Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter One~Tatum

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The Cabaret always smelled like expensive liquor, expensive perfume, and secrets no one intended to survive the night.

It clung to the air the way cigarette smoke tends to—thick, slow, and impossible to ignore once you knew what you were breathing in.

Golden light spilled from the chandeliers above the stage, catching in the glassware lining the bar. The room hummed with the low murmur of conversations meant to sound casual but never were. Deals disguised as small talk. Threats hidden beneath laughter.

A saxophone bled softly through the room from the stage, slow and sultry, the musician dragging each note out like he knew exactly how many hearts and fortunes were hanging in the balance at the tables around him.

The Cabaret didn't belong to anyone on paper.

But everyone important knew it belonged to the Falcones.

Which meant no one started trouble here unless they wanted to be buried under the Hudson.

I polished a glass with a cloth that had probably overheard more criminal conspiracies than half the lawyers in Manhattan.

A glass slid across the bar. "Another."

I didn't look up. "You're going to kill your liver, Hank."

"Then at least I'll die happy."

I sighed softly and reached for the bottle anyway.

Hank was one of those men who seemed permanently carved from confidence. Mid-forties, maybe. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair streaked with just enough gray to make it look deliberate instead of aging.

His eyes were the kind that made you pause.

Cold. Calculating.

The kind of eyes that probably looked right at home staring out from a mugshot on a true crime documentary.

Serial killer handsome.

That was the phrase that always came to mind when I looked at him.

Too charming. Too observant.

Too comfortable in rooms filled with people who made their money hurting others.

Which meant he either belonged here...

Or he was stupid enough not to realize he didn't.

The strange thing was he always seemed to get invited. Someone important would nod his way. A capo would wave him over. A politician would buy him a drink.

Which meant someone powerful thought he was useful.

And useful people lasted longer in places like this.

I slid the fresh whiskey toward him.

"Gut rot," I said.

"God bless you." He lifted the glass but didn't drink.

Instead, he watched me the way a detective watched a suspect.

"You know," he said slowly, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

I kept lining up the bottles behind the bar.

"That sentence never ends well."

He chuckled. "It's a compliment."

"That's what people say before they insult you."

He leaned his elbows on the counter. "You always this cynical?"

"Only when someone opens with I've been meaning to ask you something."

His smile widened. "You're sharp."

"Occupational hazard." I shrug half heartedly.

Hank swirled the whiskey in his glass, amber liquid catching the low light.

"I heard something about you."

"I'm sure."

"Word around town is," he said, leaning closer, "you're saving yourself for marriage."

I blinked once. Then twice.

The glass in my hand paused mid-polish.

"Well," I said slowly, "word around town clearly has too much free time."

He studied me like he was waiting for a reaction,"You're telling me it's not true?" His eyes glimmering with hope.

"I'm telling you," I replied sweetly, "it's none of your business."

He laughed under his breath, "That mouth of yours."

"What about it?"

"It could really benefit from a good friend."

I tilted my head. "Define friend."

"Someone who teaches you how to relax."

Ah. There it was.

I slid his glass closer to him. "Tempting."

His eyebrows lifted. "But?"

"But I already have friends."

"You always turn men down this gently?"

"Only the ones who tip well."

Hank grinned. "Eventually someone's going to change your mind."

"Maybe."

"I volunteer." He shoots out fast as a lightning strike.

I opened my mouth to respond then the energy in the room shifted.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that every instinct in my body noticed.

The door opened and in walked Shaw Falcone.

You could always tell when Shaw entered a room. People didn't necessarily stare. They just... adjusted. Conversations softened, chairs shifted, postures straightened.

Power moved through the room like a ripple across water. He was contagious.

Shaw wore a dark suit, sleeves rolled just slightly at the wrist, revealing the sharp line of a watch beneath the cuff barely covering the tattoos that threatened to peek out.

His expression was calm.

But I knew Shaw well enough to notice the tension sitting just beneath it.

Two capos followed behind him.

Then another figure stepped through the door. Matteo. He'd only been around a few weeks.

Quiet.

Observant.

Young enough that the older men underestimated him.

But I'd watched him long enough to know he was paying attention to everything.

Shaw headed toward the table already occupied by two Medici men.

The Underboss and one of their capos.

The tension between Italian families could be... theatrical.

