Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Seven~Matteo Part One

Listen to Dying to Love by Bad Omens for the full experience!!!

I hear about the shooting the way men like me, of low rank, hear about everything important—by accident.

And always too late.

Dominic doesn't speak when he leaves. He never does.

The room just... shifts around him. Like something vital got pulled out with him.

Conversations die mid-sentence. Chairs scrape softer. Shoulders straighten without being told to. Even the air feels heavier. Then he's gone.

And the silence he leaves behind? It doesn't last. It never does. Capos don't know how to sit in silence.

Not when there's blood in the air.

"...heard it was a drive-by—"

"...Falcone territory—bold move..."

"...Enzo was there—"

That—

That makes something in my chest pull tight. I don't turn yet. Don't move.

"...walking her home—"

"...girl from the Cabaret—"

"...not just a girl—Dominic's been watching her..."

"...female capo—whether he says it out loud or not..."

My pulse stutters. Then spikes. No.

"...she took the hit—"

Everything else fades out. Like the room just dropped ten feet underwater. Sound warps. Dulls. Disappears.

There's only one thought left—

One name—

Tatum.

No. No, no, no—

My body moves before my brain catches up. Chair scraping. Boots already turning toward the door.

But I catch myself at the last second—force it down, lock it behind my ribs before anyone can see it break through.

Control. Always control. I straighten slower than I need to. Roll my shoulders like I'm just another guy heading out. Like I didn't just hear something that could rip my whole world apart.

But inside? Everything's already moving too fast.

Because Enzo was there. Which means he saw it.

She took the hit. Which means—He didn't stop it.

And if he didn't stop it...Then it wasn't supposed to happen. Which makes it worse. Way worse.

My jaw tightens, eyes flicking toward the door again.

Tatum doesn't get caught in crossfire. She reads rooms too well. Moves too clean. She survives. That's what she does. That's what she's supposed to do.

So why does this feel like something else? Something off. Something wrong.

I don't wait to find out. I start walking. Not running.

Not rushing. Just enough speed to matter—

Not enough to be noticed.

Because if anyone looks too closely right now—

They'll see it. And I can't afford that.

Not here. Not yet.

Antonio is the first to notice me. Dante follows a second later, both of them watching in that quiet, assessing way men like them do—measuring reaction, filing it away.

"Everything good?" Antonio asks.

I shrug like it's nothing. Like my pulse isn't trying to break out of my throat.

"Yeah. Just gonna head out," I say, rolling my shoulders like I'm tired instead of wired. "If anyone asks, I went home. Need a shower."

Dante snorts. "You look like hell."

"Feel worse," I mutter.

That, at least, isn't a lie.

They let me go. Of course they do. No one's watching Matteo close enough yet. That'll change.

🐈‍⬛

I don't go home. Not even for a second.

There's only one place she'd be.

Somewhere Dominic would have control over whether she lives or dies.

His brothers hospital.

Gabriele.

The hospital lights are too bright when I walk in. Too clean. Too quiet in a way that feels wrong—like the building itself is pretending it doesn't hold death inside its walls.

I hate hospitals. Too many memories. None of them mine.

I move through the halls like I belong there, like I've done this a thousand times. Confidence gets you further than credentials ever will.

No one stops me. No one ever really does. Her room is at the end of the hall. The door is just cracked open just enough for me to see the edge of the bed.

I pause. Because for a second—just one—I expect him to be there.

Enzo.

Sitting in the corner. Standing by the window. Hovering like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He's not.

And somehow that feels worse. I push the door open.

Tatum looks... small.

I hate that.

She's not small. She's never been small—not in presence, not in attitude, not in the way she walks into a room like she owns every inch of it whether she does or not.

But right now—

Machines breathe for her in soft, steady rhythms. Her skin is too pale. Too still.

Too breakable.

"Yeah," I mutter under my breath, stepping inside. "Not a fan of this look, sorella."

No response.

Figures.

I drag a chair closer and drop into it, elbows on my knees, eyes scanning her like I'm checking for damage I can't fix.

That's when I see it. The book.

Sitting on the table beside her bed like it doesn't belong in a place like this.

I don't even have to pick it up to know.

Brothers Grimm.

I huff out something that almost resembles a laugh.

"Of course he did."

Only Enzo would bring a damn fairytale book to a hospital room like it could somehow rewrite the ending.

I reach for it anyway. Flip it open.

The pages are worn—not old, but used. Like they've been read more than once. Like they mattered. That tracks.

