Her avatar stops moving, settling at a restaurant I don’t recognize from the bird’s eye view, so I zoom in.
Liotta.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Trendy spot. Pretentious name. The kind of place that serves radish foam and thinks charging twenty bucks for "heritage carrots" is revolutionary cuisine.
I grin as my boredom gives way to intrigue.
“Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
It takes me less than thirty seconds to crack their camera feed. They’re running the same third-party system I’ve seen a hundred times. I punch a hole through the shit-excuse for a firewall and scroll through their camera screens like I’m flipping TV channels.
And… bingo.
Cassidy Hayes is following the hostess through the space to a table for two.
And damn.
She’s a vision. Even in grainy black and white, there’s no mistaking her—long raven-black hair tumbling over one bare shoulder, her features sharp, elegant,fierce. The camera doesn’t do her justice, but it tries.
Her raven hair has volume for days and is just screaming for someone to run their fingers through the strands and pull.
I tilt my head, squinting a little.
“Damn. Could you wear a shorter fucking dress, Cass?”
Can’t tell the color. Their feeds are outdated and grayscale. But I know it will be on her Instagram story. Not that I look at it every day to know she always posts her outfit before going anywhere.
And there it is.
A full-length mirror selfie. Phone held to cover her face. She’s kneeling, back straight. Round ass fucking screaming at me in the deep purple mini that makes her skin glow.
The woman’s a work of art—and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I feel like punching a wall.
No, that’s bullshit, I know the reason and it’s the ass-wipe sitting across from her.
Button-up shirt, lazy smirk, and the kind of energy that screamsI peaked in college.
Naturally, I hate his fucking guts.
So, I do what any rational, calm, definitely-not-jealous person would do.
I take a screenshot of his face and drag it into the CIA’s facial recognition software.
Yes. I have access.
Yes. It’s illegal.
No. I don’t care.
Their system is garbage. If they didn’t want me poking around, they should’ve made it harder.
While that processes, I flip back to the feed and start rerouting the restaurant’s cameras.
One by one, I rotate each lens until all fifteen of them are pointed at Cassidy’s table.
Fifteen different angles.