Tonight looked like one of those nights.

Hank followed my gaze.

"That's Lorenzo Falcone."

"Yes."

"The heir."

"Also yes."

"And the other kid?"

I glanced at Matteo.

"New."

"Learning?"

"Trying."

"Seems like I got my work cut out for me if that's my competition." Hank muttered under his breath tossing his drink back in one swift motion.

I didn't respond only gave him a nasty glance before throwing my eyes across the room where the meeting was already underway.

The Medici Underboss leaned forward, irritation already thick in his voice.

His Italian words carrying over all the secrets being mumbled over drinks, laughter and music.

"The disrespect your Irish friend showed our Boss years ago cannot simply be ignored."

Shaw leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled.

"It was decades ago."

"He married the daughter of our Boss without permission."

The Underboss slammed his glass down.

"Do you understand what that means for a family like ours?"

Shaw exhaled slowly.

"It means two stubborn people fell in love."

"It means betrayal."

His voice sharpened.

"We can only hope the offspring of such disrespect learned better than their parents. Or if we're lucky not at all."

My hand paused around the glass I was drying.

Across the table, Matteo went very still. His body angled away from the Medici men. His fist clenched once against his thigh. His jaw flexed.

I listened as I refilled Hank's cup without saying a word I could feel his eyes on me as I lined up all the polished cups before setting them below the counter on the shelf.

Stay busy.

Keep moving.

Never let them know you're listening.

The Underboss kept talking.

"The Irish are suffering under their own incompetence now."

He poured himself another drink.

"Cillian should have chosen someone else as Underboss."

A bitter laugh followed.

"Max the Mad has lost them half their income."

Shaw rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Then perhaps the Irish will correct their mistake."

"If they survive it." The capo chortled.

Matteo's shoulders tightened further.

Shaw noticed the air thickening with Matteo's anger towards the conversation before he responded. I saw it in the quick flick of his eyes before he buried it like all the other emotions he carried.

He raised a hand slightly.

"Gentlemen."

The word was calm. But final.

"We are here to discuss trade routes, not old marriages." Shaw spit back.

The Underboss leaned back, clearly unsatisfied.

"I'd rather speak to your father who usually indulges me on such topics... so serious Lorenzo... business or not get the stick out of your ass."

Shaw's patience was thinning.

I saw it in the way his fingers tapped once against the table.

In the small grimace that crossed his face before he masked it again.

Then he stood. Conversation over.

He walked toward the bar. Towards me.

I already had a glass of Black Label whiskey waiting.

He stopped in front of me.

Our hands touched as I set it down and he reached for it. Warm. Familiar.

His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist so lightly it could've been an accident. Except it wasn't.

His voice dropped just enough for only me to hear. "Elizabetha."

The name slipped from his mouth in that soft Italian accent he used only in private moments.

Too quiet for anyone else. Too familiar to mean nothing. It was the name he used when the room was too loud. When I looked exhausted. When he could see the weight of the night sitting behind my eyes.

I leaned my hip against the bar.

"Rough meeting?"

"Annoying meeting."

He downed the whiskey in one gulp.

"You heard." It was more of a statement than a question as he slipped the cup into my hand making sure to barely graze my fingers with his as he did.

"I always hear." I smirked in response refilling his glass and sliding it back into his outstretched hand.

He exhaled through his nose.

"Medici pride." He huffed, running a hand down his face as the other lifts the glass.

"Dangerous thing." I shrugged.

"Extremely." He bit back before tossing his glass back once more. He glanced at me again,

"Long night?" He asked when I didn't gift him a response.

"They're all long." I rolled my eyes giving him the look. One he knew well, one that said don't ask stupid questions.

His eyes softened slightly and then just like a shooting star the moment was over.

Without another word he set the glass down and headed for the basement stairs.

Matteo followed a second later.

But just before he disappeared downstairs; he looked back, right at me. Long enough that it felt deliberate, then he vanished.

"Definitely gonna have to up my game." Hank huffed as he slid his glass back my way. I tossed an eye roll in his direction as I refilled his drink once more and passed it back to him.

The Medici men were already drunk by the time they made it to the bar.

Not the sloppy kind of drunk that fell over their own feet. The loud kind. The arrogant kind.

