There's nothing like reviewing fake inventory reports while watching FBI agents pretend they're not watching you.
The Ricci Pawn Shop has one entrance, two exits, and seven blind spots. I know this because I updated the floor plan myself last Thursday while pretending to be "just helping out" for community service credit.
Right now, I was sitting behind the counter, logged into the internal server under the fake name Sophina Roach (Vince's idea—he thought it was "disguised enough"), cataloging twenty-eight vintage cameras that may or may not exist.
Bo, our social media–addicted shop runner, leaned in from the front. "Uh… Sophia?"
"Don't use my name here."
"Right. Sophina. Okay, so… um, there's a white van across the street."
I didn't even look up. "Unmarked?"
"Very."
I sighed and stood, peeking through the blinds.
Sure enough, the same bland van that had been circling Ricci businesses all week was parked across from us. Different driver today. Still sunglasses. Still pretending not to stare directly at the front entrance.
"License plate says R8V—"
"Don't memorize it," I snapped. "That's suspicious."
Bo tilted his head. "Isn't it more suspicious that they're here watching us?"
"Yes, but they're legally allowed to stalk people. We're not."
He frowned. "That feels unfair."
"Welcome to the Big City."
I pulled the backup ledger from the safe and laid it open on the counter. It looked like a perfectly normal pawn shop log. What it actually tracked were cash drops from various locations—the motel, the laundromat, two vending machines near the docks, and a very profitable churro cart we do not talk about.
I flipped to the latest entry.
"Someone's short again," I muttered.
Bo leaned closer. "Maybe Greta just forgot to log her drop."
"Or maybe Greta's planning her retirement and skimming ten percent."
Bo gasped, loudly. "You think she's the mole?!"
"No. She's just tired and over it. The mole's probably someone new."
A sharp knock at the front door made both of us jump.
A man in a very boring suit was standing there, flashing a very not-boring badge.
Bo panicked instantly. "Oh my god, do I delete the security footage?!"
"No, you open the door like a normal person, and don't flirt this time."
He blushed. "That was once—"
"It was two times. With two agents. In one day."
Bo opened the door with a cheerful, totally guilty smile. "Hi! Welcome to Ricci Pawn & Loan. How can we help you legally today?"
The agent didn't smile.
"Just browsing," he said.
He walked inside, slow and careful, eyes scanning every corner like we were hiding missiles behind the Xbox shelf.
Bo glanced at me.
I gave him one nod.
Time to run the script.
"Hi there!" I said, stepping out with my best beige Beta energy. "If you need help finding anything, I'm the assistant manager. I specialize in antique film equipment and tax-deductible distractions."
The agent's eyes landed on me, pausing just long enough to register—but not recognize—anything.
Which is the power of being a Beta.
You're forgettable. Overlookable. Conveniently invisible.
He nodded. "Just looking."
He wandered toward the back wall.
I turned to Bo and whispered, "Run the cleanup code. Trigger the audio sweep. I want to know if he's wearing a wire."
Bo nodded, already moving.
The agent picked up a vintage camera—an actual real one, for once—and pretended to examine the lens.
"Nice piece," he muttered.
"Rare," I said smoothly. "Only four ever made."
Bo chimed in. "Technically five, but one exploded."
The agent didn't react.
Ten minutes later, he left.
No questions. No purchases. No goodbye.
Just the van pulling away, slow and steady.
Bo turned to me. "You think they're testing us?"
I stared at the empty doorway. "No."
"Then what was that?"
I looked back at the ledger. The missing money. The agent's silence.
"They already know something. They're just waiting for us to make a mistake."
"They already know something. They're just waiting for us to make a mistake."
Bo looked like he might cry. "Okay, so what do we do?"
I snapped the ledger shut.
"We don't give them anything to catch."
Bo blinked. "Isn't that… kind of vague?"
I was already moving, unlocking the side cabinet under the counter. "Nope. It's a three-step plan."
"Please don't say—"
"Step one: We fabricate three separate donation receipts for the missing money. Non-profits with clean books and friendly tax codes. I'll scrub the drop logs and reroute the entry into Frankie's influencer business account."
Bo opened his mouth.
I held up a finger.
"Step two: We push out a 'local business spotlight' TikTok showing the pawn shop helping low-income families with vintage tech for creative projects. Tag it under educational grants and community engagement."
Bo blinked. "Wait. Are we laundering money and building a brand?"
"Multitasking."
"Okay, kinda hot."
I ignored that.
"Step three," I said, typing fast on the shop laptop, "We swap out all suspicious inventory for real, trackable items. If the FBI comes back, they find dusty lamps and iPod Nanos from 2009. Not shady camera equipment and drop-spot ledgers."
Bo nodded slowly, like he was just now processing the kind of Beta I really was.
"You've had this plan ready."
"Of course I have. I live here."
The front door dinged as a customer walked in. Bo went to greet them, face composed.
I stayed behind the counter, finishing the spreadsheet.
Not scared. Not panicked.
Just ready.
Because if the FBI was watching?
They weren't going to catch a Ricci.
Especially not this one.