Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Nine~Shaw

Listen to Empire of Our Own by Raign for the full experience!!!

Control is a discipline. Not a feeling. Not instinct.

Not something you fall back on when things get hard.

It's something you build. Reinforce. Maintain.

Even when everything inside you is trying to break it.

Four days.

That's how long she's been under.

Four days of machines breathing for her.

Four days of doctors giving answers that don't mean anything.

Four days of me trying to keep it together for her sake.

Four days of my father pretending this is contained.

Handled.

It's not.

I don't stay at the hospital. Not because I don't want to.

Because I can't afford to. If I sit in that room and listen to those machines long enough, I'm going to start making decisions too fast.

Too loud. Too obvious.

So instead—I plan.

The first identity takes six hours.

The second takes four.

By the third, I stop checking the clock.

By the fourth, I know what I'm doing is the right thing whether Elizabetha believes it or not when she wakes.

Names. Birthplaces. Documents. Digital trails that say we've existed somewhere else for years.

Not rushed. Not sloppy. Perfect. Because if we run—and we will—we don't get a second chance.

I don't use Falcone resources. Not directly. That would be a mistake. Everything I touch is clean. Separate. Untraceable.

Safe houses come next.

Three locations.

One in the States.

One across the border.

One that no one—not even the people who helped secure it—can tie back to me.

Meeting points. Routes. Timelines. Contingencies for contingencies. Because I know exactly who I'm planning against. My father doesn't like to lose things.

But he does love to hunt them.

I pack two bags. Not one.

One for me.

One for her. If she decided she didn't want to run from him together...

Hers is lighter. Not because she needs less. Because she won't carry what she doesn't trust. Clothes she can move in. Nothing flowy. Nothing thick enough to slow her down. A knife. Balanced. Clean. Familiar weight.

And after a second—I add it.

The book.

I stare at it longer than I should. Then close the bag.

By the end of day two, the plan is complete. By the end of day three, I've memorized every variable.

By the end of day four—I stop pretending this is temporary.

I'm not coming back.

The realization doesn't hit like panic.

It settles. Quiet. Final.

If I take her and leave—I lose everything.

My name.

My position.

My father.

The empire that was supposed to be mine.

None of that matters.

That's the problem. Or is it?

🐈‍⬛

I'm crossing the street when I see him.

And for a second—It doesn't register.

Because he doesn't belong here. But he sure looks like he does, dressed very similarly to me. Tailored suit, hair slicked back, sunglasses shading his creepy ass eyes.

Hank. Standing outside a place that doesn't exist unless you're meant to find it.

Hands in his pockets. Posture loose. Eyes moving beneath those sunglasses.

Not nervous. Not lost. Tracking.

My body moves before the thought finishes forming. I grab him. Hard. Twist. Slam him back into the alley wall. Out of sight. Out of range.

"What are you doing here?" I growl. Low. Controlled.

Deadly quiet.

Hank exhales like this is mildly inconvenient. "That's one way to say hello. Little aggressive for a first date, but I'm open-minded."

My grip tightens. "Try again."

His eyes flick to my hand. Back to my face. Still calm.

Too calm.

"I've been going to the Cabaret," he says. "Every night."

My mind doesn't react. It moves. Fast. Precise.

Faces. Nights. Layouts. Who sits where. Who talks to who. Who watches. Who gets watched.

Hank always corner stool. Left side of the bar. Back to the wall. Always with a drink he barely finishes.

People talk to him. That's the problem. Not low-level drunks. Not nobodies. Seemingly powerful people.

A councilman once. Laughed too loud. Stayed too long.

A woman in finance—sharp suit, sharper eyes. Didn't flirt. Measured.

Two businessmen. Separate nights. Different industries.

Same pattern— They approached him. Not the other way around.

At the time, it meant nothing. Now? It means everything.

"And?" I ask.

"She's not there."

My jaw tightens. Barely.

"She's always there," he continues. "Every single night. I know because I've been there every single night for the last two years."

"You know where she is." He continues. Not a question.

I don't answer.

Hank studies me. Really studies me. And that's when it clicks. He's not guessing. He's confirming.

"How did you find this place?" I ask. No emotion. No room for hesitation.

A beat.

He shrugs slightly. "Followed you."

Wrong answer.

I slam him harder into the wall.

The bricks shift behind his shoulder.

My forearm presses into his throat—not enough to choke. Enough to remind.

"Don't insult me," I seethe. Quiet. Lethal.

His jaw tightens. First real reaction.

"I didn't follow you here," he corrects. Careful now. Measured. "Not directly."

"Then how?"

A pause. Then—"I pay attention."

Not good enough. Giving his throat a bit more of my weight.

"To what?" I push.

He exhales. Annoyed now. "Patterns."

I don't move.

"You don't go to the same places twice in a row," he continues. "But you cycle them. You were here 3 days ago I figured you'd be back, after I found out what the place was."

My eyes narrow.

"You disappear for hours at a time—same general direction," he adds. "Different routes. Same end point radius."

Silence.

