Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Five~Shaw

Listen to Remember by Isak Danielson for the full experience!!!

I feel it before I see it. The way the air stills right before a storm. The way the world seems to dip right when catastrophe hits.

An SUV. Black. No plates. Windows tinted so dark they swallow the streetlights whole.

Everything about it is professional. Everything about it is set up in a way that no one can trace them.

Tatum turns beside me at the exact same moment I do. I hear her say my name.

"Shaw—" That's it. That's all the time we get.

The window drops.

And the world splits open.

The first shot cracks through the air like something alive. Not just sound—force. It hits the space around us, tears through it, reshapes it into something violent and unrecognizable.

Then more.

Too many.

Too fast.

Automatic.

My body moves before my brain catches up.

My hand slams into her, shoving her back as I step in front of her without thinking—without hesitation—without anything except one clear, absolute instinct:

Protect her.

"Get down—!" I bellow out. The rest is gone—swallowed by gunfire.

Time doesn't stop. It stretches.

I feel every fraction of movement—every inch of space between us, every shift of air as bullets rip through it. I hear glass explode somewhere behind us, people screaming, footsteps scattering—but all I see is her.

All I focus on is her.

I move to cover her completely and then—she jerks. It's small. Barely anything.

But I feel it. And everything inside me drops.

No. No, no, no—

The SUV is still moving. Still firing. Still tearing through the street like it was never meant to stop. But I'm not looking at it anymore.

I'm looking at her.

Because something's wrong. Something is—

The gunfire stops.

Just like that the SUV disappears down an alleyway and into the night. Gone. Like it was never here.

Leaving silence behind that feels louder than the shots.

She's still standing—for half a second. Maybe less. Then her body gives.

"Tatum!"

I catch her before she hits the ground, my hands already moving, already searching, already—

There.

My hand comes away wet from her shoulder.

Red. Too red.

No.

No.

No—

The world narrows so fast it makes me dizzy. Everything else is gone. The street. The people. The noise. All gone.

There's only her.

Only the way her body feels too heavy in my arms.

Only the way her head tilts just slightly, like she's trying to stay upright and can't.

Only the way her dress—

Her dress—

Black. Fitted. Perfect.

Is darker now.

So much darker.

Because of me. Because I wasn't fast enough.

"Tatum."

My voice doesn't sound like mine. Too sharp. Too tight.

Too—Wrong.

Her eyes are open. But not focused. Not really seeing me. Seeing through me.

No.

No, stay with me.

Stay with me—

"Stay with me."

I don't know if I say it out loud or if it's just in my head.

I don't know anything except that she's slipping. I can feel it. I can see it.

"Hey... Hey! Look at me!"

Her head barely moves.

Barely.

But it's not enough.

It's not enough—

"Dammit, Tatum Elizabeth open your damn eyes!"

My hands press against her shoulder without thinking, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to do something—

Anything—

"Call 911, now! Call 911!" I shout at the nearest person speed walking by as I move to take my coat off and wrap it around her putting as much pressure as I can to the bullet wound.

A man.

He looks familiar... but in the state I'm in I can't place him.

He stops and glances down to Tatum before he pulls his phone out and continues on.

I have half the mind to reach out and yank him back by his long hair and beat him till respect seeps into his bones. But the world comes crashing down.

Voices around me.

Movement.

People coming closer.

Too slow.

All of it too slow.

"I'm right here." My voice breaks on it.

I don't even recognize it.

"I've got you."

Her body feels colder. Or maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one going cold.

No. No, she's still here.

She's still—

Her breathing stutters. And something inside my chest tears clean open.

"...Tatum." I say softer now as I push my head into her hair. Almost in a prayer. "Please." I don't beg.

I don't— "Please." But I do now. God, I do now.

Because she's not answering. She's not moving.

She's not—No. No, she's still here. She has to be.

She has to—

"Stay with me," I say again, my forehead almost touching hers now, my voice dropping, breaking in ways I never usually allow.

"Elizabetha—stay with me."

Her name hits different now. Not teasing. Not light.

Not something I say just to get a reaction. It feels like a lifeline. Like if I say it enough, she'll stay.

Like if I hold onto it hard enough—she won't let go.

She won't disappear.

Sirens. Distant at first. Then closer.

Too loud. Too slow.

Everything is too slow.

I don't look up when they arrive. I don't care.

Let the world burn.

Let everything else fall apart.

I'm not moving. Not unless they take her from me—and even then—No.

They won't. They can't.

Hands try to pull me back.

