Wednesday, 10:21 p.m.
Location: Ricci Compound — Sophia's Room, Mafia Princess Hideout
I locked my door, flopped onto my bed, and stared at the ceiling fan until the dizziness passed.
The FBI. Wiretaps. Emma Dante vlogging her way straight into our obituary section. Liam Connolly turning my life into a motorbike rom-com.
It was too much.
So I grabbed my notebook—the one with the "totally innocent" glittery unicorn on the cover—and flipped it open. Not for doodles this time. For plans.
Beta survival skill #47: when the Alphas start yelling, you start scheming.
Plan A:
Make Frankie the star. She already had TikTok clout. Why not lean into it? If people thought the Ricci family was too busy dancing, cooking pasta, or doing fertility-journey vlogs, then maybe the FBI would start second-guessing their suspicions.
Plan B:
Money laundering with style. Our pizzerias already raked in cash. If Frankie spun it as "authentic Alpha-owned family restaurants," and Marco threw his football clout behind sponsorship deals, we could wash the money in plain sight.
Plan C:
Emma. If she wanted content, I'd give her content. Something loud, shiny, and completely harmless. While she waved her ring light at that, our real operations would stay in the shadows.
I chewed my pen cap, flipping back through the numbers Vince had dumped on me earlier.
If I could keep our ledgers airtight, pump out legit transactions faster than the FBI could snoop, and dangle fake drama in front of the YouTubers—
Boom. Problem solved.
Well, "solved" in a Beta-makes-it-through-the-week kind of way.
I jotted it all down in bullet points, underlined twice, and snapped the notebook shut.
For once, I felt almost calm. Almost.
Because if I was right?
The Riccis wouldn't just survive this heat.
We'd come out looking legit.
For once, I felt almost calm. Almost.
Because if I was right?
The Riccis wouldn't just survive this heat.
We'd come out looking legit.
My phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then a full-on vibration fit like Izzy was trying to shake it out of my hands.
I groaned, flipped it over.
Izzy:Emergency. SOS. Girlfriend required ASAP.
Izzy:Noah is camping in my front yard.
I sat bolt upright. Camping?
I hit call. She picked up on the first ring, voice in full Alpha shriek-mode.
"Sophia Ricci, I swear on my scent glands, if you don't get over here right now—"
"Hold on, hold on—what do you mean camping?"
She huffed like I'd just asked if water was wet. "I mean he pitched a tent. An actual tent. In my yard. He's sitting in a lawn chair with marshmallows and a cooler, and my mom says if he doesn't leave, she's calling Animal Control."
I pressed a hand over my face. "Izzy…"
"I need a girlfriend," she snapped. "A buffer. Because if I go out there, I will end up setting him and his tent on fire."
Through the receiver, I could faintly hear Noah's cheerful voice: "Izzy! I brought extra marshmallows! They're the jumbo kind!"
I groaned. I hung up with Izzy and bolted downstairs, notebook tucked under my arm like it might protect me from whatever chaos awaited.
The garage smelled like oil and testosterone. Marco's precious motorbike gleamed under the fluorescent lights, chrome polished to mirror-shine. His baby. His pride. His don't even breathe near it, Sophia.
Which is why I was already climbing onto it.
"Sorry, Marco," I muttered, swinging my leg over the seat. "Emergency girlfriend duty."
The keys were exactly where I expected—in the ceramic bowl labeled for emergencies only (translation: Marco's drunk pizza runs). I jammed them in, helmet dangling from one handlebar.
The engine roared to life with a vibration that shook through my bones.
I grinned.
"Beta princess, biker edition."
Within minutes, I was tearing down the street, wind ripping through my hair, the city lights blurring into streaks. Every pothole rattled my teeth, every rev sent adrenaline spiking.
And okay—I had no license for this. No training. No permission.
But I had Izzy shrieking into my phone about Noah's marshmallow campout, and that was enough motivation.
I leaned into the turn at her block, heart hammering.
And there it was: Noah Grant, Alpha golden retriever, sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of Izzy's house, roasting a marshmallow over a tealight candle. Next to him—an actual neon-green camping tent.
Izzy was on the porch, arms crossed, expression murderous.
When she spotted me, her eyes widened. "You STOLE Marco's bike?!"
I cut the engine, yanked off the helmet, and smirked. "Emergency times, emergency crimes."
Noah blinked at me like I'd descended from heaven on a chariot. "Soph! You came! Want a s'more?"
