci Pawnshop — Front Counter
The sirens died and two uniforms herded my unconscious biker out like they were taking out smelly recycling. The tall one with the beer-belly Officer; kept cracking jokes. The other one didn't. The quiet one had eyes like a calculator and a scent so sharp it made my tongue sting: pepper, old coffee, male Alpha doing a very bad impression of "innocent public servant."
He leaned close. "You Riccis should really keep tighter locks on your doors. Some people might start asking questions."
"Thanks for the tip," I chirped, Beta-beige. "Here's mine—watch your diet. Your cholesterol smells stressed."
He didn't laugh. He also didn't notice me clock the tiny gleam on the underside of the receipt jar.
They left. The bell jingled. The door shut.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Liam:princess… you need to get out of there. That cop isn't who he says he is.
Of course he wasn't.
And of course Liam Connolly would know. I didn't have time to think about how or why the Alpha boy who tutored trig like a smug angel could also spot a dirty badge from a mile away. I slid the phone away and crouched under the counter.
There it was: a black button, no bigger than a pencil eraser, magnet-snapped to the jar's rim. Blinked once, tiny red. Listening.
"Greta," I whispered.
She peeked over the register, mascara smudged, still shaking. "If you say that was a spider, I'm quitting."
"Bug," I said.
She swallowed. "Spider?"
"Wire."
Her eyes went wide. "Oh."
I grabbed a metal cash tray off the shelf and palmed it over the button like a lid, sliding both into a paper bag in one motion. For good measure, I stuck the bag inside the old microwave we kept for "employee lunches" and absolutely not for melting evidence. I didn't turn it on. I did unplug it. Twice.
"Greta, lesson one," I said, hands shaking only a little, "if you see either of those two back again, smile, nod, and text me the word Raccoon. Do not—repeat, do not—say anything spicy."
She exhaled. "I'm not spicy, Sophia. I'm eighty-seven and allergic to men who say 'sweetheart' at counters."
"You're forty-eight."
"I said what I said."
Another buzz in my pocket.
I didn't look. Instead, I did a slow circuit of the floor: under the display case, under the Xbox shelf, along the baseboard. Found a second dot tucked behind the power strip. Cute.
I pocketed it with the same smoothness I used to steal gum from Frankie when I was nine. (She still doesn't know. Sorry, Frankie.)
The night outside pressed up against the glass—Big City neon, a smear of tail lights, somebody on the corner selling knockoff sunglasses under a streetlamp. Inside, the pawnshop hummed with old electronics and older secrets.
"Tea," Greta whispered, as if saying it louder might summon another gun. "I need tea."
"You and me both."
The bell dinged again.
I snapped upright, heart in my throat.
It was Noah. He had a pizza box, two garlic knots jammed in his hoodie pocket, and the kind of smile that should be registered as a therapeutic device.
"Hey!" he beamed, then took in the scene. His smile dimmed. "Oh."
"Hi," I said, too bright. "Want a job as a prop?"
He blinked. "As a… what?"
"Stand behind the counter and look large."
He straightened, puffing his chest out like a peacock. "Copy."
Greta shuffled to the back with her tea. I tugged Noah into place and palmed my phone for the first time.
Me → Liam:Bugged. Twice. Souvenir acquired. Your cop friend has a hobby.
The dots pulsed.
Liam:Back exit. Now.
Me:I'm not leaving my shop.
Liam:I didn't say leave. I said back exit. Check the dumpster lid.
I stared at that for a beat. Then I grabbed the broom, pretending to sweep, and slipped to the back hallway.
The alley door creaked. The dumpster squatted in the light like a toad. I frowned, lifted the lid, and found—of course—a brown paper bag, folded tight and taped. On the front, in blocky Sharpie letters: RICCI.
All-caps. Subtlety is dead.
Inside: a fat roll of bills, a cheap burner phone, and a note in clean printed letters: KEEP YOUR GIRL QUIET. Underlined. Twice.