"You check reflections," he says. "Windows. Cars. Doesn't matter." A small tilt of his head. "You're careful."

I am. So how did a regular with his hands in a few pockets find me? If he found me surely my father wasn't far behind him.

"But not invisible," he finishes.

That—That's a problem. My grip doesn't loosen.

If anything—it gets tighter.

"Why," I ask slowly, "are you tracking me?"

"Because she's gone." Immediate. No time to spin a lie.

"And you thought what?" I press. "That following me would lead you to her?"

"Yes but, I always seem to lose you in the hospital district." He shrugged. No hesitation. No fear. No apology.

That's when it shifts. Just slightly.

Because liars hesitate. They dress answers up. They soften them.

He doesn't.

"She was caught in a drive-by," I say, so tired of fighting. I just want to get this s**t done and get back to her side.

Silence. Then— "What?" Not shock. Not confusion.

Anger.

"She's at the hospital," I continue. "Stable."

His eyes flick over me again. Reading. Weighing. "You don't look like she's stable."

I don't respond.

"I want to see her." He demands.

"No." Immediate. Final.

"The hell do you mean no?" He scoffs clearly offended.

"This isn't your world," I say. "You don't get to walk into that hospital and start asking questions."

"I'm not asking questions."

"Everyone asks questions," I cut in. "And every question puts her at risk."

His jaw tightens. Harder.

"There are people in The Cabaret who don't know how to leave her alone," I continue. "You became one the moment you walked in."

"I'm not one of them."

"Prove it." Silence.

There it is. The line.

Hank studies me. Really studies me this time.

And when he speaks—It's quieter. Stripped down.

Real.

"I don't want anything from her." Hangs his head. It's only then that I realize I've loosened my grip on his throat but I'm still hanging on to his coat lapels.

I don't move.

"I don't need information," he continues. "I don't need access. I don't need leverage."A beat. "I just need to know she's... ok."

That hurt. More than it should.

"Why?" I ask.

He huffs softly. Like the question is stupid.

"Because someone should be looking out for her."

My grip tightens. "She doesn't need you," I say.

"I know." No ego. No pushback. Just truth. "That's not the point."

Silence stretches.

"I started going there for business and the drinks are quite nice," he continues, "I kept going there because I like her." A small shrug. "Because she's funny. Because she doesn't pretend. Because she doesn't take no bullshit. And happens to call me out on mine a hefty amount."

A flicker of something almost like a smile.

"And yeah," he adds, glancing back at me, "because something in me says if things go bad—"A pause. "I should be there. Especially when you're not."

I search his face. Looking for it. The angle. The lie. The tell.

Nothing.

"And if she heard you say that?" I ask tilting my head to the side.

He huffs. "She'd probably stab—no—no, she'd definitely stab me... at least somewhere to make her point known."

That—That tracks.

"But you?" he says, eyes locking onto mine again. "That's different."

I go still.

"You love her."

A warning rises sharp in my chest. "Careful."

"I'm not wrong."

"No," I say quietly. "You're out of your depth."

"Maybe," he admits grinning sheepishly. Then—"But I know what I'm looking at."

Silence.

"I'm not your problem," he adds.

A beat.

"I'm the guy who notices when she disappears."

That—That one sticks. Because he's right.

And I hate it.

I study him one last time. Run through it again.

Every face. Every connection. Every conversation I've ever seen him in.

Politicians. Businessmen. Women who don't waste time on men without value. None of them tied to my father.

None of them deep enough to know.

Which means—If he's involved? It's not through Dominic.

Which makes him either harmless— Or something worse. Independent.

I exhale once. Decision made. "Five minutes," I say.

Relief flashes across his face—but it's controlled. "Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, that works."

"You don't touch anything."

"Got it."

"You don't speak to anyone."

"Fine."

"And when I say leave—"

"I leave."

A beat.

"Deal." I let him go. Step back. But as I turn—Something settles in my chest. Not calm. Not certainty. Awareness. Because I still don't know who he is.

I just know—He's not lying about her.

And right now? That's enough.

🐭

The hospital is too quiet in all the wrong ways.

Hank walks beside me. Not behind. Not ahead. Beside.

Like he's placing himself deliberately where he can see everything without looking like he is.

I don't acknowledge it. But I note it.

His reflection moves in the glass panels as we pass. Eyes scanning. Counting. Doors. Corners. Cameras. Not a civilian. Not even close.

I don't slow. Don't speak. Just lead. By the time we reach her door—The hallway is empty.

Cleared. Controlled. Exactly how I left it.

I stop. Turn slightly. Look at him for the first time since the alley.

"Five minutes," I remind him.

He nods once. No questions. No push.

I open the door. The machines are steady. Rhythmic.

Artificial.

She hasn't moved. Tatum lies exactly where I left her.

Too still. Too pale. Too... breakable.

I hate it.

Hank doesn't move right away. He stops just inside the doorway. And for the first time since I've known him—

He doesn't have something to say.

Good.

Because this? This isn't a place for words.

He steps closer. Slow. Careful. Like approaching something that might disappear if he gets too close.