Izzy whipped her head toward him, her voice cutting like broken glass. "Noah. Grant. I swear, if you call her over here like this again—"
"I wasn't calling her!" he said quickly, holding up his marshmallow stick like it was a white flag. "I was… manifesting! And look—it worked!"
I groaned, dragging the helmet off the bike and setting it down hard enough to make a point. "You're manifesting an eviction notice. Do you know how many neighbors probably called about a tent in someone's yard?"
Noah shrugged, grin hopelessly lopsided. "Worth it."
Izzy stomped down the porch steps, fists balled at her sides. "You've been out here for six hours. Six! My mom offered you lemonade and you called her 'future mother-in-law.'"
He looked guilty for a fraction of a second before recovering. "She laughed!"
"She laughed because she was terrified!" Izzy snapped.
I stepped between them before Izzy actually tackled him into his neon-green tent. "Okay, timeout. Izzy, breathe. Noah, put the marshmallow down before she makes you eat it raw."
He looked at me with the most innocent Alpha eyes I'd ever seen. "But I bought the jumbo kind…"
"Congratulations," I deadpanned. "You can use them to patch up your face when Izzy's done with you."
Noah blinked, marshmallow still sagging off his stick. Then he took a shaky breath and blurted, way too fast, "Izzy, I'm in love with you."
The air snapped quiet. Even the crickets shut up.
Izzy's eyes went wide, pupils dilating in that Alpha way, like someone had sucker-punched her with raw truth. Her mouth opened, closed, then snapped into a furious line.
"You… what?" she hissed.
"I love you," Noah said again, firmer this time. "I've loved you since freshman year. I know you think I'm an idiot, and maybe I am, but—" he shoved the marshmallow in his pocket like it was collateral—"I'd camp in your yard a thousand nights if it meant you'd finally take me seriously."
Izzy's hands trembled. She turned her head, and her eyes locked on me instead of him.
And then she snapped.
"Fine! You want honesty? Here's mine—I don't like you, Noah. Not like that. I like…" Her throat bobbed. Her stare burned holes into me. "…I like Sophia."
My stomach dropped straight through Marco's motorbike and into the pavement.
"Izzy—"
"No. Say something," she demanded, voice cracking. "Don't just stand there like you didn't hear me. Do you—do you feel anything, or am I just insane?"
I could feel both of them staring at me, Noah with heartbreak painted across his face, Izzy with desperate Alpha heat radiating off her. My chest squeezed so tight it hurt.
And before my brain could stop my mouth, the words tumbled out:
"I like Liam."
The silence that followed could have leveled the entire neighborhood.
Izzy blinked once. Twice. Then her lips pressed so hard together I thought she might bite straight through them.
Noah looked between us, marshmallow hand half-raised, like he was witnessing the world's worst group project presentation.
Then Izzy spun on her heel so fast her sneakers tore at the grass. "Unbelievable."
"Izzy, wait—" I called, but she was already halfway up the porch, Alpha aura flaring like fire in her wake. She yanked open the front door and slammed it shut so hard the windows rattled.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Silence.
I stood there frozen, helmet dangling from one hand, my stomach still lodged somewhere in my shoes.
Noah cleared his throat. "Sooo… that went well."
I whipped around, glaring. "Noah!"
"What?" he said, palms raised. "I confessed, she confessed, you confessed—it was like a triangle of honesty! That's good, right? Therapy people love honesty."
"Therapy people also love boundaries," I snapped.
He looked wounded, then slumped down onto his cooler like a deflated golden retriever. The tealight candle between us flickered in the breeze.
"Guess I blew it, huh," he said softly.
I sighed, sitting on the curb beside him, dropping the helmet in the grass. "You didn't blow it. She just… didn't feel the same."
Noah poked at the tealight with his marshmallow stick, watching the flame wobble. "And you… with Liam."
My chest tightened. "Yeah."
"Connolly Liam," he clarified, like maybe there was another Liam hiding in the bushes with snacks.
"Yeah," I repeated.
He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "Man, we're all disasters."
"Welcome to my life," I muttered.
We sat in silence for a moment, just the sound of crickets and distant city sirens filling the space Izzy had vacated.
Then Noah nudged me with his shoulder. "For what it's worth… I don't hate him. Liam, I mean. He looks at you like—like you're not invisible."
That hit harder than I wanted to admit.
"Don't make me cry in your tent," I warned.
He cracked a grin, faint but real. "Fine. But only 'cause the marshmallows are reserved for s'mores."
Despite everything, I laughed. Just a little.