My blood went ice-cold. Girl—Greta? Me? Frankie?
My brain flipped through faces like flashcards and landed on the one with platinum hair and a ring light. Emma. The biker's card—not Emma's family, according to Liam. His "dead" cousin? Fantastic.
I snapped a photo of the note and cash, sent it to Liam with one word: Cute.
"Everything good?" Noah asked from the doorway, trying to look casual and failing adorably.
"Define 'good,'" I said, pocketing the burner. "On a scale from 'we sell broken printers' to 'someone wants to bribe us into shutting up,' we're at… bribe."
His eyes widened. "Soph—"
"Relax," I said, brushing past him. "We're going to do something dramatic and wholesome."
"That combination sounds illegal."
"Shh. Confidence."
I hustled back to the counter, flipped the open sign to closed, and then did the most scandalous thing a Ricci can do under surveillance: I went live.
"Hey, friends," I said into my front camera, giving the pawnshop my best soft-focus angle. "Tonight's episode of Beige Beta in a Bright World"—Noah snorted—"features community service. Someone tried to rob our little family shop, but we're okay. We called it in. We're closing early to feed the neighborhood."
I swung the camera to Noah, who lifted the pizza like a trophy.
"Garlic knots for anyone who stops by," I added. "No strings, no sales, just carbs."
I ended the live before anyone could comment isn't this that mafia place? Then I opened the front door, propped a sign that said FREE SLICES. NO QUESTIONS. BE NICE. and let the scent of pepperoni do the heavy lifting.
Within minutes, two kids from the bus stop wandered in, then an elderly man with one of our pawned guitars under his arm, then a woman in scrubs who looked like she needed three naps and a spare life. Noah served. I smiled. Greta remained invisible—by design. I kept an ear tuned for the bell, an eye on the glass.
The quiet cop did not return.
But Midas's car did a slow roll past the window, taillights coy. I gave the glass my best dead-eyed smile and waved with all five fingers. He kept going.
"Why are we feeding people?" Noah asked between slices, voice low.
"Because it makes cameras boring," I said. "No one raids the carb station."
He considered that, then nodded like I'd just revealed the secret of the universe. "Smart."
He wasn't wrong. Free pizza turned our cursed pawnshop into a goodwill bubble. Even the air felt different—less like fear, more like… neighborhood. If anyone was watching from a van, let them have footage of a Beta and her golden retriever Alpha best friend handing out slices and telling kids not to put iPods in their mouths.
The rush slowed. The clock above the TV coughed toward nine.
"Go home," I told Noah gently. "You've done enough."
His eyes softened. "Text me when you're safe?"
"Promise."
He gave me a quick, clumsy hug—warm and real—and jogged out into the night. My chest went soft and sore.
The bell dinged once more. Greta reappeared from the back, tea finished, shoulders steadier.
"You're a menace," she said, which for Greta is basically thank you for saving my life and also my lease.
"Flatterer."
I locked the door behind us, killed the lights, and we stood in the dark for a second, listening. The Big City breathed beyond the glass. Somewhere, a siren. Somewhere, a laugh. Somewhere, the quiet click of someone waiting.
"Go home, Greta," I whispered. "Different route. No heroics."
She squeezed my arm. "You too, niña."
I waited until her car turned the corner before I stepped into the alley with the burner phone and the two bugs in my pocket. The dumpster glared at me like it held opinions about my life choices.
I dialed the only number programmed into the burner. It rang twice. Click.
"Who is this?" A man's voice. Smooth. Young. Unfamiliar, but with a cadence I recognized: the kind of Alpha who smiled while doing terrible things.
"You called me," I said. "Left a goodie bag. Thought I'd RSVP."
Silence. Then a soft laugh. "Clever."
"Flattering me won't work," I said, even though, hi, it worked. "Who are you?"
A pause. "A friend of a friend."
"I have very few friends."
"Then consider me your luck changing."
My skin prickled. "Were you the one who sent the biker? Because if so, he snores and has bad gum. You should choose better."
