Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Eight~Tatum

Listen to Throne by Bring me the Horizon for the full experience!!!

Darkness isn't quiet. That's the first thing I notice when I wake fully submerged in a void.

It breathes. Not like lungs. Not like something alive.

Like a being pretending to be.

Steady. Rhythmic. Artificial.

There's a weight pressing down on me—not heavy enough to crush, but enough to keep me there. Held. Suspended... somewhere between nothing and something I can't quite reach.

I try to move. Nothing happens. Not fingers. Not toes. Not even a twitch.

Just that sound—

That steady, mechanical breathing.

And something else. Warmth. Faint. Intermittent.

Like someone keeps touching me and pulling away before I can catch it and then it's gone all together.

🐈‍⬛

It seems like I'm pressed down, surrounded by nothingness for so many agonizing hours before—

A voice cuts through. Low. Rough. Familiar.

"...not a fan of this look, sorella."

Matteo.

The name doesn't come like a thought. It comes like instinct. Recognition without effort.

Something in my chest—deep, buried—tightens.

I try to respond. Nothing.

Figures.

There's movement near me. Fabric shifting. A chair scraping closer. The sound echoes weirdly, like it's underwater.

Then silence. Not empty. Measured. And then—

"...Alright," he mutters. "Let's see what he thinks is gonna save you."

A pause. Paper. Pages turning.

And then he starts reading. The words don't land clean.

They drift. Fragments. Pieces. Half-formed sentences that slip through my fingers before I can hold onto them.

Fairytales. Of course it's fairytales.

Shaw...

The realization settles slow, heavy, certain. Only he would think stories could bring me back.

Our stories.

Only he would try.

Matteo's voice stumbles over the words at first. Too rough. Too sharp for something so soft. But he keeps going.

Even when it doesn't fit him. Even when it sounds wrong. Even when—

Even when I can feel it. That pressure in his voice. That strain. Like he's forcing something down just to stay steady.

I try to open my eyes. Nothing. To reach for his hand. Nothing.

To tell him I'm ok, that I'm here.

Nothing.

But I can feel him now. His hand. Wrapped around mine. Warm. Solid. Real.

My fingers don't move—but something inside me does. Something small. Something quiet. A shift.

The sound changes. Not the machine. The room.

A second presence. Sharper. Heavier. It doesn't enter loudly—but it doesn't need to. It presses. Like gravity just increased.

Matteo feels it too. I know he does. Because his voice stops.

Silence stretches. Then—

"You shouldn't be here."

Shaw.

The air tightens. I can't see them—but I can feel it.

Distance shrinking. Tension snapping into place. Two forces colliding in a room too small to hold them.

"I just wanted to check on her..." Matteo again. Controlled. Careful. Calculated.

He doesn't sound like that unless it matters. Unless I matter.

I try to focus. Hold onto it. But the edges start to blur.

Voices stretching. Warping.

"...wasn't sent..."

"...you think..."

"...my father..."

"...I'll prove it—"

That last one cuts through. Clear. Sharp. It lands somewhere deep. And something in me reacts.

Prove it.

The word echoes. Repeats. Pulls. Prove what?

And suddenly—I'm not in the room anymore.

🐭

The orphanage smells like bleach and something older underneath it. Rotting wood. Damp walls. Too many kids packed into a place that was never meant to hold them.

I'm small. Smaller than I should be. Or maybe the world is just bigger here. Colder.

"Don't sit there," a voice mutters.

I look up and meet the greenest eyes my four year old self had ever seen. Liam. He's already watching me like I'm about to make a mistake.

"You always sit where they can see you," he adds, dropping down beside me despite the unwelcoming look I provide. "That's how you get picked."

I don't answer. I don't talk much here.

He talks enough for both of us.

"You don't want to get picked," he says, quieter now. "Trust me."

I study him. He's not scared. Not like the others. Just... certain.

"How do you know?" I ask even though I already know the answer.

His mouth twists. Not quite a smile. "I've been here longer." That's all he says. But it's enough.

He had been here since he was 1 and a half... he was 7 now.

We sat like that a lot. Not playing. Not talking much.

Just... there. Together.

And somehow—It felt less empty. Less alone. Less controlled.

"Hey," he nudges me once, light. "If anyone asks, you're with me. Got it?"

I blink at him.

"Why?"

He shrugs, like it's nothing. "Because someone should be looking out for the little guys... and girls. Y'all are cool too!" He smirks and nudges me once more.

I go completely still and stare at him with a look, "I can take care of myself, thanks." I growl.

He shakes his head heaving his shoulders in another shrug.

The memory shifts. Not gone. Just... layered.

Liam's face blurs—

And for a second—It's Matteo.

Same energy. Same reckless insistence on showing up where he doesn't belong.

Same refusal to leave.

