Page 16 of Web of Lies

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, and piggybacking 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.

He lunges toward me, reaching for my hand. A scream rips from my throat as I dodge him and scramble around the desk to put a barrier between us. "This is your last chance. Give me the folder," he snarls, slamming his hands down on the table with a heavy thud.

"Or what?" I shout, my voice shaking with rage. "You gonna butcher me too?"

"No, your meat is worthless," he says with a mocking laugh while his gaze roams over my body like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You've got tattoos." He nods toward my leg, where a spiderweb tattoo marks my kneecap.

"They ruin the taste." My eyes widen, and my stomach twists.

"But I won't be kind to you," he adds, his voice cold. "That's for sure."

I curl my finger around the trigger, raise my arm, and aim straight at him. But before I can shoot, a large hand wrapped in leather gloves curls around my wrist and thrusts it upward.

The shot goes off with a deafening blast and hits the ceiling.

The kickback shoots through my arm, and my muscles tense.

Another scream tears from my throat. The sound is raw and filled with panic.

I twist my arm, trying to break free. But his grip tightens, and he forces the gun from my hand.

Without warning, he yanks me forward and drags me across the table, slamming me down against the cold surface and pinning me in place.

"I don't like hurting pretty women like you," he growls, leaning over me. His voice is low and threatening. "So, give me that damn folder."

"No." I raise my voice, glaring up at him. His deep brown eyes stare back at me, cold and emotionless.

"Come on, be a good girl, or do you like men being forceful with you?" he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery, the pitch shifting just enough to let me hear the grin behind the voice changer. "I'm giving you the easy way out. But if you like it rough, I'm in."

My stomach twists as he shoves his way between my legs. My eyes widen, and a sharp breath slips out of me as something hard presses against my core. A wave of panic crashes over me. He's actually turned on by this?

"You're sick," I force out, my voice barely above a whisper between shaky breaths. His grip tightens. Then he lowers himself on top of me, his heavy weight pressing me into the table.

"Yes, I am," he says, almost amused. "I'm starting to have fun with you."

One of his hands moves to my face, the smooth leather gripping my chin and tilting my head so he can take a good look at me.

"A real pretty one," he murmurs. Then he rolls his hips, grinding against me.

Pressure hits right where I don't want it to, pulling a startled gasp from my lips.

"I wonder what your screams will sound like. "

My eyes snap wide as his hand leaves my face and trails down my body, over my tits, across my exposed belly, until it slips between us. He shoves my skirt up, and I freeze. The words catch in my throat.

I should scream. I should fight. But my body won't move.

Instead, adrenaline pulses through my veins, and my body reacts against my will as excitement pools between my legs.

I squeeze my eyes shut just as his fingers press against my pussy through the thin fabric of my underwear, finding my clit and rolling it underneath his fingertips.

I bite down on my tongue, forcing back the sounds.

"You're getting wet," he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. "How beautiful."

My eyes dart around the room looking for a way out, but with him holding me, it's impossible. I turn my focus back to him; his brown eyes are locked on mine, shining with anticipation. Maybe if I play along, I'll find a way out of this situation.

"Yes, I—" I say through a breathy moan, but my words get cut off and my eyes fly open as he adds pressure to my clit, drawing a moan from me. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and my breath catches in my throat as I stare up at him.

Fuck. Fuck. I should tell him to stop. Scream.

Fight. But the words stay trapped in my throat while my body responds, greedy and confused.

The adrenaline is dizzying, almost addictive.

The same twisted thrill I get from watching horror movies.

Except this time, I'm not safe behind a screen.

No. I'm in my personal horror movie. The Butcher is touching me. And— fuck . It feels good.

The stuffy air feels heavier as my moans echo through the otherwise quiet room. My head rolls back, and another shameful gasp slips from my lips before I can catch it.

My hands clench into fists as I notice the pressure on my wrists has vanished, and he’s no longer pinning me down. My pulse quickens, and I take my chance. Slowly, I lift one hand, press it against his chest, and he doesn’t stop me. That’s it. That’s my way out.

In one swift motion, I reach for my last weapon, a small taser hidden in the inside pocket of my jacket. I whip my arm to his side, as if trying to grab him, then press the button.

A burst of crackling electricity fills the room, the buzz loud and violent.

His body jolts. He freezes, muscles locking as the electricity shoots through his body.

He stumbles back, twitching, and then collapses to the floor with a heavy thud.

I push myself up on shaky arms and stare down at the man on the floor.

His body twitches before he goes completely still.

My gaze settles on his covered face. This could be my chance to find out who he is and put an end to it once and for all. But I can't bring myself to go near him. The thought of touching him makes my stomach twist, and the taste of bile spreads across my tongue.

My legs nearly give out as I jump down from the desk.

I quickly tug my clothes back into place, fumbling with the fabric.

With every brush of my fingers against my thighs, my skin itches, and I feel the urge to scratch.

But the worst part is the pulsing heat between my thighs.

My body responded to him, and I hate that.

Shame floods my lungs as I grab the folder and clutch it to my chest before bolting for the exit. I run out of the office and down the dark hallway past the kitchen. My legs move as if on autopilot until I burst through the door and sprint down the street, leaving the restaurant behind.

With trembling hands, I dig into my jacket and pull out my phone. I open my messages and pull up Kyle's chat. After what just happened, I don't want to be alone, and he's the only person who makes me feel truly safe right now. He's also the only one who won't ask too many questions.

Me: Can I come over tonight?

Sidekick: I'm on a job right now, but let yourself in. *winking emoji*

The second his reply shows up on the screen, the pressure eases as a long exhale slips from my lungs, and relief floods my mind and body. I won't have to sit in the dark and replay every twisted second while wondering if the Butcher will come and find me. With Kyle, no one can touch me.

My heart thuds, longing to be near him. His arms are wrapping around me, his hands on my body. The heat lingering between my legs fades as a different warmth rises in my chest, replacing the last of the Butcher's ghost with my longing for Kyle.

When I reach the busy main street, the chaos hits in the form of blaring horns, flashing lights, and people going about their night.

I spot a taxi idling by the curb and throw my arm up to hail it.

The car stops, and I slide in without looking back.

I give the driver Kyle's address, my voice hoarse and almost foreign to my own ears.

The driver then nods and pulls into traffic.

Only then do I allow myself to let go, and my body slumps into the seat. The tension drains from my muscles all at once, and I let out a heavy sigh.