Page 23 of Web of Lies
"You mean she holds you accountable?" Evelyn points out and raises her brows.
"Something like that." I scoff and take a slow sip of my drink. "And the weirdest part?" I pause and let out a sigh. "I don't hate it."
Noah chuckles beside her, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "So, she challenges you, and you like that. That's rare."
"I do." I roll my wrist, the ice clinking against the edges of the glass as I swirl the drink in my hand, then look up at Noah. "Maybe she is to me what Evelyn is to you. It took her challenging you to turn you into a crazed man." Evelyn's cheeks flush a subtle shade of pink as her fingers dig into Noah's thigh.
"With the difference that you're already a crazed man." Noah snorts.
"Oh, and you're perfectly normal?" I cock a brow.
"More normal than you."
"Are you sure about this, Bird Boy?" The nickname makes Noah's eye twitch. It hits the right spot every single time. While I support his fascination with doves, using it to tease him is pretty effective and easily throws him off his game.
"Hey," Evelyn interrupts us before we get the chance to take the argument to the next level. "If what you said is true, and she is to you what I am to Noah..." Evelyn's lips curve into a sly smile. "That includes being the first person you're in love with."
Fuck. She got me.
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh, come on," she teases, cocking her head to the side. "It's exactly what you meant. You practically admitted it."
"Don't flatter yourself. You're reaching," I snap, and glare at both of them, swirling the ice in my glass just to keep my hands busy. "You're insufferable."
"Am I?" Evelyn leans back into Noah's side, beaming like a cat that got the cream. "Admit it, Kyle. There's no shame in it." She takes a sip of her wine. "You can pretend all you want, but I see it. You’re in love."
I remain silent, my gaze flicking to Noah for support. But he doesn't say anything. Instead, he simply slips his arm tighter around her waist and keeps his gaze locked on her as if she were the only person in the room. As if nothing she could do or say would ever break the hold she has over him. She could stab him, and he'd still think she was worth bleeding for.
Do I look the same at Riley?The thought creeps in, unwelcome and digging deep.
I run my fingers over my jaw, trying to wipe away the question. But maybe Evelyn is right. Maybe I'm in love, and I've already gotten too deep into it to notice the truth.
Chapter 12
Riley
The dark corridor of the restaurant stretches out in front of me with the office door looming at the end. The air is thick with the humidity of the late summer night and the faint scent of grease clinging to the walls. With each step, my sneakers grip the sticky tiled floor. I keep my flashlight low as I pass the kitchen and continue toward my destination. Even though there are no windows in the back, the uneasy feeling that someone might spot me from the front of the restaurant lingers in the back of my mind.
I shouldn't be here. Even less so than at the butcher shop. However, the restaurant hasn't been busted yet, so there's still a good chance they're hiding some valuable information somewhere, and I couldn't resist looking. Places like this always slip up; it's just a matter of knowing where to look. One would think that a business built on serving human meat would lock its system down with military-grade security. Firewalls, encrypted servers—something worth the effort. Instead, all it took was slipping into their public Wi-Fi, masking my MAC address, andpiggybacking on an unsecured device already logged in. From there, I found the admin panel and turned off the system.
The moment I slip into the room, I close the door behind me, leaving it slightly ajar. I sweep my flashlight across the room, looking for anything out of place. It's a simple office with a desk in the center and a laptop on top. A few chairs are lined up along the wall by the door, and a small table holds the handheld POS devices and receipt printers, charging for the night. Filing cabinets line the wall behind the desk, and a few faded, culinary-themed posters decorate the walls. Following the same pattern as before, I shine the flashlight on the ceiling and check each panel. But not a single one looks out of place.
Disappointment wells up inside me as I lower the flashlight, and my gaze falls on the large, sturdy desk. I step around it, push the chair back, and start yanking open the drawers and pulling out every document hidden inside. Most of them are basic: employee records, tip logs, payment slips, supplier orders, and delivery forms. Nothing special.
My attention then shifts to a filing cabinet. I move over to it and flip through folder after folder filled with business-related paperwork. Until a plastic file folder tucked away at the back of the cabinet catches the light of my flashlight. I reach inside, thankful for my jacket's protection as metal screws dig into my arm. After a moment, my fingers brush against the folder, and I grip it and pull it out. I flip it open right away and find the jackpot. It's like what I found at the butcher's. There are medical records, but more importantly, there are also supplier lists and a phone, as well as a small bag full of prepaid SIM cards. To top it all off, there are mentions of the Bratva and the Italian Mafia.
A cold shudder runs down my spine as the atmosphere shifts. Suddenly, the air feels heavy and suffocating, as if the walls of the room are closing in on me. Cold sweat trickles down my back, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Hand me the folder, and you're free to go." An altered male voice cuts through the silence. My heart skips a beat before slamming into overdrive. My heart hammers against my ribs as adrenaline floods my veins. I whip around and stumble back a step as my eyes lock onto a tall, broad figure blocking the doorway. He is dressed from head to toe in black and is wearing a balaclava that hides his face. My chest tightens, each breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts as I take another step back.
"I can't do that," I say, gripping the papers tighter.
"Yes, you can. If you do, you'll walk out of here alive," he says in a tone that is almost too calm. He doesn't move, blocking my only way out.
"No," I whisper, shaking my head as I slowly reach for the pistol tucked into my waistband. My slick, trembling fingers fumble for it, refusing to take my eyes off him, because if I give him even one second of carelessness, who knows what he will be doing.
"If I were you, I wouldn't do that." I freeze for a second at the threat, but take a deep breath to steady my nerves and draw my gun in one swift motion.