"No," he said lightly. "I sent the cop."
I swallowed. "Right. The not-cop."
"How many did you find?"
"Enough."
He hummed, amused. "Tell your father to keep his house in order. When people can't tell where your money ends and your content begins, the lines blur. That's how accidents happen."
I thought of bleach and bullet casings and Frankie crying on the kitchen floor. "We don't do accidents."
"Everyone does, princess."
The word cut. Not because he said it, but because only two people get to. Me—ironically. And Liam, because somehow he'd earned it. This voice? He hadn't.
"You don't get to call me that," I said, ice-cold.
"Apologies," he said, not apologetic at all. "Tell Luca someone's ledger's bleeding. Start with the motel."
The line went dead.
I stood there with the burner warm in my hand, the alley cooler than it had any right to be. I texted Liam before I could stop myself.
Me:Caller says the not-cop was his. Says start with the motel. Ledger bleeding. Also he called me "princess" and I hate him now.
Dots. Then:
Liam:Don't use that phone again. Toss it in the river. And don't go back to the motel alone.
Me:I never go anywhere alone. I have trauma and a motorcycle.
Liam:Not funny.
Liam:I'm outside.
I turned, heart doing something stupid and unapproved, and found him across the street, leaning against a lamppost like a magazine ad for terrible ideas. Dark hoodie. Darker eyes. That same lazy-not-lazy stance that made every nerve in my body wake up.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed, crossing fast. "Do you want to get shot by a Ricci neighbor?"
He jerked his chin toward the pawnshop. "You shouldn't have stayed."
"I had pizza."
He didn't smile. "You had surveillance."
"Yeah, well, I also had a helmet and a good swing."
At that, a flicker of something crossed his face—admiration, annoyance, I don't know, I refuse to decode it. "You can't keep doing this."
"I've been doing this for exactly one day," I said. "New job. Unpaid. Full benefits: none."
He shifted closer, voice low. "My cousin."
"C.C.," I said. "He's supposed to be dead."
"Supposed to be," Liam murmured. "He wasn't on our radar. Until now."
"And now?"
"Now he's playing with both families," he said. "And he knows your father's distracted."
My throat went tight. "Because of his…" I stopped. I wasn't saying it. Not here. Not aloud.
Liam's gaze softened in a way that made me want to kick him. "Go home," he said. "Let me handle this."
"I don't let Alphas handle things for me."
He leaned in, eyes laughing even when his mouth wasn't. "I know. That's why I like you."
"Gross."
He huffed a sound I refused to call a laugh. "Throw the phone in the river."
"I'll toss it in the fryer at Ricci Pizza."
"Not the same."
"Hotter," I countered.
He stepped back into shadow, the city swallowing him like it always does. "Good night, princess."
I didn't flinch at that one. I just flipped him off—politely—and jogged back to Marco's bike.
The engine caught. The night opened. I drove.
When I reached the compound, the floodlights made the yard look like a movie set. The front windows glowed. Inside, I could see the silhouette of my family moving through the house—Marco's restless pacing, Vince's measured stride, Frankie's small, fierce shape. Dad's absence like a punched-out tooth.
I parked, swung off, and took one breath before my phone pinged again.
Frankie:Costumes delivered. Perez lands at 7. We are doing this.
Vince:Where are you?
Dad:(nothing)
I looked up at the house that made and unmade me every day, then at the road that kept trying to borrow me.
I was a Beta. Supposed to be invisible. Supposed to be quiet.
Instead, I unlocked the front door and walked in like I owned it.
Tomorrow I'd juggle a pawnshop, a hype house, an influencer thirst trap, and a jealous-mate campaign, while the FBI pretended not to breathe down our necks and a "dead" Connolly cousin played puppet master.
Tonight, I did the scariest thing I'd done all week.
I went to the kitchen, poured myself water, and waited for my family to look at me and see what I already knew:
I wasn't background.
I was the plan.