Voices—urgent, controlled. "Sir, we need space—"

"No." It comes out low. Final.

"Sir—" someone cuts in.

"No." I don't raise my voice. I don't have to.

Because there's something in it—something sharp enough that they hesitate.

Good. They should.

Because if they touch her wrong—

If they move her wrong—

I will break every single one of them.

"Let them work."

That voice—

I look up. And everything shifts again.

Captain Nguyen. One of my father's. One of the men he owns. And he's here first. Not second. Not third. First.

My blood runs cold.

No.

No, that's—

Coincidence. It has to be. But every single atom in my body is tingling in utter betrayal and alert.

No.

It isn't. Because men like him don't just show up first.

Not here. Not this fast.

Unless—

My jaw tightens so hard it aches. Unless he knew. Unless he was waiting.

Unless—My father.

The thought lands fully formed. Heavy. Unavoidable.

And suddenly everything makes sense in the worst possible way.

The SUV. No plates. No target. Just chaos. A message.

A test. Operation: No Weakness.

My stomach drops. No. He wouldn't. He—

My eyes drop back to her. To the blood. To the way her body is barely holding on in my arms.

And something inside me goes very, very still.

Yes. He would. And I failed his test.

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After I come to my senses knocking the shock to the side I finally let them have her realizing they're her only hope. If I want to keep her around then I need to let them save her. They get her onto the stretcher but I don't remember letting go.

And the suddenness of her not in my arms anymore... it feels wrong—so wrong I almost stop them.

Almost.

But I don't. Because they're moving. Because they're helping her.

She's still here.

I follow. No one stops me. No one dares.

The ambulance doors slam open. I'm inside before they can even think to close them.

"Sir, you can't—" one of the EMT's blurt out in shock as the other is attaching different wires to Tatum's paler than usual arms and under her collar bone.

"I'm not leaving." Flat. Unmovable.

They don't argue again. Good. They shouldn't. Because I'm barely holding it together as it is.

The ride is a blur.

Monitors beeping sporadically.

Voices screaming numbers and words that don't make sense.

Blood.

God the blood.

Too much blood.

I stay close. Close enough to hear every breath. Every broken, uneven inhale.

Close enough to see her chest rise—and fall.

Rise—and fall.

Don't stop. Don't you dare stop.

I scream mentally hoping she can hear me.

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The hospital is too bright. Too clean. Too loud.

They move her fast—but not fast enough. Never fast enough.

"Sir, you need to wait—" one of the nurses steps in front of me.

"No." I snap stepping around her.

I'm walking beside the stretcher, matching every step.

"You can't come in—" she tries again.

"I'm not leaving." My hands curl into fists at my sides.

It takes everything—

Everything—

Not to lose control. Not to put someone through a wall.

Not to make them understand exactly how serious I am.

"She needs surgery—" she breathes out.

"I know." My voice is lower now. Dangerously calm. "I'm not leaving."

Before she can argue back the pre-op door swings open and— he walks in.

Doctor Gabriele Falcone.

Not just any doctor.

The only one my father trusts. Not just because he's family... but because he's the identical twin to my father.

The one who doesn't get called unless it matters. Unless it's controlled.

Unless it's— Planned.

And just like that—

There's no doubt left.

My father did this. Not a theory. Not a suspicion.

A fact. Cold. Clear. Final.

My uncle looks at me once. Just once. And I see it.

Understanding. Confirmation. And a brief hint of guilt and sympathy before he slaps a cover of intimidation over them.

Before anyone can move or speak, a gargling sound comes from Tatum's direction.

And we all snap around as she sits up so fast, blood spurting from her mouth like a violent waterfall before she collapses back on the stretcher; the machines all making one never ending beep.

My heart drops into my stomach and before I can move to her side, the room erupts in chaos.

My uncle rushes forward before the nurses can get to her his hands are moving fast.

"Leave! Get out now!" He tosses over his shoulder, before three nurses round on me.

Against every single fiber in my body I fight to stay, but I know that the only way to save her is to let them do their job. So I step back. One step. Then another.

Until the doors close between us.

And just like that— She's out of my reach. And that—that might be worse.

No goodbye, no see you later.

I don't even know if she'll survive this...

The second those doors shut—something in me snaps.

Not loud. Not explosive. Worse. Quiet. Controlled.

Decided.

I turn. Already moving. Already knowing exactly where I'm going. Because there's only one person I need to see.

Only one person who can answer for this. Only one person who just signed his own death warrant—

Whether he knows it or not. My father.

And God help him—because I won't.

