Friday, 12:03 p.m.
Location: Ricci Pizza — Dining Room (Garlic-Knot Arena)
If you've never run a midday sting operation disguised as a lunch rush, congratulations on your life choices.
I had flour on my hoodie, grease on my soul, and a ring light clamped to a napkin dispenser like it was born there.
Operation: Make Her Watch (working title) was all go.
Frankie stood beside me behind the counter in oversized sunglasses and a blazer that screamed "I have my life together, don't zoom in." Her mascara was perfect. Her smile was not.
"You sure about this?" she murmured, voice thin. "Because if this goes sideways, I'm going to kill you and then haunt you and then kill you again."
"Bold of you to assume I'm not already haunted." I checked the phone mount, angled the shot to catch the brick oven glow, and set the caption draft: "Lunch w/ my favorite chaos cousin 🍕✨ #FamilyBusiness" (Lie. Diego is nobody's cousin. But the internet loves a harmless story.)
Noah hovered at the soda fountain, semi-famous now after the Garlic Knot Challenge and wearing a vintage tee like it owed him rent. He gave me two thumbs up, then accidentally dropped a straw, which felt on-brand.
"Where's Izzy?" Frankie asked, scanning the door like she expected a Vogue photographer.
"Mad at me," I said. "Complicated reasons. We'll unpack later with snacks and emotional triage."
Frankie's jaw tightened. "I don't have later, Soph."
I nudged her shoulder. "That's why we're doing this now."
The bell jingled.
Diego Perez entered like he'd been personally hired by gravity to swagger. Sun-browned, sleeves pushed to his elbows, smirk already loaded. He wore dark denim and a white button-down left just rebellious enough, and sunglasses he did not remove because of course he didn't.
"Mi—" he started, caught himself, and corrected with a lazy grin, "Ricci."
Thank you, God, for small mercies and men who can follow nickname rules.
"Diego," I said, stepping around the counter to meet him halfway and stage the hug just off-center of the camera. "Welcome to content."
He glanced past me to Frankie, clocking the sunglasses, the posture, the fracture lines she thought she'd hidden. Diego's smile softened by half a degree—respect noted—and then the showman slid back into place.
"Ah, the famous sister." He dropped into a dramatic bow. "You look like trouble wrapped in business casual."
Frankie's mouth twitched despite herself. "Says the man in indoor sunglasses."
"Careful," I warned him. "She can kill with a caption."
He clinked the edge of his shades. "Then I will die beautiful."
I tipped my head toward the oven. "We're doing a taste test on camera. New marinara. You're going to lie about how it changed your life. Frankie will roll her eyes. Noah will stand there and look adorable. Everyone wins."
"Already winning," Diego said, eyes still on Frankie.
"May I?" He gestured toward the counter, asking permission—good. He wasn't a total menace.
Frankie slid the sunglasses up to her hair. Alpha gaze: online. "You may."
I hit record.
"Hey, internet," I chirped, voice steady. "Lunch break at Ricci Pizza with my favorite chaos machine, Diego. Today we're testing sauce. If he survives my Nonna's recipe, he earns a slice."
Diego dragged a finger through a spoon of marinara, tasted like a man auditioning for an olive oil commercial, then clutched his heart. "I'm seeing God. He's wearing an apron."
"Blasphemy," Frankie said crisply, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "Try it on a knot. If you don't cry, we start over."
Noah slid in from frame left with a basket like a game show Vanna White. Diego took a knot, dipped with reverence, and made a satisfied noise low enough to ping anyone's For You Page.
"Ten out of ten," he declared. "Would defect from my grandmother for this."
"You don't have a grandmother," I said.
He winked at Frankie. "Then I renounce my imaginary one."
We moved through segments. Lots of laughter, Diego delivering chaos in harmless doses.
I kept one eye on the window.
Outside, the Big City did what it always does pretended not to eavesdrop. Across the street, a white van idled too long.
Not FBI; wrong vibe. But watching. Always.
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
A DM banner slid across the top:
Careful, princess. Two tables behind you. The guy with the baseball cap—mic'd.
