Page 8 of Web of Lies
Despite Hunt pushing her back, she rises on her tiptoes, leans in, and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. She then turns and walks right past us, stealing a glance at us with a smirk on her face before disappearing into the elevator. Hannah and I both turn to face Mr. Hunt. Our brows raise, and our faces must show our confusion.
"Not a single word, you two gossip queens," he says, looking back and forth between us before his gaze settles on me. "What can I do for you, Riley?"
"I've got the information you wanted from Mr. Holman," I say, holding up the document.
"Perfect. Come in." He turns and guides me into his office. I shoot Hannah a quick smile and follow him into the familiar, spacious, bright office. Shutting the door, I place the folder on his desk. He sits down, picks it up, and flips through the pages.
"Evelyn said that if you need anything else, you should call Mr. Holman, and he'll look into it," I say, lingering as I watch Mr. Hunt examine each page.
"Thanks," he says, continuing to read. When I don't move, he shifts his gaze from the papers to me, his brows furrowing."Anything else?" His deep brown eyes lock onto mine, and my heart skips a beat.
Even after five years of working with him, being alone with him remains intimidating. There's something about the way he carries himself: commanding and controlled, always a step ahead. It doesn't help that he's also incredibly handsome, with sharp features and dark eyes that radiate warmth yet seem to see right through you. At some point, nearly everyone in the office has had a crush on him, whether romantic or more paternal, and I'm no exception.
My voice catches in my throat as the question I've been holding back rises to the top of my mind. I know it will upset him. He won't yell; he never raises his voice to his employees, especially the women. But I have to give it a try.
"I was wondering about that raid on the butcher a few weeks ago—" Mr. Hunt lets out a sigh and sets the folder down as I continue speaking. "Do you, by any chance, have more information about it?"
"Riley, no," he says, his voice dropping to a deep rumble as he takes on a more serious tone. "I thought we were past your fascination with the Butcher. As I've told you countless times over the years, I have no information. Even if I did, it's in your best interest to know as little as possible."
"But—"
"There is no "but." This fascination of yours has to stop. Now. I don't know what you want with that information, but it can't be good. The last thing I can afford right now is to lose another skilled employee, whether to injury, retirement, love, pregnancy, or, in your case, curiosity getting you killed. So, I'm asking you: stop."
My stomach churns during his lecture, and I lower my head to avoid his gaze. "Understood."
"Good. Believe me, I only have your best interests at heart," Mr. Hunt begins, and my heart rate quickens at the immediate change in his tone. He has lost all traces of his strict, firm demeanor, replaced by a hint of reassuring warmth. "I care about your well-being. I want you and everyone else to be safe."
"I know." I nod and lift my head, giving him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay." His lips curl upward. "Now go back to work. We'll be receiving some reports shortly."
"Yes, sir," I say and turn, walking out of his office without saying another word. The moment the door falls shut behind me, I lean against it and let out a frustrated sigh.
It went exactly as expected. Getting information directly from Mr. Hunt is like trying to pry open a vault with your bare hands. It's useless, and you're only setting yourself up for failure. Even if he knows anything about the Butcher, he won't share it with me or anyone else. Not now. Not ever.
That leaves me with only one option: finding another way.
Chapter 4
Kyle
My gaze locks on the ring in the center of the old warehouse, where two massive men clash in a brutal boxing match. Their skin glistens with sweat and streaks of blood, dripping onto the dirty floor below. The air is thick and suffocating, filled with the sour smell of sweat and iron from blood, mixing with heavy clouds of tobacco smoke. The crowd around the ring roars with each punch, everyone craving the display of violence. Cheers, shouts, and curses blend into a deafening chaos.
Those matches have always been one of my favorite ways to spend the night, and they always will be. The air feels alive, buzzing with the raw energy of chaos, anger, fear, and excitement. It's brutal, ugly, but that's exactly why I love it. For a while, the voices inside my head go quiet, drowned out by the display of pure violence in front of me.
I lift my cigarette to my lips and inhale deeply, keeping my eyes on the boxer with the snake tattoo on his chest. He's beating the hell out of his opponent, who is lying on the ground barely able to stay up. I wasn't planning to place any bets tonight, butwhen I saw his name on the lineup, I couldn't help myself, and as expected, the bet paid off.
Eventually, the referee pulls the fighter away from the motionless body in the middle of the ring and raises the winner's arm, declaring the victory. The crowd roars around the ring, some cheering while others curse in disappointment. To prevent any fights in the crowd, the winner is escorted out, while the loser receives medical attention and is carried away.
The crowd thins out, with many gathered at the betting table collecting their winnings, while others leave, and some linger, discussing the upcoming fight and who to bet on next.
My gaze drifts over the crowd as I search for one specific person. A pesky rodent is roaming the streets and needs to be taken care of by pest control.
Near the shabby makeshift bar, I spot two men engaged in a silent exchange. One man hands cash to the other in return for a small ziplock bag of whatever drug he’s hooked on.
My eyes dart from their hands to their faces. Sneaking a peek at the photo the right-hand man of the heir to the Pakhan handed me, I double-check that it's the guy they want out of the way. I look back and forth between the image and the man, spotting the birthmark on both, which confirms his identity. That’s my guy. I slide the photo into my inside pocket of my jacket and turn my attention back to the scene in front of me.
Carrying out the hit here is out of the question. Even though no one present would bat an eye if they happened to witness someone getting stabbed in one of the dirty corners. Death is an ever-present guest at these kinds of events. Either a fighter loses his life in the ring, or someone is killed for causing trouble in the audience. I’ve seen it all, and I admit I have been part of it as well.
