Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Ten~Hank

🐈‍⬛Listen to Concrete Jungle by Bad Omens for a full experience!!🐭

Fifteen-ish years ago

Grief is supposed to be loud. That's what people think.

Crying. Screaming. Breaking things that can't be replaced.

Throwing glasses. Punching walls. Saying things you can't take back and pretending that counts as processing.

Very theatrical.

Very human.

Very not me.

My grief looked like sitting at a table, a few years too young to be included, and realizing every adult in the room had already accepted something I hadn't even begun to understand yet.

"She's dead."

No warning. No softness.

Just—She's dead.

I remember the glass in my hand.

Cold. Sweating. Untouched.

I remember watching the condensation slide down the side like it had somewhere better to be.

Like it was escaping.

Smart water.

"Isabella?" someone asked. Hope is a stubborn thing.

Even when it's stupid. Even when it already knows.

My uncle nodded once. That was it. No correction. No explanation. No sugar coating.

"And Dominic?" another voice asked.

Always Dominic. Even in death—hers somehow became about him.

"He chose the empire. Whatever they wanted he didn't give him... or he did and they killed her anyway."

It didn't sound bitter. Didn't sound angry. Didn't even sound disappointed.

It sounded... expected.

Not the death. Not the Russians. Not even the name.

The certainty.

No one argued. No one said he loved her.

No one said he'll burn the world down for this.

Because to them—That wasn't the question. The question wasn't what will Dominic do?

The question was—How efficiently will he do it?

I was just a kid cousin, who Isabella babysat. Cared for. Treated as her own.

Way before she fell in love with a Falcone.

Before she had her own child.

I leaned back in my chair slowly, quietly, letting the conversation roll over me like I wasn't part of it.

Which, technically, I wasn't.

I was the kid people forgot was listening. Which is funny. Because those are the ones you should worry about the most.

And I listened. God, did I listen.

"He'll retaliate."

"He always does."

"The Russians won't survive this."

"They've wanted a war."

"Now they'll get one."

War. Right. Because that's what this was about. Not Isabella. Not really.

I tapped my fingers once against the table. Soft. Thoughtful. Annoyed.

Because something didn't make sense. Not emotionally.

Logically.

And I trust logic. Logic doesn't lie. People do. Constantly. Effortlessly. With impressive commitment, honestly.

Dominic Falcone wasn't careless. He wasn't reactive.

He wasn't sloppy. He wasn't the kind of man who let something slip through his fingers—

Especially not her.

I'd seen them together once. Just once.

That was enough.

A wedding. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many people pretending they liked each other.

She laughed. Bright. Uncontrolled. Alive in a way that didn't belong in rooms filled with people so dead inside.

Like she hadn't been taught to measure herself. Like she didn't understand what kind of man she was standing next to.

And Dominic—Didn't laugh. Didn't smile. Didn't relax.

He watched. Every exit. Every movement. Every person who got too close.

Not jealous. Not insecure. Prepared. Like loving her meant preparing for the exact moment someone would try to take her.

That's not a man who loses something by accident.

So explain it to me—Slowly. Preferably like I'm stupid.

How does a man like that... Lose the one person he built his entire world around?

He doesn't.

Not without a rat.

"Russians," someone muttered.

"It was inevitable."

"They've been pushing boundaries for years."

"This gives them leverage."

Leverage.

I almost laughed.

Because that was the dumbest part of all.

The Russians weren't suicidal. Ambitious? Sure.

Violent? Absolutely. Unethical? Without a f*****g doubt. But suicidal?

No.

You don't touch Dominic Falcone's wife unless you're trying to start something you fully intend to finish.

And if they had—finished it that is.

We wouldn't be having this conversation.

We'd be attending funerals.

Plural.

Which meant—They didn't find her.

Someone handed her to them on a silver f*****g platter.

I didn't say that out loud. I like breathing. It's one of my better qualities.

So I did what I do best.

I shut up. I listened. And I remembered.

For fifteen years. Not actively. Not obsessively. Just... quietly.

Like a song stuck in the back of your head you don't realize you're humming until someone points it out.

I built a life. A good one, depending on your moral flexibility. Great one, if you ask me.

Businesses that didn't ask questions.

Connections that didn't require explanations.

Money that moved fast but not fast enough anyone bothered to follow it.

I stayed adjacent to power.

Close enough to benefit.

Far enough to disappear.

No ties. No paper trails.

Which, for the record, is the sweet spot.

Highly recommend.