Liam.
I didn't turn. Didn't flinch.
"Let's do a lightning round" I said with my biggest smile. "two truths ;and a lie. Pizzaria Date Edition."
"Sí." He smiled. "You first."
Frankie inhaled like she was about to dive. "Okay. I hate pineapple on pizza, I used to throw dough better than Marco throws a football, and I—" a micro-glance at my phone, at me "—cry when the oven thermometer beeps."
Diego arched a brow. "The lie is the last. You don't cry."
Frankie's mouth pressed thin. "Correct."
"Well, sometimes," I stage whispered into the camera, "she tears up at adoptable puppy videos."
"Shut up," she said automatically, but the sting had dulled.
Her eyes were brighter.
The PR engine whirred under the surface. She was coming back to me. My sister was no longer a messy bundle on the floor.
Noah, bless him, pushed the next basket of knots like he was diffusing a bomb. "Truth and lie for Diego?"
"I once smuggled a freezer full of tamales through customs, I have never lost a fight I started, and I can fold a fitted sheet," he said solemnly.
"Liar," Frankie said, instant. "No one can fold a fitted sheet."
He slapped a hand to his chest. "Wounded."
While they bantered, I checked the reflection in the oven glass.
Baseball Cap was exactly two tables behind me, hunched over a single slice he wasn't eating, fingers picking at a napkin. Wire port in the cuff? Maybe. His eyes moved too much for a person bored enough to sit alone at lunch.
I pivoted our setup half a step, guided Diego with my shoulder so our camera framed his profile and Frankie's good side and cut the man out of the shot. Then I raised my voice just enough.
"Okay, business update," I announced cheerfully. "The Ricci Motel is closed for remodeling. We're doing a community content project. Fifteen local creators, fifteen rooms, fifteen budgets—make a space, tell a story, eat pizza. We pay for supplies; you bring the taste."
"Babies," Diego said, impressed. "You are laundering vibes."
"I am laundering nothing," I said sweetly to the mic that might not be a mic. "I am empowering art."
Frankie shot me a sideways look that translated to you are evil and thank you. She turned to the camera, voice dropping into her queen cadence. "If you're a creator and you want in, DM me. We'll shortlist today. No drama queens, no creeps, and if you break a chair, you buy two."
My phone buzzed—another DM from Liam:
Nice pivot. Cap guy just texted his handler "renovation cover." You have five minutes before he calls it in.
I typed under the counter: Then give him something to chew on.
Diego cleared his throat and, as if I'd scripted it (I had), leaned an elbow on the counter to face Frankie fully. "So, Frankie. Hypothetically, if a handsome man asked you to dinner—strictly for market research and definitely not romance—would you say yes?"
The temperature at the counter shifted. Frankie's chin lifted, Alpha aura dialing up one notch. "Depends."
"On?"
"If he can dance."
Diego grinned. "I thrive."
Noah stage-whispered, "He. His own press,"
It was the moment, Diego flexed at the camera. The comment stream on our live cracked open like a dropped egg: hearts, flame emojis, unhelpful marriage proposals, and someone's aunt typing my grandson is single in all caps.
Frankie's phone buzzed on the counter.
It was expected.
She glanced down, and for one flicker I saw it: a notification banner with a first name and no last, the kind of single-word label you save for someone who can wreck you.
Her eyes snapped up. The swagger flickered.
"Time," I said brightly. "We're closing the live. Say bye."
We blew a kiss. I hit End and shoved the phone into my pocket before Frankie could see the viewer count (six figures) or the bookmarked comments (feral). Baseball Cap guy stood, bussed his untouched plate, and left so fast he nearly tripped on the door jamb. Good boy.
Diego leaned close enough for me to smell citrus under his cologne. "We done?"
"For now," I said. "Thank you for playing along."
He flicked a glance at Frankie, softer now. "You good?"
She hesitated. The Alpha in her wanted to say yes. The human didn't.
"Ask me in an hour," she said.
