There’s a pause before he exhales sharply. "Shit. You sure he got a clear shot?"
I look back toward the alley, "Clear enough. Find out who the fuck they are. Now."
I hang up, scan the shadows one more time, then head back to my car. Clearly, I’m not the only one watching Violet Cole, and now she’s not just some girl on my radar.
She’s a target.
While I was chasing a ghost and nearly compromising myself in the process, I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere withZlike this. Watching from a distance wasn’t enough. I needed eyes and ears where it mattered most.
I called Maverick, and by the time she gets home, her apartment is wired. It should unsettle me, how quickly I cross that line. But it doesn’t. Surveillance is protocol.Routine. Necessary.
What isn’t necessary is me replaying the footage in my office like it’s a film I’m too invested in.
I’m expecting a crack. A flaw. A slip—something that ties her to the drug she dropped into my penthouse like a lit match.
Instead, she sings.
Soft, unrestrained, and a little off-key. She twirls with a wooden spoon while waiting for water to boil. Hums while folding laundry. Pushes her hair back with the back of her wrist the way tired women do when they don’t have time for themselves.
There’s nothing calculated about her movements–nothing rehearsed. Nothing like the woman who met my gaze across a room full of bodies and dared me to look away.
She is disarmingly human.
Then Ella walks in, and the shift is instant—like watching someone step back into their rightful skin. Violet becomes gravity. Structure. The axis Ella’s world balances on.
Homework. Dinner. Tomorrow’s lunch. And I watch all of it. Every small, unimportant, and strangely intimate moment.
I rewind the footage and see her sing. Watch her spin. Observe her tuck a blanket around her sister’s shoulders before collapsing onto the couch.
This isn’t about surveillance anymore.
It’s her.
I’ve watched Violet Cole’s carefully placed cameras for two days now, and yet I still have no answers aboutZ.
It’s time for plan B.I choose the one thing guaranteed to draw her out.
I call Maverick. “We’re having another party. Cami’s going to host.”
“Cami?” he asks.
“She brings Violet. Violet brings the drug.”
He doesn’t argue. He knows the tone.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” he says. “Are you sure about this?”
No. I’m not.But I can’t stop.
“Make sure Cami knows,” I say. “Bring her. Bring the drug. Or don’t bother showing up.”
He hums. “Copy that.”
I end the call and sit back, letting the truth settle like static under my skin.
If Violet Cole won’t give me answers in the light, I’ll drag them out of her in the dark.
Chapter 8