🐈‍⬛

"You don't just walk in here like you belong..."

"Then why am I the only one who showed up?"

"Goodbye, Liam. Thanks for being so nice. Even if I gave you every reason not to be."

"Goodbye, Firebird. Thanks for letting me. Don't ever let anyone treat you less than you are!"

The voices bleed together. Past and present colliding.

And something inside me... understands.

Too clearly. Too fast.

Matteo doesn't act like them. Like soldiers. Like men who follow orders. He acts like—someone who decided. And didn't ask permission before.

The pull comes again. Stronger this time. Yanking me into the pitch before I can hold onto a single thought.

🐭

Darkness isn't quiet. It should be—But it's not.

It hums. Low. Constant. Mechanical. Like something is keeping me here when I should be gone.

A voice cuts through the empty like a knife,

"...she wasn't supposed to get hit." Giovanni. Not a memory. Not distant. Close. Real.

"...I don't care what it costs. Get it done..." Russian. My thoughts don't scramble. They sharpen.

Russians are one of the Falcone's most hated enemies.

Russians killed Shaw's mom.

"... She was supposed to already have more information instead she gives us nothing every. Month. Why are we still financing you? Her?" A voice I don't recognize.

Financing him? And her? Is he referring to me?!

But Giovanni—

Giovanni answers.

And his voice? It's wrong. Too cold. Too detached.

Like he's not talking about me. Like I'm not a person.

Like I'm a variable.

"It changes nothing." A pause. Then— "No. It complicates nothing."

Something inside me stills. Not fear. Not confusion.

Something worse. Recognition. Realization.

"You move too soon, you expose everything," he continues. "We wait." The Russian flowing from his tongue like every lie he's ever told is just nature... instinct.

Wait. Wait for what?

"...she wasn't supposed to get hit. Dominic was testing his offspring... he failed." Giovanni seethes.

The realization doesn't explode. It locks into place.

Cold. Clean. Precise.

This wasn't random. This wasn't bad luck. This wasn't crossfire. I wasn't the target. But I was never supposed to be safe either. And suddenly—

Everything starts moving.

🐈‍⬛

Fire licks up the bars, crackling, hungry. The heat scorching my eyebrows and the tips of my hair.

I'm older now. Faster. Sharper. Smarter.

Giovanni stands behind me, arms crossed.

"Again," he says. My hands are bleeding. I don't remember when that started.

"You hesitate," he continues. "You die."

"I didn't hesitate," I snap from my place on the ridiculously long monkey bars. Switching from lunging for the rungs to flipping upside down and using my legs to swing to the next bars.

His eyebrow lifts. "You thought."

"That's not the same thing." I mutter the entire world upside down, my long ponytail dangling just inches from the flames. My ends coiling away from the heat.

"It is," he says calmly. "In our world."

I glare at him. He doesn't flinch. Never does.

"You want to survive?" he asks.

I don't answer. He doesn't need me to. "Then you learn when to be the mouse."

His hand grabs my chin—forces my gaze to the fire licking the rungs behind me. Too close behind me.

"And when to be the cat." He lets go. "Right now?" he adds. "You're neither. Reset."

I growl and murmur a string of curse words under my breath before I grab the rung from under my legs and use it to flip backwards, landing on my feet.

"And this time—" he chucks a long strip of cloth at me, "blindfold."

The memory fractures. Splinters into fragments of millions of memories just like that one.

Training rooms. Cold floors. Bruised knuckles.

Giovanni's voice— "Again." "Faster." "Think." "Don't react—anticipate." "You're thinking too hard."

Languages echoing. Different voices. Different countries. Words drilled into me until they stop feeling like language and start feeling like instinct. Russian. Italian. English. French. Irish. Sicilian. Greek.

Over. And over. And over again.

"Blend," Giovanni's voice cuts through it all. "Listen more than you speak. People tell you everything if you let them. And if they don't want to. Watch the body it's always talking. Always giving more than the mouth ever will."

"Information is power, Tatum."

I thought he was preparing me. Sharpening me. Making me stronger. No.

Before I could grasp onto anything else I was shoved further into the past.

🐭

Light. Blinding. Too bright. The smell of mold hit my nose.

The orphanage. County Cork.

Rain tapping against glass. Soft. Relentless.

I'm small again. Five. Sitting on the floor. Building something that's supposed to stand. Even when nothing else does.

I feel him before I see him. That shift in the room. That weight that only cloaks a room when the owner tries too hard.

Giovanni... that's what I heard Lady Bucklebee refer to him as this morning on the phone. When I was supposed to be eating my breakfast.

Cheerios? Ick. Puhlease.

He stands in the doorway like he owns the air. Like everything bends around him. Like it always has.

"Hello, Tatum." I don't look up. I don't give him that. Not yet.

"You're staring," I say instead.

