Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Seven~Matteo Part Two

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The steady beep of the monitor pulls me back. Soft.

Consistent. Too damn controlled.

I blink, the fire fading, smoke dissolving into sterile white walls and the low hum of machines that are doing a better job of keeping her alive than I am. Than I can.

My hand is wrapped around hers. I don't remember when I reached for it. Don't remember making the decision.

But I don't let go. Because this—This is the only thing in this room that feels real.

Her skin is colder than it should be. Not freezing. Just... wrong. Like the warmth got pulled out of her and forgot how to come back.

My thumb drags over her knuckles, slow, absent, like I'm trying to remind both of us she's still here.

"Yeah..." I breathe, voice rough, quieter than I've ever let it be. "This isn't really your style, you know that?"

Nothing. No smart remark. No glare. No sarcastic comeback about how I talk too much.

Just silence.

And it's deafening.

Because Tatum is never quiet. Even when she's not speaking, she's there—present, aware, sharp enough to cut through a room without trying.

This? This stillness? It doesn't fit her. It doesn't make sense.

My jaw tightens, something heavy settling in my chest. I've seen people like this before. Too many. Bodies hooked to machines. Breathing only because something else is forcing them to.

Sometimes they wake up. Sometimes they don't.

And the worst part? There's nothing you can do about it.

No angle to read. No threat to eliminate. No move to make. Just... wait. I hate waiting.

My grip on her hand tightens without me meaning to.

Because four months ago—

I didn't wait.

Four months ago, I saw it coming.

I moved. I pulled her out. I did something.

Now? I'm sitting here reading her a damn fairytale like that's supposed to fix this. Like words are enough.

My throat tightens. I swallow hard, forcing it down, forcing myself to keep talking because if I stop—

If I sit in this silence too long—I'm gonna start thinking things I don't want to think.

"If I had to guess what Elisabetta looked like now..." I murmur, voice quieter, softer, slipping before I can stop it, "you'd definitely take the cake, la sorella."

The word lingers in the air. Sister. Not by blood. But earned. Fought for. And I don't even realize how much that means until it's already out.

Until the room shifts. It's subtle. But I feel it. That instinct. That awareness crawling up my spine. Like someone just walked into a space they weren't invited into.

I go still. Slowly, I lift my head. And there he is. Enzo.

Standing in the doorway. Silent. Still. Watching.

I don't know how long he's been there.

Long enough. Long enough to see me sitting here.

Holding her hand. Reading to her. Long enough for whatever's in his head right now to already be forming.

His eyes flick between me and her—Then down to where my hand is wrapped around hers.

And yeah. There it is. Not loud. Not explosive. But sharp, tight anger. Confusion.

Questions he hasn't asked yet but already wants answers to. I feel it hit me before he even says a word.

And for a second—I don't move. Because part of me doesn't want to let go.

Part of me knows exactly how this looks. How it should look. And how it doesn't.

Then reality kicks in.

I release her hand like I've just remembered where I am—who I am—and push up from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor.

The book slides from my lap back onto the bed, landing near her arm. I lift my hands slightly—not defensive, not aggressive.

Just... open. Careful.

"I just wanted to check on her," I say, voice steady even if everything underneath it isn't. "Make sure she's okay."

The words feel thin the second they leave my mouth.

Not enough. Not even close. Because Enzo doesn't look convinced. He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

Just stands there, shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes still locked on me like he's trying to decide what part of this doesn't sit right. Or maybe all of it.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down the back of my neck, tension coiling there.

"I thought she was alone," I add, quieter this time. "Figured... someone should be here."

A beat. Nothing. His gaze shifts to her again.

Something flickers there—too fast, too controlled for most people to catch.

But I see it. I've always seen it.

And suddenly it clicks—He wasn't here.

Not until now.

Which means whatever kept him away?

It had something to do with her.

He wouldn't leave her especially with all that his father threatened him with earlier.

I glance back at Tatum, then at him.

"...She's been stable," I say, softer now, less edge, more truth. "Hasn't woken up. But she's fighting."

My jaw tightens slightly. Because I need that to be true.

I need her to fight.

I shift back a step, giving him space without making it obvious that I am.

Because this—This isn't my place. Not really. It never was. But I still don't leave.

Not yet.

Because if I walk out now—If I leave her like this—

It's gonna feel too much like something I can't come back from.

And I've had enough of those.

His attention isn't on me. Not at first. It's on her.

Sharp. Focused. Scanning.

Like he's checking for something—Damage. Change.

Proof she's still here. Still breathing. Still his to protect.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before his gaze finally shifts. And lands on me.

Everything in the room goes still. Not quiet. Still.

Like something just decided to wait and see who makes the first move.

"You shouldn't be here." Low. Controlled. But there's something under it. Something coiled tight enough to snap.

I straighten slowly, every instinct screaming at me to match that energy—but I don't. Not yet.

"Funny," I mutter, voice quieter than it should be. "Could say the same to you. Wonder how your father would feel if he knew?"

Wrong move. I see it the second it lands. The way his shoulders go rigid. The way something dark flickers behind his eyes.

He takes a step closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. But deliberate. Measured. Like he's testing distance.

"I was here," he says, voice lower now. "Before."

Another step. "And now I'm back." There's weight in that. Something unsaid sitting just beneath it.

You left her? Knowing your father has it out for her?!

I don't ask. But I don't back off either.

"Yeah," I say, holding his gaze. "Noticed you weren't."

That one hits. Hard.

His jaw flexes, tension snapping through his posture like a wire pulled too tight. For half a second—I think he's going to lose it. Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, dragging himself back into place.

But the edge is still there. Sharper now.

His gaze drops.

