Page 23 of Dublin Charmer
For right now, I lay my trap, building a maze of false endpoints and dead ends, each one leading them exactly where I want them to go.
It’s not so much that they take the bait—by now they realize I’m on to them and are searching for a way to get out and erase their trail. “Not going to happen.”
During the dance of them following my breadcrumbs, I initiated a piggyback program that not only locks down their access points but also starts a trace program that they likely won’t even know is active.
And, even if they realize, it’ll be too late.
Their attempt to disconnect is beautiful in its panic, but I’ve already closed the net. I can’t get their exact location—they’re too good for that—but I’ve trapped enough of their code to start building a profile.
Leaning back, I drain my whiskey and study the data streaming across my screen. Whoever Gravely’s hacker is, they’re not just talented—they’re an artist.
And now I have their brushstrokes.
“Next time,” I promise the empty room, already planning the digital net I’ll weave to catch them properly. “Next time, you won’t be getting away from me.”
The quiet Quinn might work in silence, but tonight, I made some noise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nyx
The diner buzzes with a strange stillness, the clatter of plates and silverware muted as I sit at a private table in the back corner. Fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the booths, and the smell of burnt coffee mingles with the faint scent of lingering holiday cinnamon.
Outside the door, Billy Gravely’s goons clock my arrival. Like always, they ignore me, other than to say they’ll let the boss know I’ve arrived. Not that I care. Idle conversation with Irish street thugs isn’t on the top of my list of things to do.
I run my fingers across my laptop, eyes scanning lines of code and data.
Something feels off, but I can’t pinpoint it. The code is straightforward but after last night’s showdown with Finn Quinn it feels like things are a bit laggy.
Barely. Maybe a fraction.
Or maybe I’m just jumpy.
I backed out before he could fully trace me. But now that minor victory seems like a whisper against the looming threat of feeling exposed.
I’m sure he doesn’t know who I am, but he’s definitely aware there’s a hacker circling in the waters of his family network. It annoys me to no end that he’s on to me.
That doesn’t happen…like ever.
And though the quiet hum of my system gives me no obvious concerns, I can’t shake this feeling in my gut. Everything looks normal on the surface, but there’s something. Or maybe there isn’t. Who the fuck knows?
Nothing is truly normal when you’re tangled up in a web of crime and deceit.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Twenty past two. Gravely’s late again.
Maybe he has legitimately been delayed by mob business, or maybe he’s just lauding his power over me, keeping me waiting to remind me who holds the cards.
I don’t need reminding.
The door swings open and there he is, cane in hand, striding in like he owns the place—which, given the current state of fear and violence on the south side of the Liffey—I’m sure he practically does.
Without a greeting or even a look of acknowledgement, he drops a thick folder onto the table with a loud thud.
“What’s this?” I reach for it cautiously, ensuring I’m meant to take it and look inside. When he doesn’t warn me off or tell me otherwise, I pull it closer.
“I’ve purchased a warehouse.” He slides into his usual seat across from me. “Add that to your map of my holdings, add it into whatever you do, and keep the details private.”
I fight not to roll my eyes. Who would I tell? The only person I care about is locked in a cell. I don’t have friends. I don’t go out.And I sure as hell don’t go around gossiping about my clients no matter how hostile I am about working with them.
