Thursday, 8:13 p.m.
Location: Ricci Pawnshop — Front Counter
The pawnshop door creaked open with its usual broken-bell jingle, and I stepped inside, Marco's helmet still tucked under my arm.
The smell hit first—gun oil, cheap cologne, and sweat. Not good.
The second thing? Greta.
Pinned against the counter by a thick-necked Alpha biker with a revolver jammed under her chin.
"Open the safe," he growled, leather vest straining across his shoulders. "Now, bitch, or I—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because I didn't even think. Didn't hesitate.
Helmet still in my grip, I swung it up and smashed it right into his temple.
The crack echoed like a gunshot.
The biker staggered sideways, gun clattering to the linoleum. Greta ducked behind the counter with a gasp as I stepped forward, Beta little me, calmly bringing Marco's bike helmet down on the guy's skull again.
He collapsed to the floor, groaning. Out cold, or close enough.
I straightened, breathing hard, the helmet dangling casually from my hand. "Rule number one," I said, almost to myself. "Don't trust Marco."
Greta peeked up from behind the counter, wide-eyed. "Holy hell, Sophia—"
I shrugged, setting the helmet on the counter like it was just another pawned item. "What? He was asking for a demo. I gave him one."