To the bed. To the chair. To the book. Then—To her hand. Where mine had been.

And when he looks back at me?

It's colder. More focused. Like he just made a decision.

"How did you know." Not a question. A demand.

I don't hesitate. "Overheard."

"From who." Still not a question.

"Loud mouthed capos," I answer. "After Dominic left."

Something shifts. Subtle. But I catch it. The way his eyes flick just slightly—like pieces are rearranging in his head.

"...he told them?"he mutters, more to himself than me.

Then his gaze snaps back. Sharp. "And you were just... there." There's accusation in it now. Heavy. Deliberate.

I let out a breath, slower this time. "You think I planned that?"

"I think," he says, stepping closer again, "nothing involving my father is ever coincidental. Whether you know it or not."

That lands deeper than I expect. Because he believes it.

Fully. And part of me knows—He's not wrong.

"So what," I tilt my head slightly, forcing a calm I don't feel, "you think he sent me to take her out in the middle of the ICU?"

His eyes darken instantly. "Wouldn't be the first time he used someone close to me to get what he wants."

That's not about me. Not entirely. There's history in that. Something buried. Something that still bleeds.

I should let it go. Should step back. De-escalate.

But then I look at her. At the machines. At the way she's not moving. And something in me refuses.

"I wasn't sent," I say, firmer now. "I came because it was her."

His head tilts slightly. Dangerously. "That's not your decision to make."

"I didn't make a decision," I snap, the control slipping just enough. "I heard she got shot and I showed up. That's it."

"That's not it," he fires back, stepping into my space now. Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the storm sitting just under his control. "You don't just walk in here like you belong—"

"I don't belong?" I cut in, quieter—but sharper.

A beat. Then— "Then why am I the only one who showed up?"

Silence. Violent. Immediate. Too far.

I know it the second it leaves my mouth. His entire body goes still. Not relaxed. Not calm. Still in the way a predator goes still before it decides what to do next.

"You're out of line," he says.

Soft. Deadly.

Maybe I am. But I don't step back.

Because something about this—about him questioning why I'm here, like it doesn't matter—

It doesn't sit right.

"I thought she was alone," I say, lower now. Controlled again—but tight. "So I came."

His eyes search mine. Harder this time. Like he's trying to crack me open and find the lie underneath.

"People don't just show up," he says. "Not here. Not like this."

"Yeah," I nod once. "I had a reason."

A beat. Then I give it to him. "I care about her."

The words hit the room like a gunshot. Too loud. Too honest.

His jaw tightens hard enough I hear it.

"Careful," he says, voice dropping lower, darker. "You don't get to decide what she is to you."

"I'm not deciding anything," I reply. "I'm telling you why I'm here."

Another step. Now there's no space between us. Not really.

"You expect me to believe that?" he asks.

"I don't care what you believe," I snap back, then force it down—force it steady. "I'll prove it."

That stops him. Just slightly. His eyes narrow.

"Prove what."

"That my loyalty is not his."

Not Dominic's. Not owned. Not placed.

Only theirs.

I don't say the last part. But it's there. Hanging between us. Heavy.

"You don't get to stand next to me and still belong to him," Enzo says.

"I don't," I answer.

No hesitation. No break. Just truth. And for a second—

Something shifts. Not gone. Not resolved. But different.

Less immediate. More dangerous. Because now he's thinking. Measuring. Deciding.

"Loyalty isn't something you say," he mutters.

"I know."

"Then don't," he adds, quieter now. "Show me."

A slow nod.

"How about I show you now?"

Silence stretches again. Not empty. Not safe. Just... waiting.

Enzo gestures as if his silence was my cue.

" Your father made a call shortly after you left. I overheard him stating to move the contingency forward and to wait until you bring her home to make a move." I spit out.

I glance at her. Then back at him.

"A contingency... stupid motherfucker..." he mutters to himself shaking his head, but my thoughts are so wrapped around one thing I can't stop myself before—

"You left her," I say.

I shouldn't have. I know I shouldn't have. But it's already out.

His expression hardens instantly. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

"Careful," he warns.

But I don't stop. "Whatever you were doing," I add, quieter now—but sharper, "it better have been worth it."

That does it. He moves. Fast. Not a swing. Not a hit.

But his hand catches my shirt, shoving me back just enough to make a point—just enough to remind me exactly where I stand.

"Watch your mouth. You have no idea what I've done for her," he says, low, dangerous, right in my face.

Every instinct in my body screams to react. To push back. To not let that stand.

For a brief second I want to remind him that I'm a Medici... a Featherstone! But he doesn't know that...so I don't. I hold his gaze.

Steady. Unmoving. Because this isn't about winning.

"Then give me something better than silence," I shoot back, just as low. "Because from where I'm standing? You left her."

That lands. Hard. I feel it. The shift in his grip. The hesitation.

For half a second—Something cracks. Not weakness. Something deeper. Something he doesn't let anyone see.

Then it's gone. His hand releases my shirt, but the tension doesn't.

"Get out," he says. Quiet. Controlled. Final.

I hold his gaze for one more second. Then nod. Not submission. Not defeat. Just... understanding.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say quietly.

"Stop and think about how I came to you for guidance—not your father."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't stop me. Doesn't answer.

I step past him, close enough to feel the heat of his anger still sitting under his skin.

Then I'm at the door. Hand on the handle. I pause.

Just for a second.

"...She'd hate that you left," I add, softer now. Not a challenge. Not a jab. "Unless you did it to take care of her. Don't let her become your mother."

Just truth. Then I'm gone.

And the second the door shuts behind me—The weight of that room finally lifts.

Just enough for me to breathe.

But not enough to forget—That whatever just happened in there?

It changed something.

And there's no going back from it now.