And every now and then—

Something would itch.

A name where it shouldn't be. A deal that didn't line up.

A face that looked a little too comfortable in places it hadn't earned.

Nothing concrete. Nothing useful.

Just enough to remind me—

The math still wasn't mathing.

Until one night—It did. Not loudly. Not dramatically.

No grand revelation. No music swelling in the background like I'm the main character in a very questionable life changing decision.

Just—Oh. That's not right.

I didn't react. Didn't freeze. Didn't even look up.

I laughed at a joke I barely heard. Took a sip of a drink I didn't taste. Made a comment about politics that landed just well enough to keep people talking.

And then I went home...

And stared at my ceiling until the sun came up.

Because now—

Now I had something.

A thread.

And I don't pull threads unless I'm ready to watch everything unravel.

So I waited. Months this time. Not years.

Growth. Personal development. We love to see it.

I asked questions. Careful ones. Casual ones. The kind that sound like nostalgia but land like a blade if you're paying attention.

"Hey, whatever happened to—"

Pause.

Sip.

Watch.

"Hey do you remember..."

People hate silence. They rush to fill it.

And when they do—

They tell you everything.

Patterns started forming. Cleaner this time. Sharper.

Movements. Access. Timing.

And at the center of it all—

Not the Russians.

No. They were just the weapon. Someone else pulled the trigger. While another lead her right in front of the bullet.

I sat in my apartment the night it finally clicked. Lights off. City glowing through the windows like it was watching me back.

"Family," I muttered. Because it had to be. Because anything else didn't make sense. And once you land on that—There's no going back.

Because now it's not just a question. It's a decision.

Do you walk away? Or do you find out which member of one of the most dangerous families in New York sold their own blood to the enemy?

I poured myself a drink. Stared at it for a long time.

"Yeah," I said finally. "To hell with it."

And just like that—Fifteen years of patience turned into a very bad idea.

Because if you want answers like that—There's only one place to start.

The Cabaret. Neutral ground.

Which is a polite way of saying:

A room full of liars pretending to behave.

I remember the first night I walked in.

The smell hit first. Expensive cigars. Expensive perfume.

Secrets that didn't belong to anyone dumb enough to say them out loud.

Music bled through the room.

Slow. Intentional.

Like even the saxophone knew better than to rush.

I clocked exits. Windows. Mirrors.

Who was watching who. Who thought they weren't being watched.

Three men near the back pretending not to listen to the table beside them. They were.

Terribly might I add.

A woman in red who hadn't touched her drink since I walked in. Waiting. For someone specific.

Two guys arguing in low voices who thought whispering made them subtle. It didn't.

And then— I saw her.

Behind the bar.

Moving like she'd been there forever. Like the room adjusted around her, not the other way around.

Too aware. Too controlled.

Too—Interesting.

And that? That's when instinct kicked in.

Because if there's one thing I trust more than logic—

It's pattern recognition.

And she didn't fit. She was nothing like these people... if anything she was better.

Belonged in a room full of predators not prey playing the part.

Which meant—

She mattered.

I took a seat. Back to the wall. View of the room. Old habits. Good ones. The kind that keep you alive.

This was the perfect view of the room. This seat right here. Same seat I'd keep coming back to.

And then I waited. Not impatiently. Never impatiently.

Patient men learn more. And receive more if I'm being honest. Wink wink.

She didn't come over right away. Good. I don't trust people who rush. I trust people who make you wait.

When she did—

It wasn't for me. Not at first. She finished pouring two drinks for a couple down the bar, slid them over without looking—

Didn't miss when the man reached too far. Didn't miss when the woman's smile tightened.

She corrected a man's grip on his glass like she was correcting a toddler with a bottle instead of serving alcohol.

Then—She came to me.

Not because she had to. There was another bartender perfectly capable of taking my drink order...Because she chose to.

And that? That told me everything I needed to know.

"What'll it be?" she asked. No smile. No softness. No interest.

I liked her immediately. Which, in hindsight, was probably my first mistake.

"Whiskey."

She didn't ask which one. Didn't blink. Didn't offer recommendations like she was auditioning for a job she already had.

Just reached for a bottle like she'd already decided what kind of man I was and that I'd survive whatever she poured.

Confident. Or reckless. Hard to tell.

Either way—I respected the hell out of it. Kinda made me hard.

People who hesitate tend to die young. Or marry badly. Sometimes both. And I'm not speaking from experience or anything.

I let a hundred-dollar bill slide across the bar with the glass.

