Page 119 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Clip two is a bounty request from the same user two days earlier.
Fifty bucks for a photo of “the bakery mother,” clear face, no kids, sent to a masked address.
The reply trail is short.
It ends with a blurred photo posted and immediately deleted.
Deacon got the cached version anyway.
I push the clips aside and open the second folder, the one labeledPAYOUTS.
Deacon leaned on a friend who builds payment rails for food apps.
Legal, clean, and private enough that favors count more than forms.
The export shows two entries for the same job ID from last month.
One is hers, set to deposit into her small Brooklyn bank account.
The other is a duplicate created two hours later, same name, same tax ID, but a different payout address and a shell LLC attached.
The shell is tidy, dormant last year, active now.
I pull the filings.
The manager is listed as C. Conte.
A post office box repeats across three filings and a parking ticket from August.
I move to the next set. A catering platform sent a “payout verification” email that looks legitimate until you read the headers.
The reply-to routes to a free mail service.
The footer address is a block away from a real office.
Deacon ran the IP against a leak list from last spring and it pings a neighborhood in Bensonhurst I already know.
Nico has a friend there.
He plays good citizen on Sundays.
He drinks where the men who sell burner SIMs do not take receipts.
Identity, money, noise.
The triangle comes into focus.
I open the Health Department portal.
Anonymous complaints are public with redactions.
There are three about her in the last four months.
All filed at 1:13 in the morning.
All cut-and-paste language about “unsanitary storage” and “shared refrigeration” and “infants present during food prep.”
The callback number is a VOIP block.
