Two nights later.
The luxury penthouse of Ariel and Chase stood tall and glittering against the city skyline, its sleek glass windows gleaming under the moonlight.
From across the street—on a rooftop parking garage—Monica sat inside a black van, dressed in a janitorial coverall and dark gloves. Her hair was tucked under a ball cap. She looked nothing like Monica Fernando, and that was the point.
Behind her, a man sat at a small tech station, screens showing different angles of the building. Monica leaned forward, watching the grainy footage of the building’s service entrance.
“Basement camera loop’s ready,” the man said, tapping on his keyboard. “You’ve got a fifteen-minute window before it resets.”
Monica smiled coldly.
“Fifteen minutes is all I need.”
She stood, zipping up the co