Casual. Like it meant nothing.

Like I didn't notice the subtle shift in attention from the man two stools down who suddenly became very interested in absolutely nothing.

Her hand stopped just short of it.

Not touching.

Just hovering there like she was considering whether I was stupid or just confident enough to get away with it.

Her eyes flicked down. Then up. Slow. Measuring.

Like she was reading something I hadn't written yet.

And then—She smiled.

Ah. There it is.

Not warm.

Not welcoming.

Not even polite.

Sharp. Clean. The kind of smile that doesn't invite you closer—it dares you...entices you. But scared the ever loving s**t out of me... which just made me harder.

"You're new." Definitely not a question.

No thank you.

No what a generous man.

Not even I can't take this sir, which I found vaguely insulting in a refreshing way.

"First night," I said.

"Mm." A small nod. "That explains it."

I leaned in slightly. "Explains what?"

She tapped the bill once with a single finger.

Not grabbing it.

Not rejecting it.

Just... marking it.

"You thinking that," she said, tapping again, "does anything here." Before gesturing to herself.

I huffed a quiet laugh. "It usually does."

"Yeah." She turned away, grabbing a cloth to wipe a glass that didn't need wiping. "Wrong tree, dude."

Wrong tree. I liked that phrasing. It implied I was a problem. Which, statistically speaking, I usually am.

"I'm tipping," I clarified.

"You're trying too hard," she corrected immediately.

No hesitation. No room for argument.

Like she'd already run the algorithm and didn't need my input. And just like that... soft again.

Then she slid the bill back toward me. Didn't even look at it. Just pushed it across the bar like it offended her existence.

I blinked. Once. Slow.

"I feel rejected," I said.

"Good," she replied. "That means you're learning."

"It makes me feel dirty..." I huff.

She shrugs. No response.

That got my attention. Properly.

I leaned back now, studying her with something closer to interest than amusement.

"Most bartenders don't psychoanalyze their customers before midnight. Unless you're going to school to be a psychiatrist? Are you a psycho—...I mean a psychiatrist, Red?"

"I don't psychoanalyze," she said. "I observe. There's a difference. And yes I'm a psycho, why else would I be wasting my time here with you? And even if I was a psychiatrist, I wouldn't be professionally qualified to help the likes of you." She sighs.

"Is there?" I throw back.

"Is there what?" She lifts a brow.

Beat.

"A difference." I smirk.

She almost looks amused as she mulls it over.

"I don't charge for observation."

I laughed under my breath. "That's generous of you."

She glanced at me then. Just briefly. And something about the look said she didn't believe in generosity at all.

Just trade-offs.

Fair. I respect people who understand cost. And their worth.

I picked up the glass. Let it sit in my hand. Didn't drink yet.

Just watched her move down the bar. Efficient. Controlled. Not rushed. Never rushed.

She wasn't serving people. She was managing them.

There's a difference. And most people don't notice it until they're already being managed.

"Careful," I said when she returned.

She didn't look at me. "About?" Wiping a glass that was already sparkling.

"You keep shutting men down like that, someone's gonna go to HR with a heartbreak."

She finally looked at me again.

Head tilted slightly.

Like she was genuinely considering whether I was worth the effort of responding.

"I am HR," she smirked, "let 'em." She shrugged once more.

I grinned. "Cold."

"Efficient."

"That's what cold people say."

She leaned forward slightly, just enough to reclaim the space between us.

Not intimate. Not inviting. Just deliberate.

"Let me guess," she said. "You're one of those men who thinks warmth is a personality trait."

"Ouch," I said. "That sounded personal."

"It wasn't," she deadpanned. "It was general disappointment for the entire male race."

I actually laughed then.

Not polite. Not controlled. Actual laughter. Which, statistically speaking, I try to avoid in public.

"Okay," I said, nodding slightly. "That one was good."

"I know." Of course she did.

I took a sip of the whiskey finally. Let it burn down the throat. Nice. Solid. The kind of drink that doesn't try to impress you. Just does its job.

"I'll be honest," I said after a beat. "I expected a little more enthusiasm from someone taking a hundred-dollar bill off a stranger."

"I didn't take it." She corrected.

"That's fair."

"I returned it."

"That's... aggressively ethical."

She shrugged.

"People mistake attention for value. I don't."

There it was again. That phrasing.

Not emotional. Not defensive.

Just... calculated.

Like she'd learned it the hard way and decided never again.

I studied her a little longer. Not in a predatory way.