The kind of drunk that made powerful men forget they were standing inside someone else's territory.

They leaned heavily against the polished counter, both of them staring at me like they'd just discovered a puzzle piece they couldn't quite place.

The Underboss squinted.

"You look familiar."

I continued wiping down the bar without looking up.

"I get that a lot."

His capo leaned closer, squinting harder, like staring longer might magically solve the mystery. "No, no... he's right."

He tapped the bar with two thick fingers.

"You look like someone."

"Someone important," the Underboss added.

Hank, still seated two stools down from them, lifted his glass of utter gut rot slightly and spoke without turning around.

"Or maybe she just looks familiar because you've seen her on stage."

The Medici capo glanced at him sharply.

"This conversation does not concern you."

Hank shrugged lazily.

"Hard to avoid when you're shouting it across the bar."

The Underboss turned back to me, ignoring him. "Where are you from?" His focus solely on me

"Here." I replied shortly.

"Here where?"

"The bar." I quipped back.

The Underboss frowned.

"You're Irish."

"I've been accused." I sighed.

"But not only Irish," the Underboss muttered.

He leaned closer, squinting at my face again like a detective inspecting evidence.

"There's something else."

The capo snapped his fingers.

"Yes! That's it!"

He pointed at me.

"You look like someone's daughter."

Hank snorted into his glass.

"Don't we all?"

The Underboss turned toward him again.

"You talk too much."

"And you're staring at the bartender like she's a missing person poster."

The Capo waved Hank off irritably.

"Mind your business." He growled.

Hank raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, I'm just drinking."

He gestured toward me.

"She's the one working."

The Medici Underboss turned back to me again. "What's your name?"

"Tatum." I shrugged.

"That's not Italian." He scoffed.

"I never said it was."

They exchanged a look.

Then the guessing started again.

Back and forth like two overgrown schoolboys arguing over a riddle.

"She looks like—"

"No, no, someone else."

"A singer maybe."

"A politician's daughter."

"No..."

The Underboss leaned closer, eyes narrowing.

"Wait."

His finger pointed slowly toward my hair.

"Red hair."

"Solid observation," I said flatly.

"Very red."

"Thank you for noticing."

He tilted his head.

"Not common in Italy."

"Lucky for Italy."

The capo snapped his fingers again.

"I've seen someone with hair like this."

"Who?" I lifted a brow.

"I don't remember!" The capo grumbled embarrassed.

Hank took another slow sip of whiskey.

"This is fascinating," he muttered.

The capo shot him another glare.

"You enjoy inserting yourself into conversations that do not involve you?"

Hank shrugged.

"You're conducting a public investigation."

The Underboss and capo turn back to me again, leaning forward enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"If not familiar," he said slowly, "you remind me of...someone."

"Oh goody."

"Someone important."

"Yay for me."

The capo squinted again.

"Maybe a Medici?"

The Underboss scoffed elbowing him in the ribs and then smacking the back of his head.

"No."

He gestured toward my face.

"Too sharp."

Then he paused.

His eyes drifted slowly down my hair.

"Italians and Irish."

He shook his head slowly like he was shaking a thought from the empty pit he had for a brain.

"Not meant to mix." He rambled on.

A voice shattered his train of thought like a bull in a china closet.

"Gentlemen."

Giovanni.

He leaned against the far end of the bar as if he'd been there the whole time.

Smooth. Relaxed. Watching everything.

His eyes flicked briefly to me before settling on the Medici men.

"Perhaps she only seems familiar because she is the prettiest girl you've seen in years."

The capo frowned.

Giovanni smiled politely.

"Considering the condition of the brothels you frequent."

Hank nearly choked on his drink.

The Medici men did not look amused. Ha!

I shuffled to grab Hank's glass and refill it as the capo danced on his feet.

After a moment, the Underboss shrugged.

"Yes well." He gestured vaguely toward me.

"Her beauty is... undeniable."

Giovanni nodded thoughtfully. "I'll be sure to inform her mother."

The capo laughed drunkenly.

Then the Underboss sighed dramatically. "It's quite unfortunate."

Giovanni tilted his head.

"What is?"

"Italians and Irish."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"Not meant to mix." He repeated as if he was coming to terms with the one thought that had seemed to form in that beautiful, drunk head of his.