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I don't remember leaving the hospital.

One second I'm outside those doors, staring at the red light above the operating room like it's deciding whether she lives or dies—

And the next—I'm back at the Cabaret. Basement level.

The air down here is different. Thicker. Colder. It clings to your skin like it knows what's been done in these walls. Like it remembers.

My boots echo against the concrete as I walk the hallway, but even that sound feels distant—muted under the roar in my head.

Blood. It's everywhere. On my hands. Drying between my fingers. Soaked into my sleeves. Splattered across my shirt like some kind of sick signature I can't wash off.

Her blood.

That thought hits again—and something inside my chest twists so violently I almost stop walking.

Almost. But I don't. Because if I stop, I might feel it fully. And if I feel it fully—I won't make it to him without killing someone first.

Matteo sees me, before the others, as I reach the last step. He's leaning against the wall with Antonio and Dante, exactly where I told them to be. Waiting. Loyal. Controlled.

Until they see me. Everything changes. They straighten instantly—every inch of them going sharp, alert.

Concern flashes across Matteo's face first. Then confusion. Then something darker.

"What the hell happened—"

I don't let him finish. I raise my hand. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just enough. And they stop. Immediately.

Because they know. Not now. Not a single question.

Not a single word.

Good.

Because if they ask—

If they say her name—

I might lose what little control I have left before I get to the man responsible.

I don't break stride. I don't look at them again.

I just reach the door—And kick it in. The sound explodes through the room. Wood splintering. Hinges screaming. The door slamming into the wall hard enough to shake the glass in the cabinets.

Every guard inside turns— Too slow. Way too slow.

Because I'm already moving. I cross the room in seconds, my vision tunneled so tight there's only one thing in it—

Him.

Behind his desk. Calm. Seated. Like the world outside this room isn't burning. Like she isn't bleeding out on an operating table because of him.

My hand fists into the collar of his tailored suit before anyone can react. I drag him up so fast the chair crashes backward behind him.

And then I slam him into the wall. Hard enough to crack the plaster. Hard enough that the sound echoes.

Hard enough that every guard in the room freezes instead of stepping in.

Partly because they've never seen me like this, mostly because they know better.

"You tried to kill her!" The words rip out of me. Not controlled. Not calculated. Raw.

Every ounce of fear. Rage. Panic I've been holding back since the moment she fell—All of it pours into that sentence.

My grip tightens, fabric bunching in my fist as I shove him harder against the wall.

"YOU TRIED TO KILL HER!"

His head snaps slightly with the force—but that's it.

That's all. No panic. No fear.

Just—A flicker. Surprise. Gone as fast as it came.

And then—Recognition. Understanding. It settles into his expression like this is something he's been expecting. Like this was inevitable.

And that—That is what finally pushes something in me over the edge.

"Because you wouldn't have been able to do it." His voice is calm. Too calm. Measured in a way that makes my skin crawl. "I did you a favor, Lorenzo."

Lorenzo.

Fuck I hated when he called me that. I hate that my mother saw it fit to name me after this man standing before me. That she loved him so much she wanted me to have a piece of him... I don't want it.

"You were supposed to save yourself," he continues, his tone sharpening just slightly. "Instead, you jump in front of bullets for a girl who has no place in our world."

Something snaps. Not cracks. Not bends. Snaps.

My fist leaves his collar—And slams straight through the wall beside his head.

The plaster splits under the force, fragments breaking loose, dust exploding into the air.

Pain shoots up my arm. I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except the roaring in my ears and the image of her collapsing in my arms.

Her blood.

Her breathing—

The way my heart fell to pieces when she sat up on that gurney and coughed up half her blood.

"Say her name," I growl, my voice dropping into something low. Dangerous.

"Say her name and tell me you truly have no respect for her. Tell me you don't care what happens to her. TELL ME! TELL ME YOU DON'T CARE IF SHE LIVES OR DIES! SAY IT!" I started off low but as I carried on the anger took form and morphed into an uncontrollable beast.

For the first time—His eyes shift.

Not fear. Never fear. But something calculating. Measuring.

He raises his hands, gripping my wrists—not panicked, not desperate—but controlled. Precise. Then forces them apart just enough to break my hold.

"Enough." The word isn't loud. But it lands. Heavy. Final.

I let go—but I don't step back. I can't. He needs to know how serious I am about her... Elizabetha. Something seems to break in me even more.

"If you think this is over," he says, straightening his suit like this is just another conversation, "then you've learned nothing."

My chest rises sharply. "You sent them after her."