More like someone trying to solve a puzzle that keeps moving. Keeps changing.

"You always this charming?" I asked.

"Should see me outside of work."

"That's definitely implying you're worse off the clock."

A pause.

Then—

A small smile. Not sharp this time. Smaller. More dangerous in a different way.

"You'd have to survive long enough to find out."

Well. Alright.

That was fair.

I nodded slowly. "Noted."

She turned away again. Already done with me. Or pretending to be.

Hard to tell which.

And that was the problem. Because I couldn't stop watching her. Not in the way men usually watch women in places like this.

Not surface level. Not performative. Not obsessive.

Just interested.

I was watching the pattern. The rhythm of her movements. The way she never turned her back fully to anyone.

The way she always knew who was speaking even when she wasn't looking.

The way conversations around her shifted slightly when she got close—as if people subconsciously edited themselves.

That wasn't normal. Not for a bartender. Not even for someone good at their job.

That was trained. Or lived. Or survived.

Or all three.

"Careful," I muttered to myself as I finished my drink.

She passed again. Swapping my empty glass with a full one. Of course she did. She always seemed to be where she needed to be before she needed to be there.

"You keep saying that," she said without stopping.

I blinked. "Saying what?"

"Careful."

I smiled. "You heard that?"

"I hear everything in this room." She stated matter of fact.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It's not," she said. "It's useful."

I raised my glass slightly. "Fair."

Then, because I apparently enjoy self-sabotage:

"You're gonna hurt someone's feelings doing that."

She finally stopped.

Turned.

Looked at me like I'd just said something mildly entertaining and moderately stupid.

"Good," she said. "Then they'll leave me alone."

"And if they don't?"

Her smile returned. Slightly. Barely there.

"Then I get creative."

I believed her. That was the problem.

I took another sip of whiskey. Let it sit there for a moment. Let the room move around me.

Let her move through it like she owned the oxygen.

And that's when it clicked. Not fully. Not clearly.

Just a shape forming at the edge of thought. She wasn't just good at this. She was placed here in a way that didn't feel accidental.

Like someone had decided long ago that she would exist in this exact space, at this exact intersection of power and noise and silence.

And people like that? They don't stay bartenders forever.

They become something else. Or they disappear.

Either option is interesting.

Neither is safe.

I leaned back again. Let my expression settle. Easy.

Neutral. Harmless. The way people like me survive long enough to get bored.

"Yeah," I murmured.

Mostly to myself.

This was going to be fun or a problem... probably both.

And for the first time since I walked into the Cabaret—

I wasn't entirely sure whether I wanted to fix it...

Or watch it burn.

I stayed longer than I planned.

Which, for the record, is never a good sign.

I don't linger.

Lingering gets you noticed.

Getting noticed gets you remembered.

And being remembered gets you killed. Or worse—invited to things you can't say no to.

But there I was. Still sitting. Still drinking. Still watching her like I hadn't already learned everything I needed to know.

Which I hadn't. And that—that was a problem.

Because every time I thought I had her figured out—

She did something small. Something subtle. Something that didn't match the version of her I'd just built in my head.

A man reached for her wrist when she passed. Didn't grab. Not quite. But close enough to test the boundary.

She didn't even glance his way. Didn't stop walking.

Didn't react the way most women in a room like this would.

She just—Shifted. A slight turn of her body. A change in angle. His hand missed. Completely. Like he'd reached for smoke instead of skin.

And she kept moving. Like it never happened. Like he never existed.

The man blinked. Confused. A little embarrassed.

A lot unsure of what just happened.

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was clean. Too clean. That wasn't luck. That wasn't instinct. That wasn't a bartender used to men like him.

That was practice.

And suddenly—I wasn't just curious.

I was absolutely intrigued.

Dangerous distinction.

I took another sip of whiskey. Slower this time. More thoughtful.

And then—because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts left—

I went back in.

"So," I said when she passed again.

She didn't stop.

"Mm." That wasn't even a word. That was a sound.

A very clear I hear you but I'm choosing not to entertain you with a real response.

"I'm trying to decide something," I continued.

"Sounds dangerous."

"It is," I agreed. "I'm not built for this kind of introspection."

That got a glance. Quick. Suspicious.

Progress.

"What are you stuck on?" she asked.

I leaned my elbow on the bar slightly. Relaxed. Casual.

Like I wasn't about to say something incredibly stupid.

"Whether you're this rude to everyone," I said, "or if I'm just special."