The Underboss leaned toward me, grinning like a man who thought he was about to say something clever.

"Though I would not mind discovering whether the carpet matches the drapes."

My hand moved before the thought finished forming.

CRACK.

The sound of my palm hitting his throat echoed across the bar.

The man dropped instantly, choking. Hands flying to his neck.

Hank blinked, "Well." He shrugged giving me a nod of respect as I filled a glass of tequila for myself and threw it back letting it burn all the way down.

Giovanni burst into laughter. Deep. Uncontrolled.

"Maybe next time," he managed between breaths, "do not run your mouth to the only female Falcone capo."

He clapped the struggling man on the back.

"Specifically Tatum... she's always itching for a fight. Whatcha think, Alessandro? Think you can take her?"

I bit back my smirk and refilled my glass before shooting it down.

Waiting for "Alessandro" the Underboss to respond but from the look on his face he was doing everything in his power to just breathe.

The capo grabbed his choking boss and dragged him toward the basement stairs.

He stopped halfway down to glare back at me. If looks could kill, I would've been dead twice.

When they disappeared downstairs, the room slowly returned to its usual low hum.

Giovanni leaned forward on the bar. His voice dropped slightly. "What did they want?"

I continued wiping the same glass I'd been polishing for the past minute.

"Drinks."

"Elizabeth—"

"No. You don't call me that. And I'm working ," I cut in.

He studied me. "They were asking questions."

"So were you." I bit back.

"What did they say?"

I shrugged. "Something about brothels."

His eyes narrowed. And he gave me that look the one he always used when he was trying to play the "intimidating dad" card.

"Tatum." He warned.

"I'm bartending." I snapped.

"Don't be difficult." He said his voice softening like it did when I was a kid and wouldn't do as he asked the first 100 times... like approaching me with gloves was the right way to get me to do what he wanted. My eyes slitted as I fought to contain my anger, "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

We stared at each other for a moment. Our argument from last week still sitting heavy between us.

About Shaw.

About assignments.

About lines I apparently wasn't supposed to cross.

I'm 26 years old, I do whatever the hell I please. Whoever the hell I please.

Not that that last part had any relevance considering I was in-fact still very much a virgin not that that was any of his business .

Giovanni exhaled quietly through his nose.

"You're getting too close to him."

I leaned on the counter.

"I'm doing my job."

"You're doing more than that." He countered.

"You're imagining things."

"He is your assignment." He hissed.

"He's my friend." I said confidently not missing a beat.

His jaw tightened and something flashed in his eyes but he was quick to snuff it out as fast as it appeared.

"That is not the same thing." He grumbled with a frown.

I slid another glass onto the rack.

"Then maybe your assignment was poorly executed."

And I meant that.

He thought adopting me into this family and having me play spy at the ripe age of 5 was so genius of him. He thought he was forging a weapon. I had no intention of becoming something that would eventually tear this business apart, it was my life, my family. It meant so much to Shaw... I couldn't do that to him.

More than I could say for Giovanni, who always seemed to be so tied up in himself to notice his "daughter" was rebelling against everything he stood for.

Before he could respond footsteps echoed up the basement stairs.

Shaw.

He emerged slowly—not wounded, not bleeding, not angry. Which somehow made it worse.

Something about the way he moved had changed. His shoulders looked heavier, as if someone had quietly stacked bricks across his back while he'd been downstairs. His shirt had a few more buttons undone than before showing the faint shadow of his tattoo that covered the entire right side of his body from collar bone to ankle, the collar slightly crooked like someone had grabbed it during the meeting downstairs.

His face was perfectly neutral. Too neutral. Too calm.

The kind of calm men practiced when they refused to let anyone see the damage.

But I knew Shaw. I knew the tiny signs most people missed.

The tightness around his mouth.

The slight tension in the muscle of his jaw.

The way he rolled his shoulders once like he was trying to physically shake something off.

Exhaustion. Frustration. Defeat. None of it belonged on the face of a Falcone heir. But it was there anyway.

He paused halfway across the room. Our eyes met. Just for a second. Long enough for something silent to pass between us.

Long enough for me to realize the meeting downstairs hadn't gone the way anyone wanted.

His jaw flexed once. Then he looked away first.

Shaw walked past the bar without stopping, heading toward the exit like he needed air more than he needed another drink.

