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Fingers flew over the keys as Paddy worked into the night, losing all clue about time. He built a script to correlate sending times with known server behavior, cross-referenced metadata from similar emails across dark web dumps. Patterns emerged.Then: an IP fragment buried in an overlooked X-Originating header, likely a misconfigured node in the hacker’s proxy chain. Not enough to identify, thought Paddy, chewing his lip with growing excitement, but a starting point.He leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing behind his thick lenses.“There,” he whispered. “Same fragment appears in a post on a darknet forum. A boast about defacing a corporate site. Sloppy.”*Bianca looked toward the ringing phone. Roxanne was calling her again, one of countless pleading calls, begging her friend to respond. Unwilling to involve gentle, sweet and submissive Roxanne in what was also a matter regarding her noxious step-brother, Bianca had hesitated to respond all these days. but now, she felt calme
Paddy didn’t notify anyone right away. The name he’d unearthed — Reza Karimi — was too clean. No prior infractions. No online presence beyond a long-dead student repository. It was a ghost of a digital identity.But ghosts left fingerprints.*Bianca walked into the gym where O’Grady was practising that evening. The Irishman had rung her in the afternoon, to tell her he would not be coming in for lunch, as was his normal routine.“Got a fight coming up, lass,” he had growled, his growl sending shivers down her spine.”See you in the evening, before I go to the Casino.” She pouted at that.The brothers had made it clear. they did not want her to be in the crosshairs until Nico Piccolo had been suitably dealt with. But what they did NOT inform her was that Jana Rudneko was back in the country and had been rumoured to have visited Hollowford.Enough information to send the brothers into high alert.“I like to come to the Casino,” Bianca had protested, but when the Irishman put his foot
Fingers flew over the keys as Paddy worked into the night, losing all clue about time. He built a script to correlate sending times with known server behavior, cross-referenced metadata from similar emails across dark web dumps. Patterns emerged.Then: an IP fragment buried in an overlooked X-Originating header, likely a misconfigured node in the hacker’s proxy chain. Not enough to identify, thought Paddy, chewing his lip with growing excitement, but a starting point.He leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing behind his thick lenses.“There,” he whispered. “Same fragment appears in a post on a darknet forum. A boast about defacing a corporate site. Sloppy.”*Bianca looked toward the ringing phone. Roxanne was calling her again, one of countless pleading calls, begging her friend to respond. Unwilling to involve gentle, sweet and submissive Roxanne in what was also a matter regarding her noxious step-brother, Bianca had hesitated to respond all these days. but now, she felt calme
It was early morning when Bianca rose. She smiled as she looked around. The bed , as large as it was, for she shared it with her Masters, was empty, save for herself. Sitting up with a start, Bianca whipped her head around. Where was the Irishman? And St Just?As though her mind had conjured them up, she heard the Irishman. He was singing a bawdy Irish song from the washroom, “So I called me wife and I said to her: "Will you kindly tell to me,Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?"yodelled O’Grady lustily and Bianca grinned. She could not help it. Liam O’Grady could not sing to save his life, but this song was his favourite, titled "Seven Drunken Nights"It was a humorous and cheeky traditional Irish folk song about a gullible man who comes home drunk each night, catching suspicious signs of his wife's infidelity — but believing her absurd explanations.Bianca strolled over to the washroom and sure enough, hidden behind a cloud of steam as he soaped his
Three days passed while the Masters tried to break the code, to try and find who was behind the letter. Although they suspected that Nico Piccolo was behind the mysterious, terrorising midnight calls and the letters and photos, they needed more proof before they acted.Unfortunately, all their skills and those of the IT team they had at their disposal could not crack the IP address. Too complicated, too clever, said their best men, throwing up their hands in defeat.Laim O’ Grady wasted no time.Bianca, trying hard to be brave, was an emotional wreck beneath all the bravado.She had snuggled between them that night, or rather, that day, when they headed home.O’Grady watched as she rested her head on his brother’s chest and said, her lower lip, full and plump, trembling,“I was…I thought…you…” At that, O’Grady had pulled her into his arms forcefully and growled, when he came up for air,“Did you seriously think that the woman in those grainy photographs could be mistaken for you?”Hi
Bianca looked down in horror at the large photographs, three of them, which had fallen onto the large table. They showed a woman in openly compromising positions, with different men. The woman in all the photographs was the same.SHE WAS LOOKING AT HERSELF.BECAUSE IN EVERY PHOTO IT WAS BINACA.She sank to the leather armchair, her hand going to her mouth in silent horror, unable to make a sound. Barry, who had come in the minute he heard that she had received an undisclosed envelope, caught her as she slumped back in the chair, her eyes wide, stuck.She shut her eyes and waved her hand, trying to stop him from seeing the pictures.Barry was family; she could not bear him to look at those sick pictures.As he held her to his deep chest, Bianca felt his body vibrate with rage as he looked at them, holding her face buried in his chest. She could smell the leather jacket he always wore as she looked up at him, her large brown eyes filled with tears of anger.And that was when the door