She didn't even blink.

"You're not special." That was immediate. Effortless.

And kinda devastating.

I put a hand to my chest. "Wow. You don't even sugarcoat it?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

I nodded slowly. "I respect the consistency."

"That's me consistent," she said.

I grinned. God, she was fun.

"So I am special?"

She leaned in slightly. Just enough.

"To someone I'm sure you are. Just not here."

Well. That—That one had teeth.

I laughed again. Shaking my head.

"Alright," I said. "That was aggressive."

"You asked for it." She shrugged.

"I tipped you a hundred dollars." I threw back.

"You tried to." She corrected again.

"Semantics."

"Intent matters."

There it is again. That word. Intent.

She used it like a weapon.

Like she could see it before it even formed.

I studied her a little more carefully now. Not the surface.

Not the obvious. The pauses. The timing. The way she chose when to engage and when to disappear.

She wasn't just reacting to the room. She was controlling it.

"Let me ask you something," I said.

"Why do people always seem to think that's a good idea?"

"I'm comfortable with risk."

"I can tell," she muttered.

I ignored that. Professionally. For my mental preservation.

"You ever get tired of this?" I asked, gesturing vaguely around us. "The noise. The people. The... whatever this is."

She followed my gesture once. Slow. Unimpressed. Unbothered.

Then looked back at me. "No." That was it. No explanation. No elaboration. No performance.

Just—No.

And I believed her.

That's what made it worse.

Because she didn't sound like someone stuck here.

She sounded like someone who chose this world.

And people who choose rooms like this? They're never just bartenders.

I leaned back again. Exhaled slowly.

And for a split second—just a second—something didn't sit right.

Not about her. About the feeling.

Familiar.

That quiet, controlled presence. That awareness. That way of existing like everything mattered and nothing did at the same time.

I'd seen it before.

Once.

At a wedding.

Too loud.

Too crowded.

Too full of people pretending to be happy.

Different roles. Same awareness.

Same... wrongness in a room full of prey playing predators.

I blinked. Once. No. Not the same. But—Close enough to make something in my chest tighten in a way I didn't appreciate.

I took another drink. Bigger this time.

"Careful," I muttered again.

She passed. Of course she did.

"You're really stuck on that word," she spat.

I smiled slightly. "Trying to convince myself of something."

"Good luck. Careful is used by people too cowardly to stand up for themselves."

"Or by people who mean to survive."

She paused.

That— That got her attention. Just for a second.

But I saw it.

Then she shrugged. "Or people who are too afraid to live."

And just like that—we were even again.

I let out a low breath.

Shook my head slightly.

"Yeah," I said. "You're dangerous."

"Drink your whiskey," she replied.

Translation: You're getting too comfortable.

I obeyed. Which, again, not something I typically do.

But something about her—

Made it feel less like losing control...

And more like choosing the right move.

That was new. I didn't like new.

New is unpredictable.

Unpredictable gets people killed.

And yet—

I stayed.

Another drink. Then another. Not enough to get sloppy.

Just enough to justify still being there.

Watching. Listening. Learning.

By the time I finally stood—the room had shifted twice.

New faces. Old ones gone. Conversations started and ended without anyone noticing.

But her? Still the same. Still moving. Still watching. Still pretending she wasn't.

I dropped cash on the bar. Not a hundred this time.

Smaller. Appropriate. Less intention. More respect.

She glanced at it. Didn't comment. Didn't push it back.

Progress.

"Look at that," I said with a proud smile. "Growth."

She didn't look up. "You're ruining it."

I smirked. "See you tomorrow, Red."

That—That made her pause. Not long. Not dramatic. Just enough.

Then— "Don't get cocky."

I grinned. Too late.

I walked out of the Cabaret that night with three things:

A theory.

A problem.

And a bartender who definitely wasn't just a bartender.

And somewhere—buried under fifteen years of silence and logic and not-my-problem—

something else stirred.

Not grief. Not exactly. Something quieter. Sharper. More dangerous.

Recognition.

I didn't go back the next night. Or the night after that.

Not because I didn't want to. Because I did.

And that— was exactly why I didn't.

Patterns matter. Routine gets you caught. And I don't walk into traps I can see forming in real time.

But three nights later—

I was back in that same seat. Back to the wall.

View of the room. Old habits. Bad decisions.

And she? Didn't even look surprised. That's when I knew. This wasn't going to be simple.

And whatever answers I thought I was looking for—

I was gonna have hell getting them from her.