I clear my throat, glancing at her before I start.

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

My voice sounds rougher than I expect. I start reading. Quiet at first.

The words scrape on the way out, like they don't belong in my mouth—like they were never meant for someone like me to carry. They're too soft. Too clean. Too... hopeful.

Fairytales. Happy endings. Things people who live in our world don't get.

My voice falters on the second line, but I force it steady, clearing my throat like that'll fix it.

It doesn't.

Still—I keep going.

Because the alternative is sitting here, watching her chest rise and fall with the help of machines, pretending I don't feel that tight, suffocating pressure building in my ribs.

And I've never been good at doing nothing. Never been good at waiting.

Especially not when it matters.

🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭

Six months ago, I wouldn't have been caught dead doing something like this. Six months ago, she would've told me to get the hell away from her.

Actually— She did. More than once.

I remember the first night I walked into the Cabaret like I owned the place, like I hadn't just been circling the block for ten minutes debating whether or not I should even go in.

I slid into the barstool like it was mine, like I belonged there, like I wasn't walking into someone else's territory.

"Two shots," I'd said, easy, casual. "For me and him."

I jerked my chin toward Enzo like that explained everything. Like it gave me permission.

She didn't even look at me. Not once.

Just grabbed the bottle, poured the shots with steady hands, and slid them across the bar without a word.

I smirked, reaching for one.

"For me and—"

"Then you can hand it to him yourself." Flat. Cold. Sharp enough to cut. That's when she finally looked at me.

And yeah—If looks could kill, I wouldn't have made it past that first night.

Most people would've backed off. Taken the hint. Not me. I leaned into it.

Because there was something about her that didn't match the way she carried herself. Something just beneath the surface—coiled tight, watching everything, calculating.

And I knew that look. Knew it better than I wanted to.

She definitely didn't trust me. Not even a little.

Every time I came back—and I kept coming back—she watched me like I was a loaded gun sitting too close to the edge of the table. Like she was just waiting for me to go off.

Waiting for me to prove her right. So I gave her everything but that. Bought Enzo drinks. Talked too much. Smiled when she glared like she wanted to throw me out herself. Pushed just enough to get under her skin—But never enough to make her shut me out completely.

Because I saw it. I saw the way she looked at him when she thought no one was paying attention. The way her eyes softened for half a second too long before she caught herself.

And I saw him too. Enzo—who barely let anyone stand too close without making them feel it—just... let her exist there. In his space. Like she belonged. Like she'd always belonged. And the way she pretended not to care?

Yeah. That was the biggest lie in the room. That kind of connection doesn't just happen. And in our world?

It doesn't survive unless someone fights for it. Protects it.

So yeah—If she didn't trust me... He wouldn't either.

Simple. And I wasn't about to be on the outside of that.

Not when I could see exactly how this was going to play out.

Because whether Lorenzo Falcone knew it or not—

Tatum Luciano? She wasn't just part of the story.

She was the turning point.

His downfall. Or his equal. Maybe both. Only they could decide.

🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭

I turn the page, but the words blur for a second.

My thumb presses harder into the paper like I can anchor myself here—like I can keep my head from going where it always does when things get too quiet.

Too still. I read another line.

And just like that— I'm gone.

🐈‍⬛

Fire.

That's the first thing that hits me.

Not the sight of it—

The smell.

Burning wood. Melted plastic. Something darker underneath it that I don't let myself name.

It sticks to the back of your throat, crawls into your lungs, makes every breath feel heavier than the last.

"Tell me again why we're cleaning up his mess?" I mutter, checking my gun out of habit more than necessity. My fingers are steady. They always are. Tatum doesn't even slow down.

"Because he made it our problem," she shoots back, already scanning the building like she's mapping exits, threats, angles—everything at once. Always ten steps ahead.

A Russian spy. Stupid enough to think fire cleans things up. It doesn't. It just makes the truth harder to look at.

He burned one of our safe houses like it was disposable—like the people inside didn't matter, like it wouldn't circle back and land in our hands anyway.

On us. It always comes back to us. Guess it's a good thing the Dominic owned half the PD.

There was a family inside. Not soldiers. Not enemies.

A family.

Wrong place. Wrong time. That's all it takes in our world. One bad night. One wrong street. One set of eyes that see something they shouldn't.

And suddenly—You're a problem.

They saw him. The Russian. Breaking into that house like he owned it.