Not a question. A fact.

His gaze meets mine. Cold. Unwavering.

"You failed." The words hit harder than anything else.

"You were meant to choose," he continues. "To prove that you understand what it takes to lead. To survive."

His voice lowers. Darkens. "But you didn't."

I take a step forward. Slow. Every muscle in my body coiled so tight it feels like I might come apart at the seams.

"She's a capo... you swore her in... why? If you were going to continue with this Operation?!"

"You ever skin a rabbit? Or any kind of animal? Ever eat that meat after a fresh kill?" He answers my question with an annoying one. "Fear makes them run, makes their meat taste sour. Makes the hunt more difficult. If you approach them with gloves... fatten them up. Make them happy. They walk right into any trap you want to set." He continues. Certain. Unavoidable.

Something in my stomach turns. Not anger.

Not even rage. Disgust. Because he's not talking about strategy. He's talking about her.

And that—that is what terrifies me. Not his anger.

Not his control. His certainty.

"The Operation still stands," he says. Each word lands like a countdown. "She will die before your next birthday."

The room goes completely still. No one breathes. No one moves.

"And if she doesn't—"

His eyes harden in a way I've never seen before. Not even once.

"Then I will make sure whoever I send after her leaves nothing behind for you to visit."

Silence. Deafening. Decided.

I stare at him. Really stare. And for the first time in my life—I don't see my father. I see an enemy.

Cold. Calculated. Unmovable. An obstacle.

Everything he ever taught me— All of it clicks into place in the worst possible way.

This isn't about power. This isn't about the family. This is about control.

Over me. Over what I feel. Over who I choose.

My hands curl slowly into fists at my sides. My jaw tightens until it aches. And something inside me settles.

Not rage. Not panic. Something worse. Something quiet.

Something final.

"If she dies..." my voice comes out low. Steady. Nothing like the chaos inside me."...there won't be an empire left for you to protect... for me to inherit." I hold his gaze.

Unflinching.

"Because I won't just burn it to the ground," No one moves. No one speaks. So I continue, "I'll make sure you're the only one standing when it all comes crumbling down."

And for the first time— I think he believes me.

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I don't go back to the hospital. Not right away. Not after that. But if I stay at the Cabaret—even one second longer—I will make good on what I said. And I can't do that.

Not yet. Not while she's still fighting to live.

So I drive. I don't remember getting in the car. Don't remember the route. Don't remember the lights or the turns or the people that must've been around me.

The city blurs. Everything blurs.

Until—Home.

The house is dark when I step inside. Too quiet. Too still. Like it doesn't know what just happened. Like it isn't missing something.

Her.

My jaw tightens as I shut the door behind me, the sound echoing louder than it should in the empty space. I don't take my shoes off. Don't turn on the lights. Don't clean the blood off where it has dried in crevices I didn't know I had.

A reminder of a promise I made to my Father.

I just walk. Straight down the hallway. Straight to the room she stays in when she doesn't want to be home alone. I don't hesitate when I push the door open. I should. But I don't.

The air inside is different. Softer. Warmer. It still smells like her—something light, something clean, something that doesn't belong in my world.

My chest tightens. Everything is exactly how she left it.

The bed slightly unmade. A jacket tossed over the back of a chair. A glass of water on the nightstand, half full.

Like she's coming back. Like she's supposed to walk through that door any second and start complaining about something small and ridiculous.

I swallow hard. Don't think. Just move.

Because if I stand here too long, I won't leave. My eyes scan the room until they land on it.

The bookshelf. Second shelf from the top. Worn. Familiar.

I cross the room in three long strides and reach for it without thinking. The Brothers Grimm.

The cover is creased at the corners, spine slightly cracked from being opened too many times. From being loved too many times. My thumb brushes over the edge of it—and something in my chest shifts.

A memory. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

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We're younger. Too young for any of this.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair a mess of wild red curls, the book open in her lap like it's something sacred.

"This one," she says, flipping pages too fast, "this one is my favorite."

"You say that about all of them," I mutter, leaning back against the couch.

She gasps like I've just committed a crime. "No I don't."

"You literally said that yesterday."

"That was yesterday. This is today. It's different." She tossed her hair away from her face.

I roll my eyes. "That's not how favorites work."

"It is for me." She shoves the book toward me. "Read it."

"I'm not reading it."

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

She narrows her eyes. Then—without warning—launches herself at me. I barely have time to react before she's trying to shove the book into my hands, laughing like she's already won.

"Read it, Shaw!"

"No—get off—"

"Read it!"

