Thursday, 9:02 p.m.
Location: Ricci Compound — My Room, aka Crisis HQ
You know that moment in movies where the heroine stares at herself in the mirror, smudged mascara, dramatic lighting, violins swelling, and says something inspiring like I've got this?
Yeah. That's not me.
I sat cross-legged on my bed in an oversized hoodie, a half-eaten bag of chips spilling crumbs everywhere, phone buzzing nonstop on my nightstand. My reflection in the vanity mirror wasn't tragic or cinematic. It was… Beta. Hair in a messy braid, dark circles blooming under my eyes, and a "Why me?" expression stuck on repeat.
Let's recap.
Dad?
Out of town. Luca Ricci, our fearless Alpha patriarch, had packed a duffel bag full of guns and driven off in the tank—our armored sedan—to go "handle business" and probably sneak off to see the mate none of us were supposed to know about. Strike one.
Vince?
Supposed to be the reliable lawyer sibling. Except he was currently knee-deep in east-side union negotiations, trying to keep corrupt cops from swallowing us whole. He wouldn't answer my texts unless it involved court filings or invoices. Strike two.
Frankie?
My big sister, our PR genius, TikTok queen, fixer of messes. Pregnant. Her fated mate who doesn't want her to keep the baby. She'd been crying on the kitchen floor last night like she'd just binge-watched every sad K-drama in existence. Emotionally and physically out of commission. Strike three.
Marco?
Our resident muscle, football golden boy, and occasional hothead. The guy was in so deep with his own screwups—probation, failing grades, fights with the team—I wasn't sure if he'd show up to practice tomorrow or in the obituaries. Strike four.
Matteo?
Sweet med-school dreamer. Too nice, too quiet, and if I dragged him into this, he'd try to stitch up bullet wounds with emotional support tea. Strike five.
So, congratulations to me, Sophia Ricci: the only Beta in an all-Alpha mafia family. Sixteen years old. No power, no fangs, no backup. And yet somehow? Running the empire.
I flopped back onto my pillows, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above me. My brain was screaming: What now?
Because here's the thing—I didn't just inherit family drama. Oh no. I inherited a dumpster fire.
We had FBI drones sniffing around the pizza shops, YouTubers circling like vultures, a biker I knocked unconscious with Marco's helmet who turned out to be carrying a card that connected to Liam Connolly's supposedly dead cousin, and a cop tonight who definitely wasn't playing for Team Lawful Justice.
Basically, the Riccis weren't just on thin ice. We were on thin ice with sharks underneath.
And me?
I was the one skating.
I grabbed my notebook—the one with glitter stickers that said Mathletes Rule on the front—and flipped past algebra scribbles to my Mafia Survival Plan. Because of course I had one. Pages of budgets, contingency lists, color-coded flowcharts.
But staring at it now, the reality hit: flowcharts don't stop bullets.
Who could help me?
Dad? Gone. Vince? Busy. Frankie? Pregnant and unstable. Marco? Disaster. Matteo? Useless in this arena.
Friends?
Izzy was head-over-heels for me and too Alpha-loud to keep a secret.
Noah was in puppy-love chaos with Izzy and eating his body weight in knots at the pizzeria.
Emma Dante was busy vlogging my downfall for clout.
Liam—Liam Connolly, the Alpha son of our rival family, with his cryptic texts and way-too-knowing smirks—was the only person feeding me actual intel. Which was insane, because I should not trust him.
And yet…
My phone buzzed again. Another DM from him. Just two words:
Liam: Careful, princess.
I squeezed my eyes shut, groaning into my pillow. Princess. God help me, the nickname was sticking.
My friend options were limited:
Keep running things until Dad and Vince got back.
Avoid Emma and her stupid camera like the plague.
Pretend Frankie wasn't falling apart.
Find a way to make sure that biker's connection to the Connollys didn't blow back on me.
But the real truth?
I didn't trust anyone. Not my family. Not my friends. Not the cops. Not the FBI.
I was sixteen years old, in over my head, and completely alone.
And maybe—just maybe—I kind of liked it that way.
Because if there was one thing being a Beta taught me, it was this: when nobody expects you to matter, you can get away with everything.
I sat up, grabbed a pen, and scrawled three words across a blank page.
PLAN BETA RULES.
I underlined it three times, then tapped the page with my pen. Plans were only as good as their moving pieces, and right now most of my pieces were either useless, missing, or crying on the kitchen floor about fated-mate drama.
So, obviously, I needed a distraction plan. Something so ridiculous, so over-the-top, that Frankie would have no choice but to snap out of mascara-streaked despair and join the land of the functioning.
Cue: Diego Perez.
Diego, handsome strong alpha with more charm than sense. Currently on "holiday" from Sin City, which in Diego-speak meant: hiding out from someone.
I scribbled fast in my notebook:
Step One: Noon tomorrow, pizzeria. Diego strolls in, plays the part of mystery Alpha. Loud jokes, bad flirting, fake competition energy.
Step Two: Frankie sees him, gets riled up. And nothing—NOTHING—pulls my Alpha sister out of a meltdown faster than someone challenging her pride.
Step Three: Frankie, distracted and pissed, forgets she's heartbroken for five minutes. Which is all I need to get her TikTok PR brain back online. Because honestly? A sobbing Alpha is no good to anyone.
And bonus: if Diego turned on the charm too much, maybe Frankie's new mate would catch wind and feel a little jealous. Which meant two birds, one pizza oven.
I leaned back, pen dangling between my fingers. It was stupid. Absolutely reckless. Exactly the kind of thing that might just work.
I snapped a pic of my notes and sent a message to Diego:
Me: Tomorrow. Noon. Pizzeria. Wear something that says "annoying Alpha" without saying "FBI bait."
His reply came in under a minute:
Diego: Bee, you wound me. Annoying Alpha is my default setting.
I groaned into my pillow. Frankie better appreciate this.