The Masked Siren: Seducing My Enemy

Aine waited until Augustine left for the office.

At 9:00 AM, she was back on the subway. Not to the decoy address in Brooklyn, but to a different one, five blocks away. A nondescript brownstone with a separate entrance.

She checked the street. Clear.

Aine went down to the basement apartment. She unlocked the door.

Inside, it wasn't a home. It was a command center.

The windows were blacked out with heavy curtains. The walls were covered in photos, maps, and financial flowcharts. Red string connected the faces of the Talley family board members.

Aine walked over to the photo of Julian. She took a red marker and circled his face.

Weakness confirmed.

She sat down at a laptop. She pulled a small device from her purse and plugged it in. Last night, while Julian was fumbling with his phone in the car-his wet fingers unable to use the biometric scanner-he'd been forced to type in his passcode. Aine had been watching. 0429. His birthday. Predictable. More importantly, when he connected his phone to the car's bluetooth, her device, disguised as a charging cable, had initiated a full data clone.

Aine initiated a brute-force attack on a specific encrypted folder using the passcode as a seed.

It took ten minutes.

Folder after folder opened. Photos of women. Nudes. Text messages bragging to his friends.

"Standard trash," Aine muttered.

She dug deeper. She found a folder labeled "Dad - Foundation."

She clicked it. It was encrypted with a stronger key.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Julian.

Hope you slept well. I'm downstairs.

Aine's heart hammered against her ribs. He was at the decoy address. She ran to a monitor displaying a live feed from a hidden camera across the street.

His car was there. Right in front of the building.

He was early. Too early. Aine was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

She grabbed an old, oversized sweater from a pile on the floor. She messed up her hair. She sprayed cheap vanilla perfume on her neck to mask the scent of Augustine's expensive shampoo.

Aine ran out of the command center, locking it behind her, and sprinted the five blocks. She entered the decoy building from the back and raced up the stairs, making herself breathless.

She burst out the front door.

Julian was standing there, holding a bag from a high-end bakery and a pharmacy bag.

"I was worried about infection," he said, holding up the pharmacy bag. "And I brought breakfast."

Aine stopped, putting a hand to her chest. "You can't just show up here, Julian."

"I wanted to see you."

People were staring. A homeless man Aine had paid twenty bucks to act crazy started yelling at a pigeon near Julian's car.

"Please," Aine said, her face flushing. "Go. Everyone is looking."

Julian looked around. He didn't look scared. He looked like a king visiting the peasants.

"Get in," he said. "I'm taking you somewhere."

"I have rehearsal."

"I called Lazlo. You have the day off."

"You don't control my life!" Aine snapped.

He stepped closer. "I'm a VIP, Siren. I get what I want. Get in the car."

Aine hesitated, then got in.

As they drove away, she looked at the dashboard.

"So," Aine said, trying to sound casual. "What do you do all day? Besides saving damsels?"

"Board meetings," he sighed. "My dad is obsessed with the Charity Foundation right now."

"Charity?" Aine asked. "That sounds nice."

He laughed. "It's a tax shelter. Boring as hell. Just moving money around so the IRS doesn't get it."

Aine kept her face blank.

"Sounds complicated," she said.

"I'll teach you sometime," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Let's go shopping."

Aine looked out the window.

Keep talking, Julian. Just keep talking.