A girl inside. Young. Too young.

I didn't see it happen. But I'd heard enough. Seen enough. I know the sounds that come with it. Screaming. Begging. The kind of fear that doesn't leave a room even after the noise stops.

And then—Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that settles heavy. Final.

The kind that means there's nothing left to save.

And those people—

That family—They saw all of it.

Every second. Every detail.

Which means they weren't just witnesses. They were dead men walking. Loose ends.

Liabilities.

The Russians don't leave loose ends. They erase them.

Quietly if they can. Violently if they have to. So the family ran.

Packed up what little they had left and ran straight into the only place that might've kept them alive a little longer. Us.

Because they'd heard whispers. Stories. About the Falcones. About how sometimes—if there's proof—we protect what's ours.

And the girl? She wasn't just some stranger pulled from a report. She was tied to Dominic's late wife. Distant.

Barely there. But blood is blood in our world. Even when it's thin. Even when it shouldn't matter.

It does. It always does.

And that—That made it personal. I remember the moment Enzo made the call.

No hesitation. No debate. Just that quiet, steady voice of his that doesn't leave room for argument. "Bring them in." Simple. Final.

Like he didn't already know what it would cost. Like he didn't already see the ripple effect that decision was going to have. Hide them. Protect them. Stand between them and a war waiting to happen.

And God...Has he been carrying it ever since.

I've seen it. Not in words—he doesn't give those away.

But in the way his shoulders sit just a little heavier when it comes up. In the way his jaw locks like he's biting back something he won't say. In the way he goes quiet—not calm quiet. The kind of quiet that means he's replaying it.

Over. And over. And over again.

Four months later—And it's still there.

Still bleeding under the surface like something that never healed right. Like something that won't.

🐭

A shot cracks through the air. Sharp. Too close.

"Tatum—" She's already moving—but not fast enough.

I see it before she does. The angle. The reflection in the shattered glass. The split-second shift of a shadow where it shouldn't be.

"Down!" I grab her. Hard.

My hand fisting in the back of her jacket as I yank her sideways just as the second shot tears through the space where she was standing.

The impact slams us both into the floor. Glass rains down around us—sharp, stinging, cutting into my hands as I brace her fall.

Her breath knocks out against my shoulder. For half a second—She's still. Too still. And something cold slices straight through my chest.

"Tatum..."

No response.

My grip tightens instinctively, my other hand coming up to her face, forcing her to look at me.

"Hey—hey, look at me."

Her eyes blink open. Focused. Alive.

Air rushes back into my lungs so fast it almost hurts.

"You good?" I mutter, rougher than I mean to. She exhales, pushing herself up slightly, eyes already scanning, already recalculating.

"Yeah," she breathes. "I'm—" Another shot.

Closer. I don't think. I move. Rolling, pulling her with me behind the wall as debris chips off the concrete where we just were.

"Stay down," I snap, shifting over her just enough to block line of sight, gun already up.

She freezes for half a second. And that—That's new.

Because Tatum doesn't freeze. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't let anyone take control. But she listens.

To me.

I fire back, controlled, precise, forcing the shooter to reposition.

"Matteo—" she starts.

"I've got it," I cut her off, sharper than I mean to.

Another beat. Another choice. She could fight me on it.

Push past me. Take control back.

Instead—"...fine," she mutters.

And stays. Trust. Not loud. Not obvious. But there.

Solid. Real. When the shots finally stop, the silence feels just as violent.

I push up first, scanning, waiting, counting seconds before I reach for her again.

"You hit?" I ask, eyes already checking.

"No," she says, brushing glass from her sleeve. "You?"

I flex my hand, ignoring the sting of cuts. "Just my pride."

She huffs out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief. "Idiot."

I glance at her, a crooked grin pulling at my mouth despite everything.

"You're the idiot." There's a pause. A small one. But it's there.

And in that moment—She doesn't look at me like I'm expendable. Doesn't look at me like I'm temporary.

Doesn't look at me like I'm something she has to keep at arm's length.

She looks at me like...I showed up. Like I stayed. Like I didn't let her fall.

And that? That's the moment everything shifts.

Trust doesn't come easy with her. Doesn't come quick.

It's earned. Taken piece by piece until there's enough of it to matter.

And that night—That was it.

The line. The moment something changed. When she stopped treating me like I was passing through. Like I was just another name that wouldn't stick.

And started acting like... Maybe I wasn't going anywhere.

🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭🐈‍⬛🐭