Thursday, 5:42 p.m.
Location: Ricci Compound — Kitchen Command Center
Marco burst through the kitchen door still in his football hoodie, smelling like sweat, grass, and cologne that wasn't doing its job. He didn't even bother with hello—just slammed his gym bag onto the counter.
"We've got a problem," he said.
"Shocking," I muttered, spoon-deep in a carton of gelato. "Which kind? Dead body, cops, or social media meltdown?"
Marco dragged both hands through his hair. "Luca's out of town. Vince just got called to the east side to handle something with the union guys. Which means…" His eyes locked on me.
I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. "No."
"Yes."
"Nooo."
"Yes." and then he add "You're in charge."
I almost dropped my gelato. "Excuse me? I'm sixteen. Beta. Invisible. Not qualified."
Marco leaned forward, bracing his palms on the counter. "Dad trusts you. Vince trusts you. I can't—" he gestured helplessly—"I've got practice, a scrimmage, and a meeting with my coach. You're the only one who knows the numbers and the cameras and the systems."
My stomach twisted. "The motel?"
"Handled for now. Frankie's got influencers lined up, and Vince already called in a cleaning crew." Marco's jaw tightened. "It's the pawnshop. Someone's been sniffing around."
I swallowed hard.
The pawnshop. Out of all our fronts, it was the messiest. Shady enough to attract cops, sketchy enough to attract rival gangs, and sloppy enough to attract YouTubers. Basically, the Bermuda Triangle of Ricci headaches.
Marco shoved a set of keys across the counter to me. "You've got the code. You've got the ledgers. Just… keep it running till Vince is back."
I stared at the keys like they might bite me. "And if something happens?"
Marco gave me a sharp, humorless grin. "Then you'll handle it."
I wanted to throw the keys at his smug Alpha face, but instead, I pocketed them.
"Fine," I muttered, then narrowed my eyes at him. "But if I'm running your circus, I want the playbook. Give me your operation. All of it. Tips included."
Marco blinked, caught off guard. "My… operation?"
"Yes, Marco. Your little side hustle at the pawnshop. Don't look at me like that—I'm not dumb. I know you run things differently when Vince isn't breathing down your neck. Spill."
He shifted uncomfortably, dragging a chair out and dropping into it. "Okay… fine. But you didn't hear this from me."
"Obviously." I gestured for him to go on.
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "First thing—you gotta watch the regulars. The ones who come in too often with the same type of merch? Stolen. Don't ask, don't push. Just log it under the 'miscellaneous resale' account and move it fast. The trick is pricing it low enough to get rid of it quick, but high enough they don't think you're desperate."
I scribbled notes on the back of a grocery receipt. "Okay. Keep going."
"Second—don't haggle with bikers. Ever. They'll test you, and if you give an inch, they'll clean out the register. Just say no, stare them down, and if they still push, you hit the silent alarm. Greta knows the code."
"Noted," I said, my pen flying. "What else?"
Marco hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Third—don't trust anyone who comes in asking for 'special stock.' That's code. If you don't recognize them, don't sell them anything under the counter. We've got a list. No list, no sale. That's how Dad keeps track of who's loyal and who's fishing."
I raised a brow. "Wow. Look at you. Almost responsible."
He smirked. "Fourth—never, ever leave the safe open. Greta once forgot, and let's just say… Dad nearly put her through the glass counter."
I finished scribbling and tucked the receipt into my pocket. "Okay. Got it. Watch the regulars, don't haggle with bikers, check the list, don't screw up the safe."
Marco leaned forward again, all Alpha grin. "And last tip? Don't let them smell you're scared. Doesn't matter if you're Beta—you act like you own the place, they'll believe you do."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Coach Mafia."
Then, without waiting for him to puff up even more, I snatched the bike keys right out of his hoodie pocket.
Marco's head whipped around. "Hey—"
"That's for leaving me in charge," I said, flashing him my sweetest Beta smile as I dangled the keys. "Consider it a management fee."
Before he could tackle me, I bolted out the door, helmet already in hand. A few seconds later, I was on Marco's motorcycle, the engine growling under me like it was just as mad at him as I was.
The night air slapped my face as I shot out of the compound and into the streets, adrenaline buzzing like static in my veins.
The pawnshop loomed ahead—our least glamorous, most cursed front. Flickering neon sign. Bars on the windows. Paint peeling like dandruff. If mafia central had a middle child business, this was it.
I killed the engine, swung off the bike, and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets.
Rule number one? Don't trust Marco.
If he'd said the pawnshop just needed a little "keeping an eye on," that meant something had already gone wrong. And lucky me—I was about to find out what.