His gaze doesn't jump around the room. Doesn't assess the machines. Doesn't look for threats. It goes straight to her.

And stays there.

That—That's real. Something in my chest tightens. Unwelcome.

He exhales softly. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... there.

"She looks like she's about to sit up and yell at someone," he murmurs.

I don't respond. Because she does. Even like this.

He takes another step. Stops at the side of the bed.

Not touching. Not reaching.

Respecting a boundary, I'm sure he'd been told on numerous occasions existed .

"She always this stubborn?" he asks quietly.

"Yes." The word leaves before I can stop it.

Hank huffs. A faint, almost relieved sound.

"Yeah," he mutters. "That tracks."

Silence settles. But it's not empty. It's... measured.

I watch him. Not openly. Not obviously. But I see everything. The way his shoulders square slightly—like he's bracing.

The way his jaw tightens—not with anger. With restraint. Forcing himself not to unload on me.

I failed her. And now he knows it too.

He cares. Not possession. Not obsession. Almost a familial thing.

The same compassion for Tatum I got from Matteo.

"She's gonna hate this," he says after a moment.

My eyes flick to him.

"The whole helpless thing," he adds, nodding slightly toward the machines. "Not really her style."

No. It's not.

"She won't stay like this, just long enough for her body to replenish the blood she lost," I say. Not hope. Not doubt.

Fact.

Hank glances at me. Something unreadable flickers there. "I know," he says.

And that— That makes something in me go still.

Because he doesn't say it like he's reassuring me. He says it like he already decided it. Like he knows something I don't.

I file that away. Carefully.

He shifts slightly. Eyes flicking—not to me—To the monitor. Heart rate. Oxygen.

Then back to her.

"She's been under four days?" he asks.

My gaze sharpens. "I never said that."

A beat. Hank doesn't look surprised. Doesn't backtrack.

Just exhales softly.

"Enzo, I saw yall the other night being all secretive after you came back from Hell. That was the last night I saw her there. It either happened that night or the day after not that much of a lucky guess."

It's not. I barely register his nickname for my fathers office before—

I step closer. Not aggressive. Not loud. But enough.

"Where did you hear it?" I ask.

He finally looks at me. Still so f*****g calm. Steady. Too steady.

"I didn't," he sighs. A lie. Or something close enough to one I suspect.

My jaw tightens. Because there are only a few ways he got that number. And I don't like any of them.

He shifts his attention back to her before I can press further. Deflection. Clean. Subtle. Intentional.

"She's strong," he says quietly.

I don't respond.

"She'll fight it," he adds. That—That's not an observation. That's hope.

Silence stretches. I let it. Because pushing now gets me nothing. Watching gets me everything.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket. Slow. Deliberate.

I tense instantly.

But he just pulls out something small.

A little figurine. Five to be exact. A Falcon. A Cat. A Mouse. A Rat. And. A Snake.

He sets them gently on the table beside her bed. Not in her hand. Not under her fingers.

Close. But not intrusive.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"Nothing important." He throws back.

I don't believe him.

He glances at me briefly. A flicker of something almost amused.

"She'll know what it means," he says.

That hits a nerve. Because that means—He's been paying attention longer than I accounted for.

Long enough to leave something meaningful to Tatum.

Long enough to matter to her.

"Time's up," I say.

Not because it is. Because I want to see how he reacts.

Hank nods immediately. No argument. No hesitation.

"Yeah," he says. "Alright."

He looks at her one last time. And there's something there.

Not dramatic. Not obvious. But real. Almost like he's sending a prayer wherever she is, hoping she hears it.

"Try not to burn the place down when you wake up," he mutters under his breath.

Then he turns. And walks out. Just like that.

I don't follow right away. I wait. Three seconds. Five.

Ten.

Then I step into the hallway.

He's still there. Leaning against the wall. Like he knew I wouldn't let him leave without another look.

Good. Because I'm not done. "Who are you?" I ask. Not hostile. Not loud. Worse.

Direct.

Hank tilts his head slightly.

"A guy who likes a drink more than the next and makes terribly bad decisions," he says.

I don't smile.

"Try. Again." I seethe. A pause.

Then—

"Someone who wants what's best for Tatum," he answers.

That again. I hold his gaze. Because now I'm not just watching him. I'm memorizing him. Every movement.

Every word. Every inconsistency.

Because this? This isn't over. Not even close.

As he pushes off the wall—My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I don't take my eyes off him as I pull it out.

A message from one of my contacts.

Background on Hank Collins—Crystal clean.

Too clean. Of course it is.

I look back up.

He's already halfway down the hall. Didn't wait. Didn't rush. Just... left. Like he got exactly what he came for.

My jaw tightens. Because now I know two things for certain:

He cares about her.

And he's lying about who he is.

Which means—He's not a variable anymore. He's a problem.

And I don't like letting problems exist for long.

Behind me, the machines continue their steady rhythm.

Unchanged. Unaware.

But something in this city just shifted.

And I have a feeling—I'm not the only one who knows it.