Monday, 7:48 a.m.
Location: Saint Gabriel's Prep, Getting drop off by Lucas
"If I get arrested, I'm naming you in every group project for the rest of my life."
Luca didn't even blink. The man has survived car bombs and committee meetings; my sass wasn't going to break him.
"You're not going to get arrested," he said. "You're going to keep your head down, do the books, and go to school like nothing's changed."
"Except everything's changed."
He looked at me. That unreadable, calm look he does right before threatening someone's dentist.
"Adriana's gone. The family's under pressure. And you, Sophia, are the one person no one is watching."
"Wow," I said. "It's an honor to be the human beige sweater of this family."
His jaw twitched. "You always wanted to be useful."
"I wanted to be left alone."
"That's not an option anymore."
Oh, perfect. Not only am I a Beta stuck between Alpha ego wars and midterms, but now I'm officially the mafia's unpaid intern.
I stood up, folder in hand, trying to channel confidence instead of sheer Beta panic.
"One condition," I said, halfway to the door.
He raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"I still get to do math team."
There was a long pause. Luca Ricci, head of the family, criminal kingpin of Mafia Central, nodded.
"Deal."
The next morning, I woke up to 87 unread messages in the family group chat. Fifty of them were from Frankie, warning everyone not to post anything "visually illegal" on TikTok. (Direct quote.)
Marco responded with a gym selfie and a gun emoji.
Matteo sent a meme about family therapy.
I closed the chat before I could lose brain cells.
I barely made it to homeroom without someone stepping on me. Alphas have no sense of spatial awareness. It's like walking through a hallway full of semi-trucks in hormone cologne.
Izzy caught up to me at my locker, already in a bad mood.
"You ghosted me last night."
"I was busy getting emotionally demolished over meatballs," I said, shoving my hoodie in with more force than necessary.
Izzy leaned against the locker next to mine like she owned the whole damn building. She probably could if she wanted to.
"What happened?"
"My mom left my dad. And he tried to promote me. In the mafia."
She stared at me. "Wait. Like, for real?"
I just looked at her.
"Holy shit. Are you okay?"
"No, but I look fantastic."
She snorted. "You look like you were punched by a spreadsheet."
We started walking. People parted for her automatically. Alpha pheromones do that. I trailed behind like a reluctant sidekick with trauma.
"Also," she added casually, "there's a new guy."
"Please don't say 'Alpha transfer student' like we're in a bad romance novel."
Izzy grinned. "Too late."
We rounded the corner just as he walked past.
Tall. Hair like he didn't care. That kind of lazy confidence that only came from good genetics or criminal connections.
And yep. Alpha.
I clocked him immediately. He had that low-burn scent Alphas get when they're trying not to be intimidating, which somehow makes it worse.
He stopped. Looked right at me.
Not Izzy. Not the hallway. Me.
And then; he smirked.
I stared back, heart doing something very stupid and unapproved.
Izzy leaned in. "What the hell was that?"
"No idea," I muttered. "But I think my life just got more complicated."
"Did someone say complication?"
Noah Grant, golden-retriever Alpha and walking source of secondhand embarrassment, practically teleported into my peripheral vision. He was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and had one AirPod in, which meant he was only half-listening—classic Noah multitasking.
He grinned like we were at a party instead of halfway through a cortisol spike. "Please tell me someone's in love with someone inappropriate. I need a distraction. Izzy's been emotionally constipated all morning."
Izzy smacked him on the arm. "I'm literally standing right here."
"And yet," Noah said brightly, "emotionally constipated."
Before I could say anything, the hallway shifted.
Liam Connolly.
He didn't just walk—he glided. Like he'd read a manual titled How to Move Like a Suspiciously Attractive Problem. His tie was loose, his sleeves were rolled up, and I was fairly certain he knew exactly how good he looked.
Worse: he headed straight toward me.
Noah stopped talking. Izzy's hand twitched like she was ready to break a nose. I braced for a confrontation, a threat, maybe even a veiled mafia insult.
But Liam?
He just paused. Met my eyes.
Then said, low and too casual, "Sophia Ricci. Huh."
I blinked. "Do I know you?"
"Nope," he said, smile twitching. "But I know your family."
And just like that, all the oxygen left the hallway.
There are three responses when an Alpha boy casually tells you he knows your mafia family in the middle of third-period passing time:
1. Pretend he's mistaken and redirect with charm.
2. Call your brother Marco and let him handle it (not recommended).
3. Black out, change your name, and start a new life as a dental hygienist in Nebraska.
I went with Option 1. Sort of.
"You must be thinking of someone else," I said, holding my books like they were a shield and not just my crumpled pre-calc homework.
Liam tilted his head. "Nope. Definitely you. Ricci, right? Family owns a few motels? Pizzerias? A pawn shop or two?"
Izzy stepped in, suddenly all Alpha tension and narrowed eyes. "Do you have a reason for talking to her, or are you just bored?"
He ignored her completely. Which, by the way, no one does.
Alphas don't ignore other Alphas. It's like breaking some kind of genetic handshake agreement. Noah noticed too—he took his AirPod out, which for him is like announcing a national emergency.
"I'm Liam Connolly," Liam said, offering a hand. "Transferred this week. From the south side."
I did not shake it.
Instead, I said, "Well, Liam Connolly, if you're done stalking my last name, maybe try remembering that this is Algebra II and not a gang census."
He smiled like I'd just offered him a second helping of trouble. "Just saying hi."
And then he walked off. Just like that.
Izzy stared after him like she was calculating how many ways she could take him down with a pencil and a lunch tray. "Connolly," she muttered. "You heard that, right?"
"Yeah." I blew out a breath. "It's a problem."
Noah, bless him, blinked like someone had asked him to solve a murder mystery using only vibes. "Wait. That Connolly?"
"Rival family," Izzy said without blinking. "Irish. His brother runs the docks. I think someone tried to burn down one of our motels because of them."
"Oh," Noah said, looking between us. "Cool. So we're not doing friendship now?"
"I don't even like him!" I said, too quickly.
"Right," Izzy said, deadpan. "That's why your whole face went into panic-hormone mode."
"Beta," I reminded her, pointing to my neck like it was a legal disclaimer. "We don't have hormone modes. We have tax spreadsheets and snack anxiety."
Izzy folded her arms. "Still doesn't mean he's allowed to look at you like that."
"Like what?"
"Like he's memorizing your scent even though you don't have one."
I did not respond to that. I couldn't. Because a) I wanted to scream, b) I also wanted to vomit, and c) part of me was now deeply concerned that Liam Connolly had memorized something.
"Maybe he's just weird," Noah offered.
"No," I said. "He's an Alpha. That's worse."
The bell rang.
We started toward class, me in the middle, flanked by two Alphas who were both trying really hard not to be jealous and failing spectacularly. And somewhere behind us, I swear I could feel Liam watching.
Welcome to Monday.