Because he is. Because men like him always do before they decide what something is worth.

"I was told you were rude." He sighs.

I roll my eyes internally. "I wasn't being rude."

"You were."

I shrug. "Then you shouldn't stare."

He comes closer. Slow. Careful. Like I'm something that might bite.

Good.

"Do you know why I'm here?"

Of course I know. They didn't call me difficult for nothing.

"No."

"Does that bother you?" He shoots back.

"No." I sigh. Already over the conversation. He called me rude? Yeah. Ok.

"Why not?"

Because it doesn't matter. Because it never mattered.

Because adults don't ask questions they don't already have answers to.

"Because if you're adopting me," I say, snapping another piece into place, "you already decided."

And there it is. That look. Piqued interest. Not kindness.

Never kindness.

The memory slows. Warps. Like it's fast forwarding. Sharpens. And then—Focuses.

His phone vibrates.

And everything inside me—Goes still.

"Excuse me, Tatum." He huffs before pulling his phone from his pocket and turning his back to me, as I wave him away.

"Da."

Russian. The sound hits harder now. Not distant. Not background. Important. My brain feeding me everything I already remember. But this time I'm seeing it with new eyes. With understanding eyes.

"I'm still in Ireland."

I remember this. Not as words. As a feeling. Like I knew he knew what he was doing was wrong and yet... he was doing it anyway.

Wrong.

"No. Falcone suspects nothing."

Something inside my chest tightens. Even now. Even here.

"I told you before—Dominic trusts me. I'm inside his empire."

Empire.

His voice lowers.

"That is worth far more than whatever impatience you're feeling."

I had stopped building. I don't realize it until now.

But I stopped. Because I was listening. But I keep my hands on the castle.

"...I'll send shipment schedules once they're confirmed."

Shipment schedules...

Pieces.

Start.

Connecting.

"I don't work for loyalty." A pause. "I work for money."

And there it is. The truth.

Not new. Not surprising. Just... Finally understood.

The memory cracks wider. Feeding me more.

The Cabaret. Two years after Giovanni adopted me. Took me in. Trained me.

The first night I ever stepped foot in that whole new world. My first assignment. Befriend Mr. Falcone's son.

The way Giovanni watched. Not him. Me.

"Get close," he said. "Observe."

"Learn how he thinks."

"He's what three— four years older than me? Why is he my assignment?" I had quipped back but received only disapproval for my lack of knowledge on my task at hand.

"You've had his file since yesterday morning! What have you done with all your downtime?!" He seethed.

Downtime?!

In between the martial arts, the gun range runs, the foreign language lessons and memory tests?!

I thought— I thought it was about Dominic.

About keeping control. About internal power.

No. No, no, no—

It wasn't internal.

It was infiltration.

Everything crashes together. Voices. Memories.

Orders. Looks. Timing.

I wasn't placed near Shaw to watch him.

I was placed there—To watch them.

To report. To map out the Falcone empire from the inside.

For Giovanni.

For the Russians.

My stomach twists. Not physically. Deeper than that.

He didn't raise me. No surprise or shock or anger at that part. I knew what and who he was the second I met him.

A rat.

He thought he forged me.

And then—He aimed me.

Back to the orphanage. Back to the castle. Back to Tom the cat. Back to Jerry the mouse.

"Who wins?" he asked.

"The mouse." I see it now.

Clearer than I ever have. The ledge. The positioning. The balance.

Not survival.

Strategy.

I wasn't building a castle. I was building a system.

And he saw it.

God. He saw it.

And he didn't choose me because I needed saving.

He chose me—Because I was already exactly what he needed.

🐈‍⬛

Rage. It doesn't explode. It condenses. Morphs. Cold.

Focused. Lethal. Taking on a life of its own.

He doesn't get to do that.

He doesn't get to take a child—

Break her—

Shape her—

Lie to her—

And then use her to betray the only people who ever—

Shaw. The thought hits like a freight train.

I've been reporting.

Most moves.

Most patterns.

Most weaknesses.

Not all... never all. But just enough to satiate Dominic's desperate need to make sure his son is prepared to inherit everything he had worked for.

Not just to Dominic. To Giovanni. To them.

My chest tightens. Something sharp. Violent. Not guilt.

Not regret.

Fury.

The machines keep breathing for me. Steady. Unchanging.

But inside? Everything has changed.

Mouse. Cat. Weapon.

No. Not anymore.

My fingers twitch. Barely. Microscopic. But it's there.

Control. Choice.

When I wake up—I'm not going to be what he made me.

I'm going to be what he never saw coming.

And this time?

The mouse doesn't just survive.

She hunts.

🐭

Darkness folds back in. But it's different now. Not empty.

Waiting.

Because I'm not gone. Not even close. Something pulls.

Hard. Relentless.