"Fine—fine!" I grab it just to stop her assault. "Jesus—"

She grins. Victorious. Settling beside me like this was always how it was going to end.

"See? That wasn't so hard."

I shake my head, already flipping to the page.

"You're insufferable."

"And yet," she hums, leaning her head against my shoulder, "you keep me around."

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The memory hits just as hard as the gunfire did. Maybe harder. Because this—This is what I'm about to lose.

My grip tightens on the book.

No. Not yet. Not ever. I turn and walk out before I can think about it any longer.

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The hospital is the same. Too bright. Too clean. Not as loud now, like the presence of Tatum has calmed every soul in a 100 yard radius of her contagious energy.

But now—Now it feels different. Because I don't know what I'm walking back into. Because I don't know if she's still—

No. Don't finish that thought. Don't even let it form.

I push through the doors anyway. The smell hits me first. Antiseptic. Sterile. Strong.

I scan the hallway until I spot someone—anyone—and move straight toward her. A nurse. She looks up as I approach, and something in my face must give me away.

Or maybe it's all the blood dried to my hands, arms, neck and face. Because her expression softens immediately.

"Can I help you?"

My voice comes out rough before I can correct myself,"Elizabetha." It's the only thing I say. She's the only thing I can think about.

Her eyes flicker with recognition.

"Oh—" she breathes, her tone shifting instantly. "You're with her."

I don't answer. I don't need to. She nods slightly, like she understands more than I'm saying. And then—

"She made it."

The words hit me like air rushing back into lungs that forgot how to breathe. I don't move. Don't speak. I just stand there as she continues, her voice gentle. Careful.

"The bullet... it was close. Less than a quarter inch from her heart." She shakes her head slightly. "It barely nicked a major artery. Another fraction and..." She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to.

My hand tightens around the book.

"But she's strong," the nurse adds softly. "Stronger than most. And..." she offers a small, almost knowing smile, "I'd say she's got a very determined guardian angel watching over her."

My jaw tightens. Yeah. She does. And I know exactly who that angel is going to have to fight.

"What about the surgery?" I ask.

"Doctor Falcone did it himself," she says. "It was successful."

Of course he did. That doesn't bring me comfort. Not with what I know.

"She lost a lot of blood," the nurse continues. "So she's in the ICU right now. We've placed her under heavy anesthesia to help her body heal. Her blood type is very rare, we're in the process of asking for some to be transferred to us."

The words settle heavy. Coma. Healing. Alive.

Alive. I latch onto that. Refusing to let it go.

"Can I see her?"

There's a pause. She throws glance down and around the hall.

"It's past visiting hours," she says gently.

Of course it is. Of course something else stands in the way.

I don't argue. Don't threaten. I just stand there. Still.

Silent. Because I'm so damn tired of fighting everything tonight.

Her eyes drop to my hand. To the book. Something in her expression softens even more.

Then— She sighs quietly. "I can give you an hour," she says.

My head lifts slightly and the weight in my chest shifts to a slight pressure.

"One hour," she repeats. "But you didn't hear it from me."

I nod once. It's all I can manage. She gestures for me to follow.

"And..." she adds as we walk, "talk to her. Read to her. Patients in induced comas—they can still hear. It helps. Makes them feel less alone."

Alone. Not anymore. Not while I'm here.

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The ICU is quieter. Machines hum softly. Monitors beep in steady, controlled rhythms.

And then—Her.

She looks smaller. Too still. Too pale. The bandage at her shoulder stark against her skin.

I stop just inside the room. For a second—I can't move. Because this is worse than the blood. Worse than the chaos. Because she's quiet. And she's never quiet.

I step closer slowly. Carefully. Like I might break something if I move too fast.

I pull the chair beside her bed closer and sit, the book still clutched in my hand.

For a moment, I just look at her. Memorize her.

Make sure she's still here. Then I exhale. And open the book.

The pages fall easily to something familiar. Of course they do. My thumb brushes the edge before I start.

My voice is quieter now. Rough. But steady enough.

"'Then the cat said, 'What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine as well.''"

I pause. Swallow once. My eyes flicker to her face.

Still.

Breathing.

Still here.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice like she's right there with me. "You always liked that part," I murmur.

A beat. "You said it sounded like cheating." My hand settles lightly against the edge of the bed.

Close enough. Not touching. Not yet.

"I think you were right."

Silence fills the room again. But it's different now.

Not empty. Not cold.

I glance back down at the page. And keep reading.

Because if she can hear me—

Then I'm not letting her go through this alone.