"Okay." He tapped the counter twice, the universal signal for I'm here if you need. "Text me if you want a decoy for dinner. I do excellent fake laughter and terrible poetry."
"I hate poetry," she said faintly.
"Perfect," he said, and with a final two-fingered salute at me, he strolled out into the sunlight like a shippable subplot.
The bell fell silent.
Noah exhaled. "I forgot to breathe for twenty straight minutes."
"Same," I said, wiping an imaginary smudge off the lens. "Proud of you."
He looked like he might cry if I said one more nice thing, so I didn't.
Frankie didn't move. Her hands were flat on the counter. The sunglasses had migrated to her hair in the flurry; a few strands had fallen loose around her face.
"You okay?" I asked, careful.
She swallowed. "She watched," she said, voice barely audible.
My pulse tripped. "How do you know?"
Frankie turned her phone toward me.
A single DM glowed on screen from an account with a private profile and a profile picture that revealed exactly nothing.
I saw.
A bubble popped as we watched.
We need to talk.
My throat tightened. "Frankie—"
"She's here," Frankie whispered, emotion wobbling under the words. "She's in the Big City. She never left."
I glanced instinctively at the window. The street looked average. A stroller, a courier, a guy pretending his dog wasn't peeing on our planter. Normal. Which is to say: dangerous.
"Do you want me to text Vince?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I want… five minutes of not being strategic. Is that allowed?"
"Only if I can be strategic for both of us."
A fragile laugh. "Deal."
I drew a breath like I was inhaling armor. "Here's what happens next. We keep the live replay up and clip the cutest parts. We flood the tags. We make it impossible for anyone to see you as anything but radiant and untouchable. You set the meeting with her—but on our terms. Public place. My pick. Plenty of eyes. And you don't go alone."
She nodded, eyes glassy but focused. "You'll come."
"I'll bring a small army and three cameras."
"You're sixteen."
"I'm loud on the internet."
That got an actual laugh, shaky but real. She wiped under one eye, then squared her shoulders like adjusting a crown. "Okay. Set it up."
Noah busied himself stacking baskets, humming the Garlic Knot Challenge song under his breath like a nervous tic. The oven glowed. The van across the street had disappeared.
For the first time all day, I breathed without tasting panic.
Frankie's phone buzzed again. She didn't look at me before opening the DM.
Tonight, 7. Ricci Inn lobby.
"It's public," she said, faltering. "It's our turf."
"It's also where the walls have ears," I said. "And where everyone expects us to be reckless."
She stared at the screen. The dot-dot-dot typing bubble pulsed like a heartbeat. She was going to say yes. I could see it; the bond would pull and she'd step into it, no armor, no plan.
I put my hand over hers. "Make her come to our public. Here. Loud. Bright. As many witnesses as we can cram between a pizza oven and a hashtag."
Frankie's eyes met mine. The queen looked tired. The sister looked scared.
"Okay," she whispered. "Here."
She typed. Ricci Pizza. 7. Come hungry.
She hit send. Stared at it like it might explode.
I exhaled and reached for the flour bin because I needed something to do before my heart ran out of chest.
The bell jingled again.
Every muscle in my body tensed, but it was only Bo with two bags of semolina and a story about a tourist who thought our garlic knot leaderboard was an art installation. He stopped mid-sentence, clocked Frankie's face, and wisely decided to tell me later.
I stepped around the counter and tugged the "Open" sign to "Closed." "Early break," I announced. "Family emergency/soft launch of a rom-com."
Noah locked the door. Frankie slid the sunglasses back down like war paint.
I checked my phone one more time. A final DM from Liam sat at the top like a warning label.
Princess, if you're meeting anyone tonight, sweep your Wi‑Fi and check the vents. And don't sit with your back to the glass.
I didn't reply. Didn't need to. I tucked the phone away and looked at my sister, who was standing because I was holding her up and pretending it was the other way around.
"Ready?" I asked.
"No," she said. Then, after a breath, "Yes."
"Good." I smiled the way Betas do when no one expects it. "Let's make someone very, very jealous."