Friday, 7:49 p.m.Location: Ricci Pizza — Back Alley, Next to the Dumpster of Secrets
I didn't even get to enjoy Frankie's victory speech.
One second I was at the counter, riding the wave of Alpha drama like it was my own personal Netflix binge. The next, Greta appeared in the doorway to the back, face pale, apron streaked with flour and sweat.
"Kid," she hissed. "We got a problem."
When Greta says "problem," it's never "the oven's out of cheese" or "the soda machine's acting up." It's always mortal peril in progress.
I slipped out from behind the counter, plastered on a fake Beta smile, and trailed through the kitchen. The ovens roared, dough trays stacked like towers, staff whispering like the air itself was nervous.
"What now?" I muttered as we shoved open the back door into the alley.
The smell hit first: diesel fumes, metal, and salt. A shipping truck idled too close to the dumpster, hazard lights blinking. Two of our guys stood by the loading dock, faces tight.
The driver; tattoos up his neck, hands jammed in his pockets refused to meet my eyes. That was bad.
Greta leaned close. "Shipment came in from the docks. Wrong manifest. Half the crates don't match the papers. Customs paperwork says 'kitchen supplies.' Truck says otherwise."
My stomach bottomed out. "Otherwise like…?"
She jerked her chin at the truck.
I stepped forward, climbing onto the dock, the metal groaning under my sneakers. One of the guys pried open a crate with a crowbar. The wood splintered.
Inside: rifles. Packed in neat rows like they'd been waiting their turn.
Perfect. Exactly what we didn't need on a night where my sister was confronting her runaway mate two doors down.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Of course. Because why wouldn't a weapons shipment show up mislabeled at a family pizza restaurant at seven-fifty p.m. on a Friday?"
The driver shuffled, mumbling. "Was told to drop 'em here. East side boys said it was cleared."
East side. Vince's turf tonight.
I cursed under my breath. "Unbelievable."
Options whirled in my brain: send it back (too suspicious), hide it (not enough time), or spin it.
Greta's eyes burned into me. "Well, princess? You're the boss tonight. What's the call?"
I inhaled garlic-and-gunpowder air, heart pounding. This was it. No Luca. No Vince. No Frankie; she was busy not killing her mate.
Just me.
The Beta no one was supposed to notice.
The rifles gleamed in their crate, oily and silent. Too clean, too neat, too wrong.
I crouched, ran my fingers along the inside lid. A faint chalk mark scratched under the slats. Our code. Ricci shipments always carried a double mark, like a fingerprint. This one? One mark only. Fake.
My throat went dry.
I straightened slowly, turned to the driver. "Where'd you say you got this?"
He shifted, sweat beading under the collar of his jacket. "East side. Said it was cleared—"
I drew my gun from the small of my back, smooth and steady, and leveled it at his chest.
His eyes went wide. "H-hey! Whoa—"
"Rule number one," I said, calm as ice, "you don't lie to a Ricci in her own alley. Rule number two: you don't run fake cargo through my door."
The other guys stiffened, hands inching toward their belts, but I held the driver with my stare. Beta, invisible? Not tonight.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
He stammered. "I—I don't know, just got paid—"
Click. I shifted the safety off. He swallowed his words.
"Think carefully," I murmured. "You answer wrong, and you won't be making any more deliveries."
Silence. His eyes darted to the truck, to the street, back to me. "Connollys," he croaked. "Said drop it, no questions. I swear."
Connollys. My blood went cold.
I holstered the gun with a sharp motion, pulled out my phone, and scrolled straight to Liam's DMs. My thumb hovered for only a second before I typed:
Me: Got something for you. Gift-wrapped. Come to the alley.
Three dots popped up almost instantly.
Liam: Princess… what kind of gift?
I smirked down at the screen, fingers tapping fast.
Me: The kind you don't put on your Christmas list.
No dots. No reply. Just silence.
Then—vroooom.
The low growl of an engine curled into the alley from the far end, cutting through the hum of the idling truck. A sleek black motorcycle slid into view, headlight bouncing off brick.
Liam Connolly, helmet under his arm, dark jacket catching the neon spill from the pizza sign above.
Of course.
He didn't text. He didn't call.
He just showed up like the city itself had summoned him.
He killed the engine, kicked the stand, and strode toward me, boots crunching on gravel. His eyes flicked from me, to the crate, to the driver still sweating bullets against the wall.
"Princess," he drawled, voice low, sharp. "You always know how to throw a party."
Liam's boots hit pavement in that slow, unhurried way that makes everyone else nervous. He didn't even look at the gun in my hand, or the truck, or me. He zeroed straight in on the driver who was trying and failing not to shake against the bricks.
Liam stopped inches from him, tilted his head. His green eyes caught the alley light, bright and sharp as glass. "Do I know you?"
The driver swallowed. "N-no, sir—"
"Oh, I think I do." Liam's tone dropped, velvet over knives. He grabbed the guy's chin, forced his face into the light. "You're Nolan Connolly's brat cousin, aren't you? He's dead. Which means if you're walking around in my alleys wearing his shadow "
Liam leaned closer, smile knife-thin "you're already living on borrowed time."
The driver made a choked sound, and I swear for a second I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Liam let go with a shove, turning to the crate. He snapped one lid open with quick, efficient hands. Rifles gleamed inside, slick and deadly. He ran his thumb along the stock, nostrils flaring.
"These are too hot to keep," he said flatly. "Traceable. Meant to get found."
His eyes cut to me, unreadable. "So tell me, princess. Why'd you call me instead of Daddy or Lawyer Ricci?"
I squared my shoulders, heart pounding but refusing to show it. "Because I'm in charge tonight. And because I know what bait looks like. I'm not letting this land on my family. You want it gone? You do it. I'll give you one favor."
Liam blinked once, then let out a low laugh that made the hairs on my neck stand up. He stepped closer, invading my space just enough that I caught the scent of leather, smoke, and something sharper that was just… him.
"One favor?" His smile was wicked, too cute for how dangerous it looked. "There are four crates, princess. Four favors."
I crossed my arms. "Diego Perez will do it for free."
That got him.
His smirk faltered into something darker, jealous flashing in his eyes before he caught it. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed my cheek.
"You really want Perez's fingerprints on this? You trust him more than me?"
My pulse kicked, traitorous. " I know how to bargain. One favor. Take it or leave it."
Liam studied me, silent, those green eyes so intense I wanted to shove him and kiss him at the same time.
Finally, he chuckled, low and dangerous, shaking his head like I was driving him insane. "God, you're trouble."
"Effective," I corrected, even as my cheeks burned.
His grin flashed wolfish, devastating. "Fine. One favor. But don't forget, princess. You still owe me."