Not dragging me under—Dragging me up.

My chest tightens. Pressure builds. Like something is sitting on me—no—inside me—crushing down, refusing to let me move.

No. Not again.

I've spent my whole life being controlled. Placed. Used.

Moved like a piece on someone else's board.

Not anymore.

I push. Nothing. Fighting to force myself awake.

The darkness presses harder. Thicker. Heavier. Like it's trying to swallow me whole before I can break through.

My lungs burn. Even though I'm not breathing.

Even though something else is doing it for me.

The fury spikes. Hot. Violent. All-consuming.

He broke you!

Push.

He lied to you!

Push harder.

He used you against them—against Shaw!

Something cracks.

The darkness fractures.

And suddenly—SOUND. Sharp. Explosive. Beeping—

Fast. Erratic.

Wrong.

The machines lose their rhythm. They don't like this.

They don't like me fighting.

Too bad.

My body feels like it's tearing itself apart. Muscles screaming. Nerves firing all at once like they forgot how to exist and are trying to relearn everything at the same time.

My chest jerks. A broken inhale—Then another.

Pain. Real. Blinding. Alive.

Yes. That's it. I latch onto it.

Pain means you're alive.

His voice whispers in the back of my mind but I take it in my mind and suffocate him until the only thing I hear is—the beeping turning frantic. Alarms.

Voices. Distant—Then closer—

"Vitals are spiking—"

"Heart rate—what the hell?!"

"Get in here—now—"

"She's waking up!"

"We need that blood now!"

I push again. Everything I have. Everything I am.

Every memory. Every betrayal. Every lie. I use it. I shape into my own personal blade of betrayal and I stab at the empty.

MOVE. I scream internally.

My fingers curl.

This time—Not small. Not subtle. Real.

My chest heaves as the machine fights me for control of my own breathing.

No.

Mine.

Another inhale—ragged, uneven—but mine.

Light bleeds through the darkness. Too bright.

Too sharp. It burns.

I don't care. I claw toward it anyway. If this is hell—Fine. At least it's not a lie.

My eyes snap open.

Everything hits at once.

Light. Sound.

Pain. God, the pain.

The ceiling above me swims into focus—white, sterile, real.

Alarms are screaming. Machines going insane.

Doctors and nurses crowd around me. But I can't hear anything they seem to be yelling at me.

My body jerks against the bed, breath uneven, heart slamming so hard it feels like it's trying to break out of my chest.

The door bursts open. More voices flood in. Fast. Panicked. Doctors. Nurses. Hands on me. Checking. Adjusting. Talking over each other.

"How is she conscious—"

"She shouldn't be awake—"

"Stabilize her—now—"

But I don't hear them. Not really. Because behind them... He's there.

Shaw.

Frozen in the doorway. Like he walked into something impossible.

His eyes lock onto mine. And for a second—Everything else disappears.

Shock. That's the first thing I note. Pure. Unfiltered.

Like he wasn't ready for this. Like he wasn't ready for me to come back.

Then something else hits. Harder. Deeper. Relief.

So sharp it almost looks like pain.

My throat burns when I try to speak. Nothing comes out at first. Just a broken, rasping breath.

But I don't look away. I don't stop moving even when my shoulder and heart scream at me to rest.

I can't.

Because now I know. Everything.

And he doesn't.

Not yet.

My fingers twitch again—stronger this time—as one of the doctors tries to push me back down, keep me still.

"Don't move—"

I ignore them. Obviously.

My eyes stay locked on his.

Shaw.

I force air into my lungs. Force my voice to work. It comes out wrecked. Barely there. Like I haven't had water in years.

"...Shaw..."

His name sounds like glass breaking in my throat. But it's enough. He moves. Finally. Like something snapped him out of it.

Pushing past the doctors without hesitation, without permission—because of course he does.

"Elizabetha—" my name leaves him rough, uneven, like he's been holding it back for too long.

I shake my head. Just slightly. Pain flares. Everywhere.

I don't care.

No more time.

No more lies.

No more secrets.

My hand moves again. Weak. Shaking. But deliberate.

Reaching for him.

"You—" my voice cracks, breath hitching hard enough the monitors start to spike again.

A nurse swears under her breath.

I push through it. Force it out. "...you have to listen to me..."

My grip catches weakly on his sleeve as he gets close enough. My eyes burn into his. Clear. Focused. Certain...

Terrified.

And for the first time since I woke up—There's no confusion. No hesitation. No doubt. Just truth. And I know exactly where to start.

"...it wasn't an accident...your mom's death—"

The words land between us.

Heavy. Irreversible.

Everything is about to change. Again.

I can only hope Shaw's loyalty and trust in me goes way deeper than mine for him has clawed its way into me. And he doesn't hate me or kill me for the information I'm about to dump on him.