Thursday, 12:48 a.m.
Location: Ricci Compound — Kitchen, Midnight Ambush
I crept in through the back door, tugging the hem of my ridiculous lace slip down as far as it would go. (Spoiler: not far enough.) Maybe I could make it upstairs before anyone saw—
Click.
The kitchen light flicked on.
I froze like a raccoon caught in the trash.
And there was Dad.
Not in pajamas. Not in a robe. He stood in the middle of the kitchen in his dark slacks and pressed shirt, sleeves rolled up, a black duffel bag slung heavy over one shoulder. The zipper was open just enough for me to see the shine of metal stacked inside. Not cash. Not laundry. Guns.
Lots of them.
I swallowed. "Late-night workout?"
His eyes narrowed, then softened when he actually took in what I was wearing. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
"Adriana and her sleepwear," he muttered, half to himself. "You girls never listen when I say not to parade around in them."
I tugged the hem lower. "Yeah, well, kind of hard to remember when I'm busy committing grand theft Ducati."
His brow arched, but he didn't press. He shifted the duffel higher on his shoulder, his whole frame tense in that way I'd only seen before a job.
"Where are you going?" I asked quietly.
He hesitated. Then: "I need to see someone."
Mate. The word didn't leave his mouth, but it echoed in the pause.
My eyes flicked toward the garage door. "You're not taking the bike, are you? Because Marco will cry."
"No," Dad said, voice sharp with finality. "I'm taking the tank."
Of course.
The tank. Our family's large black sedan, doors and windows reinforced like a mobile fortress. It sat in the garage like a sleeping beast, and only Luca Ricci drove it.
My stomach twisted. "Dad…"
He met my eyes, the weight of the Ricci empire in his gaze. "Don't wait up, my little princess."
The words sat heavy in my chest long after he left, the garage door groaning as the tank rolled out into the night.
Princess.
It should've made me feel safe. Protected. Daddy's little Beta, invisible to the outside world. Instead, it made me feel like a chess piece—moved, not moving. A pawn in lace sleepwear.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, brain running equations I didn't want to solve.
Dad with a duffel bag full of guns.
The tank pulling out after midnight.
A meeting with someone I couldn't name.
If it was business, Vince would've been there. If it was family, Marco or Frankie would've known. But Dad going alone? That wasn't Ricci protocol. That was personal.
And personal was dangerous.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. "He's either going to make peace… or start a war."
Movement caught my eye.
The window over the sink framed the backyard in pale moonlight—and there, just beyond the hedges, were eyes. Bright, unblinking, fixed on the house.
I ducked instinctively, heart slamming against my ribs. Slowly, I eased back up, peeking again.
Not cops. Not feds.
Emma Dante. Platinum-blonde hair catching the porch light, phone raised, recording. And next to her, Mark Montgomery, shoulders hunched, clutching his own camera like it was a lifeline.
Of course.
I cursed under my breath. "Perfect. True-crime Barbie and her cameraman Ken."
Emma tilted her phone just so, making sure the Ricci house glowed ominously in the background. Mark muttered something about "angles" while fumbling with his DSLR. They thought they were so subtle, crouched in my hedges like raccoons with ring lights.
Fine. Two could play.
I whipped out my phone, flipped the camera, and opened TikTok. My account wasn't exactly Frankie-level, but sixty-thousand followers wasn't nothing. All thanks to my sister dragging me into two dances and then tagging me like I was her charity case.
"Alright, friends," I whispered into the mic, hitting record. "It's midnight. I'm in my lace pajamas—don't ask—and guess who's outside my house trying to film me without permission?"
I zoomed in through the kitchen window. Emma, with her platinum waves, crouched in the grass like a deranged influencer. Mark hunched next to her, lens glinting.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, voice dripping sweet, "true-crime Barbie and her cameraman Ken. Coming soon to a clickbait thumbnail near you."
I flipped the camera back to me, smirking. "Should I bring them snacks? Or maybe a restraining order?"
I hit post.
Within seconds, the notifications exploded. Frankie's army of PR-obsessed Alpha mom groupies? Ruthless. The comment section was already a war zone:
"Who sneaks into ppl's yards??"
"Not Emma thinking she's Veronica Mars."
"Cameraman Ken is giving unpaid intern vibes."
I leaned against the counter, smug satisfaction blooming in my chest.
Outside, Emma glanced at her phone. Her smile dropped as the glow of my TikTok lit her face. She hissed something at Mark, who looked at his own screen and groaned like a man watching his credibility collapse.
Gotcha.
Emma's face turned scarlet even in the dark. She jabbed a finger at Mark, hissed something I couldn't hear, and then—miracle of miracles—they backed off. I lifted my phone again, smirking into the camera.
"And that's how you make pests disappear without bug spray. Shoutout to everyone watching—don't forget to like and subscribe or whatever, but I've got curfew, so we're calling it here. Stay nosy, not creepy. Byeee."
I hit end live and pocketed my phone, adrenaline still buzzing. The comments would be savage by morning. Emma was finished.
I turned from the window, straightening my slip, deciding I deserved a glass of water and maybe an award. I swung into the kitchen, flicked the lights on—
And stopped dead.
Frankie was on the floor.
Not Frankie the PR queen. Not Frankie the Alpha mom-in-training with a smile so sharp it could slice FBI tape.
Frankie, curled against the cabinets, shoulders shaking, mascara streaking her cheeks. Her phone lay facedown beside her, a notification still buzzing.
"Frankie?" My voice cracked.
She looked up at me, eyes raw, lips trembling. Then the words tumbled out, sharp and ugly and desperate:
"I found her. My mate." Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand against her stomach like she was holding herself together. "She's an Alpha. More dominant. Stronger than me."
I blinked, the kitchen tilting sideways. "Wait—that's good, right? Isn't that… supposed to be good?"
Frankie shook her head violently, sobs ripping through her chest. "No. She doesn't want me. Not like this. Not pregnant. She—" Frankie's hand trembled where it clutched her stomach. "She said she won't raise a baby that isn't hers."
The words hit me like a gunshot.
My perfect, invincible Alpha sister—sobbing on the kitchen floor because her mate had looked at her pregnancy and said no.
"Frankie…" I dropped down beside her, lace slip and all, grabbing her hand before I could think twice.
She squeezed back like I was the only solid thing left in the room.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered. "I wanted this so bad. I thought it would fix everything. But she—she doesn't want me like this."
For once, I had no snark. No plan. No fix-it spreadsheet.
Just my sister, breaking, and me, the Beta nobody, trying to hold her together.