The door opened. Cold night air rushed briefly into the room. Then he was gone.

Giovanni watched the entire exchange with quiet interest. "So that went well," he murmured dryly.

I didn't respond.

Instead I grabbed a clean glass and started wiping it harder than necessary.

Polishing. Drying. Polishing again.

Anything to keep my hands busy.

Anything to stop myself from watching the door Shaw had just disappeared through.

Hank noticed, of course.

Hank noticed everything.

He leaned sideways in his chair, watching the exit before glancing back at me.

"That didn't look good."

I didn't look up. "Gut rot. Drink. Now." I said pointing at his cup then to his mouth all the while inspecting another cup.

He hummed thoughtfully, "Kid looked like someone kicked his dog."

"Drink your whiskey, Hank."

"Just making an observation." He took another slow sip.

Across from us Giovanni watched me for another moment before straightening slightly.

"You're closing tonight." It wasn't a question.

I nodded once.

I could feel him studying my face carefully.

"You look tired."

"Solid observation. Really know how to impress the ladies with that smooth talk."

He leaned closer on the counter.

"You should go home after your shift."

That made me glance up. "I usually do."

His eyes held mine. "Tonight especially."

Translation: stay away from Shaw.

Crazy how now that I'm older and harder to control I have to stay away from the one person I was never supposed to leave alone... the one person who was always there for me and I for him.

The one person who made me feel welcome in this world of crime and violence.

The one person who if he found out our whole friendship had been a ruse... a ploy to get information from him and how he was grieving as a child and what he did in his free time when capos and his father were absent... he would never forgive me.

Shit, I can't forgive myself.

My jaw tightened slightly, as I bit my tongue to keep from exploding. "Goodnight, Giovanni."

His lips pressed together in a thin line.

But after a moment he pushed off the bar,"Lock the upstairs door when you leave."

"Got it."

He turned and disappeared toward the back hallway, his presence dissolving into the shadows the same way it always had.

Like a ghost who owned the building. The room felt quieter without him.

Hank let out a low whistle."Family dinners must be fun around here."

I slid his refilled drink across the counter,"Drink."

"Yes ma'am." He lifted the glass in mock salute.

I turned away to start organizing the bottles behind the bar.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

The Cabaret slowly settled back into its usual rhythm—music, murmurs, clinking glasses.

But my attention kept drifting to the door Shaw had walked through. Something about the way he looked before he left... It sat wrong in my chest.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

Once.

Then again.

I pulled it out discreetly beneath the bar. Two messages light up my screen:

Our spot.

Next break.

I stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.

Our spot. The roof.

The only place in this entire building where no one listened. Where no one watched.

Where Shaw Falcone and I could breathe like normal people for five minutes.

Hank tilted his head slightly. "Good news?"

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, covering my small smile with a s**t eating grin. "Yeah, your son just sent me his address." I replied with a wink.

"Ouch. Fair enough." He finished his drink with a smirk and slid the glass forward. "You know," he added casually, "whatever happened downstairs..."

I paused. "What?"

He shrugged. "The kid looks like he could use someone in his corner."

My fingers tightened slightly around the glass I was holding. "He has plenty of people in his corner."

Hank studied me for a moment, then smiled faintly. "I'm sure he does, especially if you're in it." He finished with a sincere grin.

My break came fifteen minutes later.

I untied my apron and tossed it beneath the counter.

"Watch my section." I tossed over my shoulder at my favorite regular, though I'd never admit it to him.

Hank raised an eyebrow. "You trust me with that responsibility?"

"No." I whipped back with a smirk.

"Then why ask?" He chuckled.

"Because you're too curious to say no."

He grinned. "Fair point." He replied as he got to his feet and took my place behind the bar.

I slipped through the back hallway and headed for the narrow staircase that led to the roof. Each step creaked softly beneath my boots. The muffled music from downstairs faded with every floor.

Until finally-

Silence.

The rooftop door waited at the top of the stairs. I pushed it open, cold night air rushed against my skin.

The city stretched around us in glowing lines of gold and white.

And leaning against the low brick wall near the ledge...already drunk.

Already halfway through a bottle of his favorite bottle of liquor, Shaw stumbled near the ledge as I jerked forward to grab him, a scream leaving my lips as I reached out, grasping for his jacket.